 | THE
POOR DEVIL AUTHOR. Tales of a traveller |  |
THE
POOR DEVIL AUTHOR.
I began life unluckily by being the wag and
bright fellow at school; and I had the farther
misfortune of becoming the great genius of my
native village. My father was a country attorney,
and intended that I should succeed him in
business; but I had too much genius to study,
and he was too fond of my genius to force it into
the traces. So I fell into bad company and took
to bad habits. Do not mistake me. I mean that
I fell into the company of village literati and village
blues, and took to writing village poetry.
It was quite the fashion in the village to be
literary. We had a little knot of choice spirits
who assembled frequently together, formed ourselves
into a Literary, Scientific and Philosophical
philos in existence. Every one had a great
character assigned him, suggested by some casual
habit or affectation. One heavy fellow drank
an enormous quantity of tea; rolled in his arm
chair, talked sententiously, pronounced dogmatically,
and was considered a second Dr. Johnson;
another, who happened to be a curate, uttered
coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the
Swift of our association. Thus we had also our
Popes, and Goldsmiths, and Addisons, and a
blue stocking lady whose drawing room we frequented,
who corresponded about nothing with
all the world, and wrote letters with the stiffness
and formality of a printed book, was cried up as
another Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common consent,
the juvenile prodigy, the poetical youth,
the great genius, the pride and hope of the village,
through whom it was to become one day as celebrated
as Stratford on Avon.
My father died and left me his blessing and
his business. His blessing brought no money
into my pocket; and as to his business it soon
could not attend to law; and my clients, though
they had great respect for my talents, had no
faith in a poetical attorney.
I lost my business therefore, spent my money,
and finished my poem. It was the Pleasures of
Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by the
whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the
Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory,
though each had placed its author in the first
rank of poets, were blank prose in comparison.
Our Mrs. Montagu would cry over it from beginning
to end. It was pronounced by all the
members of the Literary, Scientific and Philosophical
Society, the greatest poem of the age, and
all anticipated the noise it would make in the
great world. There was not a doubt but the
London booksellers would be mad after it, and
the only fear of my friends was, that I would
make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap. Every
time they talked the matter over they increased
the price. They reckoned up the great sums
given for the poems of certain popular writers,
all put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly.
For my part, I was modest in my expectations,
and determined that I would be satisfied
with a thousand guineas. So I put my
poem in my pocket and set off for London.
My journey was joyous. My heart was light
as my purse, and my head full of anticipations of
fame and fortune. With what swelling pride
did I cast my eyes upon old London from the
heights of Highgate. I was like a general looking
down upon a place he expects to conquer.
The great metropolis lay stretched before me,
buried under a home-made cloud of murky
smoke, that wrapped it from the brightness of a
sunny day, and formed for it a kind of artificial
bad weather. At the outskirts of the city,
away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased
until all was clear and sunny, and the view
stretched uninterrupted to the blue line of the
Kentish Hills.
My eye turned fondly to where the mighty
cupola of St. Paul's swelled dimly through this
realm of learning that lies about its base. How
soon should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw
this world of booksellers and printers into a bustle
of business and delight! How soon should
I hear my name repeated by printers' devils
throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel Court,
and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen corner should
echo back the sound!
Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the
most fashionable publisher. Every new author
patronizes him of course. In fact, it had been
determined in the village circle that he should
be the fortunate man. I cannot tell you how
vaingloriously I walked the streets; my head
was in the clouds. I felt the airs of heaven
playing about it, and fancied it already encircled
by a halo of literary glory. As I passed by the
windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time
when my work would be shining among the
hotpressed wonders of the day; and my face,
scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring in
Moore.
When I applied at the publisher's house there
was something in the loftiness of my air, and the
dinginess of my dress, that struck the clerks
with reverence. They doubtless took me for
some person of consequence, probably a digger
of Greek roots, or a penetrator of pyramids. A
proud man in a dirty shirt is always an imposing
character in the world of letters; one must feel
intellectually secure before he can venture to
dress shabbily; none but a great scholar or a
great genius dares to be dirty; so I was ushered
at once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high
priest of Minerva.
The publishing of books is a very different
affair now a-days, from what it was in the time
of Bernard Lintot. I found the publisher a
fashionably dressed man, in an elegant drawing
room, furnished with sofas, and portraits of
celebrated authors, and cases of splendidly bound
books. He was writing letters at an elegant
table. This was transacting business in style.
publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at
the choice I had made of a publisher, for I always
liked to encourage men of taste and spirit.
I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical
port that I had been accustomed to maintain
in our village circle; though I threw in it something
of a patronizing air, such as one feels when
about to make a man's fortune. The publisher
paused with his pen in his hand, and seemed
waiting in mute suspense to know what was to
be announced by so singular an apparition.
I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt
that I had but to come, see, and conquer. I made
known my name, and the name of my poem;
produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript,
laid it on the table with an emphasis, and told
him at once, to save time and come directly to
the point, the price was one thousand guineas.
I had given him no time to speak, nor did he
seem so inclined. He continued looking at me
for a moment with an air of whimsical perplexity;
scanned me from head to foot; looked down at
to a chair; and whistling softly to himself, went
on writing his letter.
I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing
he was making up his mind; but he only
paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink;
to stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then
resumed his writing. It was evident his mind
was intently occupied upon some other subject;
but I had no idea that any other subject should
be attended to and my poem lie unnoticed on the
table. I had supposed that every thing would
make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy.
My gorge at length rose within me. I took up
my manuscript; thrust it into my pocket, and
walked out of the room; making some noise as
I went, to let my departure be heard. The publisher,
however, was too much busied in minor
concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walk
down stairs without being called back. I sallied
forth into the street, but no clerk was sent after
me; nor did the publisher call after me from the
drawing room window. I have been told since,
I leave you to judge how much he was in the
wrong in his opinion.
When I turned the corner my crest fell. I
cooled down in my pride and my expectations,
and reduced my terms with the next bookseller
to whom I applied. I had no better success: nor
with a third; nor with a fourth. I then desired
the booksellers to make an offer themselves; but
the deuce an offer would they make. They told
me poetry was a mere drug; every body wrote
poetry; the market was overstocked with it.
And then, they said, the title of my poem was not
taking: that pleasures of all kinds were worn
threadbare; nothing but horrors did now a-days,
and even these were almost worn out. Tales of
pirates, robbers, and bloody Turks might answer
tolerably well; but then they must come from
some established well-known name, or the public
would not look at them.
At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller
to read it and judge for himself. “Why,
really, my dear Mr.—a—a—I forget your name,”
gaiters, “really, sir, we are so pressed with
business just now, and have so many manuscripts
on hand to read, that we have not time to look
at any new production, but if you can call again
in a week or two, or say the middle of next
month, we may be able to look over your writings
and give you an answer. Don't forget, the
month after next—good morning, sir—happy to
see you any time you are passing this way”—so
saying he bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable.
In short, sir, instead of an eager competition
to secure my poem I could not even get
it read! In the mean time I was harassed by
letters from my friends, wanting to know when
the work was to appear; who was to be my publisher;
but above all things warning me not to
let it go too cheap.
There was but one alternative left. I determined
to publish the poem myself; and to have
my triumph over the booksellers, when it should
become the fashion of the day. I accordingly
published the Pleasures of Melancholy and ruined
and to my friends in the country, not one,
I believe, ever left the bookseller's warehouse.
The printer's bill drained my purse, and the only
notice that was taken of my work was contained
in the advertisements paid for by myself.
I could have borne all this, and have attributed
it as usual to the mismanagement of the publisher,
or the want of taste in the public; and
could have made the usual appeal to posterity:
but my village friends would not let me rest in
quiet. They were picturing me to themselves
feasting with the great, communing with the literary,
and in the high course of fortune and renown.
Every little while, some one came to
me with a letter of introduction from the village
circle, recommending him to my attentions, and
requesting that I would make him known in society;
with a hint that an introduction to the
house of a celebrated literary nobleman would be
extremely agreeable.
I determined, therefore, to change my lodgings,
drop my correspondence, and disappear
Besides, I was anxious to make one more poetic
attempt. I was by no means disheartened by
the failure of my first. My poem was evidently
too didactic. The public was wise enough. It
no longer read for instruction. “They want
horrors, do they?” said I, “I'faith, then they
shall have enough of them” So I looked out
for some quiet retired place, where I might be
out of reach of my friends, and have leisure to
cook up some delectable dish of poetical “hellbroth.”
I had some difficulty in finding a place to my
mind, when chance threw me in the way of Canonbury
Castle. It is an ancient brick tower,
hard by “merry Islington;” the remains of a
hunting seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took
the pleasures of the country, when the neighbourhood
was all woodland. What gave it particular
interest in my eyes, was the circumstance
that it had been the residence of a poet. It was
here Goldsmith resided when he wrote his Deserted
Village. I was shown the very apartment.
the castle, with pannelled wainscots and gothic
windows. I was pleased with its air of antiquity,
and with its having been the residence of poor
Goldy. “Goldsmith was a pretty poet,” said I
to myself, “a very pretty poet; though rather
of the old school. He did not think and feel so
strongly as is the fashion now a-day: but had
he lived in these times of hot hearts and hot
heads, he would have written quite differently.”
In a few days I was quietly established in my
new quarters; my books all arranged, my writing
desk placed by a window looking out into
the fields; and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe,
when he had finished his bower. For several
days I enjoyed all the novelty of change and the
charms which grace a new lodgings before one
has found out their defects. I rambled about the
fields where I fancied Goldsmith had rambled.
I explored merry Islington; ate my solitary dinner
at the Black Bull, which according to tradition
was a country seat of Sir Walter Raleigh,
and would sit and sip my wine and muse on old
had been held.
All this did very well for a few days: I was
stimulated by novelty; inspired by the associations
awakened in my mind by these curious
haunts, and began to think I felt the spirit of composition
stirring within me; but Sunday came,
and with it the whole city world, swarming
about Canonbury Castle. I could not open my
window but I was stunned with shouts and noises
from the cricket ground The late quiet road
beneath my window was alive with the tread of
feet and clack of tongues; and to complete my
misery, I found that my quiet retreat was absolutely
a “show house!” the tower and its contents
being shown to strangers at sixpence a
head.
There was a perpetual tramping up stairs of
citizens and their families, to look about the
country from the top of the tower, and to take a
peep at the city through the telescope, to try if
they could discern their own chimneys. And
then, in the midst of a vein of thought, or a moment
ideas put to flight, by my intolerable landlady's
tapping at the door, and asking me, if I would
“jist please to let a lady and gentleman come in
to take a look at Mr. Goldsmith's room.”
If you know any thing what an author's
study is, and what an author is himself, you
must know that there was no standing this. I
put a positive interdict on my rooms being exhibited;
but then it was shown when I was
absent, and my papers put in confusion; and on
returning home one day, I absolutely found a
cursed tradesman and his daughters gaping over
my manuscripts; and my landlady in a panic at
my appearance. I tried to make out a little
longer by taking the key in my pocket, but it
would not do. I overheard mine hostess one
day telling some of her customers on the stairs
that the room was occupied by an author, who
was always in a tantrum if interrupted; and I
immediately perceived, by a slight noise at the
door, that they were peeping at me through the
key hole. By the head of Apollo, but this was
and my ambition of the stare of the million, I
had no idea of being exhibited by retail, at sixpence
a head, and that through a key hole. So
I bade adieu to Canonbury Castle, merry Islington,
and the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without
having advanced a single line in my labours.
My next quarters were at a small white-washed
cottage, which stands not far from Hempstead,
just on the brow of a hill, looking over Chalk
farm, and Cambden town, remarkable for the
rival houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother
Black Cap; and so across Crackskull common
to the distant city.
The cottage is in no wise remarkable in itself;
but I regarded it with reverence, for it had been
the asylum of a persecuted author. Hither poor
Steele had retreated and lain perdue when persecuted
by creditors and bailiffs; those immemorial
plagues of authors and free spirited gentlemen;
and here he had written many numbers
of the Spectator. It was from hence, too, that
he had despatched those little notes to his lady,
the fond husband, the careless gentleman, and
the shifting spendthrift, were so oddly blended.
I thought, as I first eyed the window of his
apartment, that I could sit within it and write
volumes.
No such thing! It was haymaking season,
and, as ill luck would have it, immediately opposite
the cottage was a little alehouse with the
sign of the load of hay. Whether it was there
in Steele's time or not I cannot say; but it set all
attempt at conception or inspiration at defiance.
It was the resort of all the Irish haymakers who
mow the broad fields in the neighbourhood; and
of drovers and teamsters who travel that road.
Here would they gather in the endless summer
twilight, or by the light of the harvest moon, and
sit round a table at the door; and tipple, and
laugh, and quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy
songs, and dawdle away the hours until the deep
solemn notes of St. Paul's clock would warn the
varlets home.
In the day time I was still less able to write.
work in the fields, and the perfume of the newmown
hay brought with it the recollection of my
native fields. So instead of remaining in my
room to write, I went wandering about Primrose
Hill and Hempstead Heights and Shepherd's
Field, and all those Arcadian scenes so celebrated
by London bards. I cannot tell you how
many delicious hours I have passed lying on the
cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasant slopes
of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of
the fields, while the summer fly buzzed about
me, or the grasshopper leaped into my bosom;
and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon
the smoky mass of London, and listened to the
distant sound of its population, and pitied the
poor sons of earth, toiling in its bowels, like
Gnomes in “the dark gold mine.”
People may say what they please about Cockney
pastorals; but after all, there is a vast deal
of rural beauty about the western vicinity of
London; and any one that has looked down
upon the valley of Westend, with its soft bosom
dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hempstead
rising among rich groves on the brow of the hill,
and the learned height of Harrow in the distance;
will confess that never has he seen a
more absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity
of a great metropolis.
Still, however, I found myself not a whit the
better off for my frequent change of lodgings;
and I began to discover that in literature, as in
trade, the old proverb holds good, “a rolling
stone gathers no moss.”
The tranquil beauty of the country played
the very vengeance with me. I could not
mount my fancy into the termagant vein. I
could not conceive, amidst the smiling landscape,
a scene of blood and murder; and the smug citizens
in breeches and gaiters, put all ideas of
heroes and bandits out of my brain. I could
think of nothing but dulcet subjects. “The
pleasures of spring”—“the pleasures of solitude”—“the
pleasures of tranquillity”—“the
pleasures of sentiment”—nothing but pleasures;
of melancholy” too strongly in my recollection
to be beguiled by them.
Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently
in my ramblings loitered about Hempstead
Hill; which is a kind of Parnassus of the
metropolis. At such times I occasionally took
my dinner at Jack Straw's Castle. It is a country
inn so named. The very spot where that notorious
rebel and his followers held their council
of war. It is a favourite resort of citizens when
rurally inclined, as it commands fine fresh air
and a good view of the city.
I sat one day in the public room of this inn,
ruminating over a beefsteak and a pint of port,
when my imagination kindled up with ancient
and heroic images. I had long wanted a
theme and a hero; both suddenly broke upon my
mind; I determined to write a poem on the history
of Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject
that I was fearful of being anticipated. I
wondered that none of the poets of the day, in
their researches after ruffian heroes, had ever
blotted several sheets of paper with choice
floating thoughts, and battles, and descriptions,
to be ready at a moment's warning. In a few
days time I sketched out the skeleton of my
poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it
flesh and blood. I used to take my manuscript
and stroll about Caen Wood, and read aloud; and
would dine at the castle, by way of keeping up
the vein of thought.
I was taking a meal there, one day, at a rather
late hour, in the public room. There was no
other company but one man, who sat enjoying
his pint of port at a window, and noticing the
passers by. He was dressed in a green shooting
coat. His countenance was strongly marked.
He had a hooked nose, a romantic eye, excepting
that it had something of a squint; and altogether,
as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was
quite taken with the man, for you must know I
am a little of a physiognomist: I set him down
at once for either a poet or a philosopher.
As I like to make new acquaintances, considering
every man a volume of human nature, I
soon fell into conversation with the stranger,
who, I was pleased to find, was by no means
difficult of access. After I had dined, I joined
him at the window, and we became so sociable
that I proposed a bottle of wine together; to
which he most cheerfully assented.
I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet
on the subject, and began to talk about the origin
of the tavern, and the history of Jack Straw.
I found my new acquaintance to be perfectly at
home on the topic, and to jump exactly with
my humour in every respect. I became elevated
by the wine and the conversation. In the fullness
of an author's feelings, I told him of my
projected poem, and repeated some passages;
and he was in raptures. He was evidently of a
strong poetical turn.
“Sir,” said he, filling my glass at the same
time, “our poets don't look at home. I don't
see why we need go out of old England for
robbers and rebels to write about. I like your
like him, sir. I like him exceedingly. He's
English to the back bone, damme. Give me
honest old England, after all; them's my sentiments,
sir!”
“I honour your sentiments,” cried I zealously.
“They are exactly my own. An English
ruffian is as good a ruffian for poetry as
any in Italy or Germany, or the Archipelago;
but it is hard to make our poets think so.”
“More shame for them!” replied the man in
green. “What a plague would they have?
What have we to do with their Archipelago's of
Italy and Germany? Haven't we heaths and
commons and high-ways on our own little island?
Aye, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them
too? Come sir, my service to you—I agree
with you perfectly.”
“Poets in old times had right notions on this
subject,” continued I; “witness the fine old ballads
about Robin Hood, Allen A'Dale, and
other staunch blades of yore.”
“Right, sir, right,” interrupted he. “Robin
and never flinch.”
“Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of
robbers in the good old times. Those were glorious
poetical days. The merry crew of Sherwood
Forest, who led such a roving picturesque
life, “under the greenwood tree.” I have often
wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes
of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the
Clough, and Sir William of Cloudeslie.”
“Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “we
have had several very pretty gangs since their day.
Those gallant dogs that kept about the great
heaths in the neighbourhood of London; about
Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Black Health, for
instance—come sir, my service to you. You
don't drink.”
“I suppose,” said I, emptying my glass—“I
suppose you have heard of the famous Turpin,
who was born in this very village of Hempstead,
and who used to lurk with his gang in Epping
Forest, about a hundred years since.”
“Have I?” cried he—“to be sure I have! A
we used to call him. A famous
fine fellow, sir.”
“Well sir,” continued I, “I have visited Waltham
Abbey, and Chinkford Church, merely
from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploits
there, and I have searched Epping Forest
for the cavern where he used to conceal himself.
You must know,” added I, “that I am a sort of
amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing,
daring fellows; the last apologies that we had for
the knights errants of yore. Ah, sir! the country
has been sinking gradually into tameness and
common place. We are losing the old English
spirit. The bold knights of the post have all
dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneaking
pick-pockets. There's no such thing as a dashing
gentleman-like robbery committed now-a-days
on the king's highway. A man may roll
from one end of England to the other in a drowsy
coach or jingling post-chaise without any other
adventure than that of being occasionally overturned,
sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill
cooked dinner.
“We hear no more of public coaches being stopped
and robbed by a well-mounted gang of resolute
fellows with pistols in their hands and crapes
over their faces. What a pretty poetical incident
was it for example in domestic life, for a
family carriage, on its way to a country seat, to
be attacked about dusk; the old gentleman eased
of his purse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces
and ear-rings, by a politely spoken highwayman
on a blood mare, who afterwards leaped
the hedge and gallopped across the country,
to the admiration of Miss Carolina the daughter,
who would write a long and romantic account
of the adventure to her friend Miss Juliana in
town. Ah, sir! we meet with nothing of such
incidents now-a-days!”
“That, sir,”—said my companion, taking advantage
of a pause, when I stopped to recover
breath and to take a glass of wine, which he
had just poured out—“that sir, craving your
pardon, is not owing to any want of old English
pluck. It is the effect of this cursed system of
banking. People do not travel with bags of
notes and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is
like catching a crow; where you have nothing
but carrion flesh and feathers for your pains.
But a coach in old times, sir, was as rich as a
Spanish galleon. It turned out the yellow boys
bravely; and a private carriage was a cool hundred
or two at least.”
I cannot express how much I was delighted
with the sallies of my new acquaintance. He
told me that he often frequented the castle, and
would be glad to know more of me; and I promised
myself many a pleasant afternoon with
him, when I should read him my poem, as it
proceeded, and benefit by his remarks; for it
was evident he had the true poetical feeling.
“Come, sir!” said he, pushing the bottle,
“Damme I like you!—You're a man after my
own heart; I'm cursed slow in making new acquaintances
in general. One must stand on the
reserve, you know. But when I meet with a
man of your kidney, damme my heart jumps
at once to him. Them's my sentiments, sir.
one can drink it now-a-days without treason!”
“With all my heart,” said I gayly, “and
Dick Turpin's into the bargain!”
“Ah, sir!” said the man in green, those are
the kind of men for poetry. The Newgate kalendar,
sir! the Newgate kalendar is your only
reading! There's the place to look for bold
deeds and dashing fellows.
We were so much pleased with each other
that we sat until a late hour. I insisted on paying
the bill, for both my purse and my heart
were full; and I agreed that he should pay the
score at our next meeting. As the coaches had
all gone that run between Hempstead and London
he had to return on foot. He was so delighted
with the idea of my poem that he could
talk of nothing else. He made me repeat such
passages as I could remember, and though I did
it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched
memory, yet he was in raptures.
Every now and then he would break out with
but would rub his hands and exclaim,
“By Jupiter that's fine! that's noble! Damme,
sir, if I can conceive how you hit upon such
ideas!”
I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations,
which sometimes made absolute nonsense
of the passages; but what author stands
upon trifles when he is praised? Never had I
spent a more delightful evening. I did not perceive
how the time flew. I could not bear to
separate, but continued walking on, arm in arm
with him past my lodgings, through Cambden
town, and across Crackscull Common, talking
the whole way about my poem.
When we were half way across the common
he interrupted me in the midst of a quotation by
telling me that this had been a famous place for
footpads, and was still occasionally infested by
them; and that a man had recently been shot
there in attempting to defend himself.
“The more fool he!” cried I. “A man is an
idiot to risk life, or even limb, to save a paltry
that of a duel, where one's honour is concerned.
“For my part,” added I, “I should never think
of making resistance against one of those desperadoes.”
“Say you so?” cried my friend in green,
turning suddenly upon me, and putting a pistol
to my breast, “Why, then have at you my lad!
—come, disburse! empty! unsack!”
In a word, I found that the muse had played
me another of her tricks, and had betrayed me
into the hands of a footpad. There was no
time to parley; he made me turn my pockets
inside out; and hearing the sound of distant footsteps,
he made one fell swoop upon purse, watch
and all, gave me a thwack over my unlucky
pate that laid me sprawling on the ground; and
scampered away with his booty.
I saw no more of my friend in green until a
year or two afterwards; when I caught a sight
of his poetical countenance among a crew of
scapegraces, heavily ironed, who were on the
way for transportation. He recognized me at
me how I came on with the history of Jack
Straw's castle.
The catastrophe at Crackscull Common put
an end to my summer's campaign. I was cured
of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels robbers and
highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my
subject, and what was worse, I was lightened of
my purse, in which was almost every farthing I
had in the world. So I abandoned Sir Richard
Steele's cottage in despair, and crept into less
celebrated, though no less poetical and airy lodgings
in a garret in town.
I see you are growing weary, so I will not detain
you with any more of my luckless attempts
to get astride of Pegasus. Still I could not consent
to give up the trial and abandon those dreams
of renown in which I had indulged. How should
I ever be able to look the literary circle of my
native village in the face, if I were so completely
to falsify their predictions. For some time longer,
therefore, I continued to write for fame, and of
besides being in continual risk of starvation.
I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along,
with a sad heart and an empty stomach, about
five o'clock, and looked wistfully down the areas
in the west end of the town; and seen through
the kitchen windows the fires gleaming, and the
joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping
with gravy; and the cook maids beating up puddings,
or trussing turkeys, and have felt for the
moment that if I could but have the run of one
of those kitchens, Apollo and the muses might
have the hungry heights of Parnassus for me.
Oh sir! talk of meditations among the tombs—
they are nothing so melancholy as the meditations
of a poor devil without penny in pouch, along a
line of kitchen windows towards dinner time.
At length, when almost reduced to famine and
despair, the idea all at once entered my head, that
perhaps I was not so clever a fellow as the village
and myself had supposed. It was the salvation
of me. The moment the idea popped into
my brain, it brought conviction and comfort with
fame to those who could live on air; took
to writing for mere bread, and have ever since
led a very tolerable life of it. There is no man
of letters so much at his ease, sir, as he that has
no character to gain or lose. I had to train myself
to it a little however, and to clip my wings
short at first, or they would have carried me up
into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined
to begin by the opposite extreme, and abandoning
the higher regions of the craft I came plump
down to the lowest, and turned creeper.
“Creeper,” interrupted I, “and pray what is
that?” Oh sir! I see you are ignorant of the
language of the craft; a creeper is one who furnishes
the newspapers with paragraphs at so much
a line; one that goes about in quest of misfortunes;
attends the Bow-street office; the courts of justice
and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We
are paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can
sell the same paragraph to almost every paper,
we sometimes pick up a very decent day's work.
Now and then the muse is unkind, or the day
and sometimes the unconscionable editors will
clip our paragraphs when they are a little too
rhetorical, and snip off twopence or threepence
at a go. I have many a time had my pot of
porter snipped off of my dinner in this way; and
have had to dine with dry lips. However, I
cannot complain. I rose gradually in the lower
ranks of the craft, and am now I think in the
most comfortable region of literature.
“And pray,” said I, “what may you be at
present?”
“At present,” said he, “I am a regular job
writer, and turn my hand to any thing. I work
up the writings of others at so much a sheet; turn
off translations; write second rate articles to fill
up reviews and magazines; compile travels and
voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisms for the
newspapers. All this authorship, you perceive,
is anonymous; it gives no reputation, except
among the trade, where I am considered an author
of all work, and am always sure of employ.
That's the only reputation I want. I sleep
leave immortal fame to those that choose to
fret and fight about it. Take my word for it,
the only happy author in this world is he who
is below the care of reputation.
The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne's early
schoolmate, and a variety of peculiarities which
I had remarked in himself, gave me a strong
curiosity to know something of his own history.
There was a dash of careless good humour
about him that pleased me exceedingly, and at
times a whimsical tinge of melancholy ran
through his humour that gave it an additional
relish. He had evidently been a little chilled
and buffeted by fortune, without being soured
thereby, as some fruits become mellower and
sweeter, from having been bruised or frost bitten.
He smiled when I expressed my desire. “I have
no great story,” said he, “to relate. A mere
you shall have one epoch of it, by which you
may judge of the rest. And so, without any
farther prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes
of his early adventures.
| THE
POOR DEVIL AUTHOR. Tales of a traveller | |