University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

It has been said that characters and professions
rise or fall in public estimation according to the
exigency of the times.[1] At the present day, be the
cause what it may, authors, writers by profession,
—“the unproductive class”—occupy no inconsiderable
space on the wide arena. They have
even been used as heroes of romantic story. They
are no longer stigmatized and held up to the ridicule
of the unlearned, as pedants in threadbare
black coats, who wipe their pens on their fingers
and forget to shave. Arrayed in the finest, and
essenced with the best, they fill an honored place
in the drawing-room, and are held indispensable at
the Feasts of Lions now so much in vogue in the

rare upper air. A certain class of these communicative
sages has ever received the honorable designation
of the “silver-fork school,” from their
exquisite proficiency in the arcana of fashionable
life, and their just appreciation of its inestimable
privileges, from one of which is derived the distinctive
honorary title just mentioned. I pretend not
to draw inferences, but only to state facts, and
whatever deep observers may assign as the reason,
the fact must be admitted that ours is the Age of
Ink. But this applies only to the wide arena.

Let not these fortunate persons—these heroes
of the pen—plume themselves too highly. Let
them not fancy their soft empire universal. Let
them rather trace out the bright regions distinguished
on certain philosophical maps as “enlightened”—wide
spaces done in cerulean blue, or
glowing rose,—and mark well the boundaries of
their influence. Beyond that dotted line shining
nonsense has no charms, fashionable inanity no
readers. Nay, more,—beyond that line no poet,
saving perhaps Isaac Watts, no writer of fiction,
but it may be the ingenious compilers of those
miniature novels which we are in the habit of
teaching to our Sunday scholars—finds any favor,
scarcely indeed any toleration, be his pretensions
what they may. If a story cannot be sworn to as
true, it is condemned as “a pack of lies.”

O Shakspere! O Cervantes! O Walter Scott!
beneficent manufacturers of tranquil enjoyment!

Nay, still more,—O Milton! O John Bunyan!
awful and awe-stricken painters of heavenly imaginings!
interpreters of things sacred and celestial!
and you, ye hosts of kind softeners of this world's
ruggedness—gentle consolers of time's trials—
inspiring companions of deepest solitude! ye whose
fancy-woven veils can throw a charm over realities
which to see in their naked truth would drive us
to despair! is it for this ye have toiled? for this
wrung your blessed brains?—for this wasted the
midnight oil?—to have those who of all others need
your benign office, repel you with disdain? Was
Shakspere in very deed “a king of France that
killed two children and then ate 'em?” Shall the
Waverley Novels be known as “Waverley's
Novels?” Are the adventures of the knight of
La Mancha “flat stuff”? Is it “a shame to write
any thing that a'n't true”?

But to be serious, John Bunyan is an exception
to the general rule, for we all read Pilgrim. You
will find a well-thumbed copy in perhaps every
fifth house in the woods. But the mass of our
society, intelligent as they are in matters of everyday
business, have as yet no consciousness of the
lack of literary advantages—no conception of what
they are losing by their neglect of this source of
amusement and occupation. I say the mass, for
the exceptions to this remark which I could myself
adduce, serve only to prove the general rule. Books
and the power of enjoying them, scarcely find a

place in our plans of happiness. If we are to place
any confidence in the reputation of Scotland in
this particular, the taste of our population must form
a strong contrast to that of the Scotch, who are
somewhat similarly situated. Our loneliness is
uncheered by the shadowy companions whose
presence we might always command. Our pastures
will never produce a Robert Burns or an
Ettrick Shepherd. And this, not through any lack
of natural gifts, or any deficiency of materials, but
simply and solely because the direction in which
not only the public mind but the attention of individuals
is habitually turned, is utterly adverse to
every thing that requires imagination for its production
or its enjoyment.

We are told that “art is unnecessary where there
is nature and feeling”—and also “there is a
strong sensation of delight felt by unpolished and
simple minds at the first encounter of the true and
the beautiful.” [2] This must not be applied without
much limitation in the case of literary productions.

There is a time when we are not only unable to
originate works of taste and fancy, but unable to
enjoy them. But we began our chapter with the
saying of D'Israeli, that each character or profession
rises or falls in public estimation according to the
exigency of the times; and we were going to draw

the inference that every body in these Western
wilds has, on that ground, a strong inducement to
turn author, since a love of letters is our great need.
This may be disputed, but the very attempt will
prove the truth of the observation, since those who
have experienced the consoling and humanizing
effects of a rational pursuit of literature will never
think its importance can be overrated.

One who ought to know has told us lately that
he finds himself in a country where “the reputation
of having written a book is equivalent to that of
having picked a pocket,” or something to that
effect. Now, as this writer dates from Brussels, we
hardly know what he can mean, unless it be that
the people by whom he is surrounded are so absorbed
in money-making or some other form of
sordid self-indulgence, that they have no respect
for books or their makers. This cannot quite be
said of us, for if a writer will only tell very long
stories about the “Revolution war,” or very tough
ones about the Indians, and if the said stories be
very bloody and very marvellous, we will believe
every word, and, believing, enjoy. But this enjoyment
will be entirely independent of any literary
merit in the works themselves.

Many complain very piteously of the long
speechless days which they are obliged to pass,
living in the woods, and perhaps far from any
neighbor. Women especially find this a sore trial,

as it needs must be. But if you suggest a book as
the best sweetener of solitude—the reply will perhaps
be, “Oh, we have hardly any books, and I
never was no great reader!” And the resource
adopted instead, is to wander off to some accessible
neighbor, and there spend the long afternoon, or
perhaps the entire summer day, in unimproving talk,
or, still worse, in discussing the characters and
conduct of friends and acquaintance. Yet these
very people will pass a sweeping condemnation on
reading for amusement, and especially works of
fiction. They “could not spend time so!” Yet
the time which is squandered in eternal visiting
would give a good course of reading, both useful
and cheering, to those who had a taste for it. I
verily believe that the establishment of a library in
every town would prevent nine tenths of all the
bitter animosities which often divide whole neighborhoods,
and which usually spring from no other
source than the vapid or malicious tattle of loungers
and gossips. And, I must insist, if it were only to
keep people out of mischief, a taste for reading
would be invaluable.

But it cannot be doubted that every accession of
intellectual light carries with it an increase of happiness—happiness
which depends not in any great degree
upon the course of public events, and not, beyond
a certain limited extent, upon the smiles of fortune.
Those debasing and imbittering prejudices which

must ever wait upon ignorance, melt away in the
rays of mental illumination, and every departed
prejudice leaves open a new inlet for happiness. I
may be considered an enthusiast, but it is my deliberate
conviction that next to Religion—heartfelt
operative Religion—a true love of reading is the
best softener of the asperities of life—the best
consoler under its inevitable ills.