Although I did not possess one half of these "requisite qualifications," I boldly resolved to adventure as a candidate; and after swallowing my soup, which I qualified with a glass of Sherry-negus,* I hastened to Mr. Jones as aforesaid. From him I obtained the advertiser's card; and, as I was only the nineteenth applicant, my informant gave me some hopes of success. I followed the direction, which was in a street behind the Bank, and found my gentleman at home. He was the queerest looking man I ever saw; old, lanky, shrivelled, snarling and snuffy-very snuffy. A "nine-days beard" garnished or rather guarded with its bristles his pointed Doctor Syntax-like chin, and a hue of purple richness embellished the point of his long Syntax-like nose. A brown-black coat, a sadlyfringed silk waistcoat, and unmentionables-once of black satin, but now of a sober grey, were his external habiliments; and I must do the learned Editor the credit to affirm, that he positively had on that day a clean shirt! He received me as courteously as a long, lanky, shrivelled, snarling, snuffy old man could receive any body; and, to make a long matter short, for he kept me under examination more than half an hour, I was engaged to attend him for four hours daily at the "liberal" salary of half-a-guinea per week! Glorious power of learning, thought I! How supremely blest and happy thy ardent votaries must be! But n'importe ! Mine was not then a gloomy or a desponding heart; and I contented myself with the proverb that "half a loaf," &c; and went on my way rejoicing. But this God-send was soon snatched from me; my patron was exalted to a residence in the Fleet, his "highly popular periodical" expired for want of sustenance, and I became once more a lonely hungry wanderer. I sought my counsellor H- again, and found him most willing to attend to my story. "What's to be done! was the question. "Write a book," was the answer. "Aye! but how?" The plan was quickly struck out. He advised me to employ my ingenuity and talent in the composition of some slight, sketchy Tales, which Colburn, or Charles Knight, or Whittaker, or, as a dernier resort, Longman's House might take. He himself, he said, had robbed his pillow of a few hours nightly, and had achieved a volume of Poems, which he hoped to turn to account: and, if he derived no other benefit from them, their composition chased away melancholy, and put to flight many a legion of blue devils. He promised to assist me, and in less than a month one volume was ready. 66 The manuscript was sent first to Mr. Colburn, of course in the full expectation of that worthy bibliopoles's great joy and gratitude at the offer: but, having no titled friend, or popular author " to recommended me, it was duly returned at the end of a week, with a very polite note from O— Mr. Colburn's Secretary, intimating that Mr. C.'s numerous engagements * It is an established rule in Dietetics to qualify soup with wine-as it aideth its digestion. I could be very learned on this important matter, but must reserve my wisdom for my larger work, "on the Natural and Artificial diet of man," which is very nearly ready for the Press. † I may mention here, that the reception of my friend H―'s Lyrics far exceeded his own expectations: they are, most assuredly, some of the sweetest compositions in our language; and my friend often smiles when he thinks upon the mode in which they were writtenin an attic by the faint gleam of a rush-light. prevented him from undertaking the publication of my very interesting work; he was extremely obliged by the offer, notwithstanding; and hoped that I should meet with every success. This damped my enthusiasm : for, be assured, courteous reader, that I had indulged in some very grand and blissful visions, on the publication by Mr. Colburn, of this my darling book. However, I tried again, and sent the manuscript at once to Longman's, for to me its immediate publication was an object. I waited long and anxiously for an answer: at length a letter reached me from the polite publishing partner of the firm, containing the welcome intelligence, that Messrs. Longman and Co. would publish my work upon the following terms: viz. that they would defray all the expenses, and share the profits (if any) with me. If I acceded to this proposal, the MS. should be placed immediately in the printer's hands. This proposal I did accept, and to press my MS. went. I believe, that to a young author, the tedious task of correcting the proof-sheets of a first or second work, is really no task "at all at all,” as Patrick would say ; but, in truth, a very delightful office. My own experience proves this, both in my own person, and as it regards many of my acquaintances: and I can even now remember how anxiously I looked for my daily packet from Longman's, and with what eager exultation, I perused the proof. At length the last sheet, containing the Title-page, Dedication, (to a young lady whom I had loved most passionately,) the Preface, &c., passed through my hands; and my book, the darling pet of my young heart, was announced as "in the press," and nearly ready for publication. I read the announcement, (it appeared in the Literary Gazette, a Journal which I in consequence very highly reverenced,) again and again. "In the Press, and speedily will be published, in 1 Vol. post 8vo. RHAPSODIES OF AN OXONIAN: printing for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green," (for the firm was at that time in full flower,) was more grateful to my eyes, than the "Prices of Stocks" was to the jobber, or the list of Promotions to the aspiring warrior. In less than a week after this, I received my half-dozen copies damp from the binder, and smelling more sweetly (to me) than the perfumes of Araby the blest. How I gloated over the really pretty volume! I began at the Title-page, and read the book through fairly and freely, although every sentence, almost every syllable, was fresh in my memory. I knew that many worse things had been written, and published, and even read. I thought this was not so bad, that it was in fact, good;-and in short, I felt that I was an AUTHOR ! and was plunged in a delirium of delight for a whole week! There are two matters of vast moment to an incipient author, namely, the presentation of copies of his Work, and the opinion of those high and mighty men, the Reviewers. With regard to the first, my course was soon settled. I sent two to H-; one to a kind-hearted young Surgeon, who had most diligently attended me through a dangerous illness; another I gave to my landlady's daughter, rather a pretty girl of nineteen; one I kept myself; and the sixth I forwarded to a rich and haughty relation, to show him that I could do something for a living: but, proud as he was, I did not anticipate his remark on its reception;-had I done so, my Rhapsodies should never have reached his ears. "Oh, ho!" said the brute, turning up his lip, "he has taken to book-writing now, has he? Poor fellow! I shall have him come begging here before long: he must be a great deal worse off than I thought he was." But I disappointed him: although I have felt the pangs of poverty almost to starvation,although I have been on the very brink of the grave for the want of almost the common necessaries of life, this proud, rich man, never heard my bewailings; and if he had, he would have gloated over my miseries. No! from my own kindred and connections, I received no succour; strangers, and strangers only, ministered to my wants, and soothed my sufferings: but my vengeance has been complete, for-I have pardoned them! Let me offer one word of advice, on the subject of giving presentation copies. If the author be in a profession, which requires the monopoly, (so to speak,) of his time and talent, should his work be one of fiction, or devoted to any subject not connected, in some way, with that profession, let him keep a rigid incognito respecting it. He may give a copy to his sister, or his brother, or his bosom friend, or, if he have one, to his mistress: but let him proceed no further. His vanity, which on these occasions is wondrous vehement, will prompt him to give away a great many more copies than will redound to his credit or advantage. If the book be worth any thing, it will be sure to find its way; and its author will be gratified by hearing it praised impartially: and may assist himself, if he likes, in criticising it for the joke's sake and if it be not worth any thing, which is by no means an impossibility, he will be sure to hear that his "dear friends" have been quizzing it behind his back, while they have expressed, to him, their unfeigned admiration of his production, and their warmest thanks for the gift: this is one of the most bitter pills with which authorship can be dosed. : I began to look anxiously for some reviews of my Rhapsodies; and the Literary Gazette was the first to notice them. I expected, of course, a tolerably long critique, with approved extracts, and the like: but the thermometer of my spirits fell ten degrees, when I saw it noticed coolly and quietly in that portion of the paper entitled, "Sights of Books:" "This is rather a pleasing little volume. The author has evinced a pretty talent for description, and may do better things." And, as I live, this was all! This "pretty talent," and, "may do better things," gave me a fit of the bile, and destroyed all my affectionate veneration for Mr. Jerdan's Gazette. "Magazine Day" arrived, and I posted into the City to a Coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, where I could obtain a sight of the principal Magazines : but the devil a syllable did I see about my book. I felt my dignity considerably ruffled by this remissness, and wrote a pettish letter to Mr. Campbell, as Editor of the New Monthly, upbraiding him with neglecting his duty as a public reviewer. Mr. Campbell, or rather Mr. Reading, the Sub-Editor, returned me a very civil answer, and told me, if he had known of my work, (and I thought all the world knew of it,) he should have paid it all the attention it merited, and he would do so now, if I would order a copy to be sent to him. This opened my eyes to a fact which my vanity had prevented me from perceiving; and I requested the publishers to send a copy to each of the Magazines, as well as to the weekly literary journals.* They did so and now began the work of criticism. The Literary Chronicle was the first to open the business, in a critique, which I considered extremely just, because it was extremely favourable: at all events, it gave its readers an opportunity of convincing themselves, by copious extracts, of the truth of his opinion. This was on the Saturday; and on the Sunday next ensuing, a paper, which professes to carry the whole world on its shoulders, and calls itself "The Atlas," spoke thus of the book: "This is an extremely pretty volume, we mean in its external arrangements. It reminds us of a well-dressed puppy, with no other recommendations than his gay and gaudy attire. We have looked in vain for any amusement in its pages, which are destitute of every quality requisite for a book." Now the affair in the Literary Chronicle, had put me upon very excellent terms with myself and my book; and when I saw its title announced in the critical department of the Atlas, I flew on tip-toe to purchase a copy, with the full assurance, that there too I should be praised. I was chagrined, indeed, when I perused this scurvy notice, more on account of my own folly, by first throwing away a copy upon such an illiberal blockhead, and, secondly, for buying his paper, before I had looked at his opinion: but there it was, and I had no remedy. I have since ascertained, however, the cause of this cut: an individual, who was then connected with that Journal, attributed the work to a young man, against whom he had a pique; and without having read a single page of my poor Rhapsodies, he fulminated the paragraph I have quoted. This is one of the ways of the reviewing trade: on a future occasion, I may explain a good many more, similar in manner and effect. Another "Magazine Day" arrived; and in each of the principal ones did I find a candid and friendly notice of my little book. More than one gave me advice, which I had too much sense to despise, and which I have since profited by: all gave me encouragement; and I now return them my best thanks, for enabling a poor, unfortunate, friendless devil, to rub on in the world, till a brighter star dawned on his destinies. That I became a successful, and, I trust, not an unuseful writer, I owe to their candour and kindness; but I have much more to say on this, as well as on other matters of general literary interest; but these must be reserved for my forthcoming work, entitled, "The Life and Times of * * * Apropos! Let me, in conclusion, explain the meaning of my second paragraph: for, from what I have since written, it may appear, that I, at all events, had no great cause for complaint as an author, and that I, in my own person, had no sad example" to adduce. The case is just this: I was 66 reduced to the alternative of either writing or starving: "I could not dig, and to beg I was ashamed;" and, even I was so low sunk in penury and misfortune, that my spirit received many rough rubs, during my authorial noviciate. I have had booksellers to deal with, who, although as fair-dealing as booksellers can be, are still booksellers. I speak not of Messrs. Long * A writer, who is "unknown to fame," should always send copies of his work, to the principal periodical (literary) publications. He must not depend upon his publishers for this, unless he give them directions so to do; and it is a much better mode than advertising, (and a much cheaper one,) of giving publicity to his work. man, and Co., nor of Henry Colburn, nor of many others of our leading Bibliopolists, for from them I always experienced the greatest liberality and kindness; but still, I know of no torment more exquisite, than to depend for one's actual subsistence, upon mere author-craft: for, putting all booksellers and publishers out of the question, this is the point to be considered. Until a writer is well known, and has firmly established himself in public opinion, his success, and, therefore, his subsistence, depends less upon his actual talent, (unless indeed, like that of the author of Pelham and of Salathiel, with one or two others,) than upon the interest which he may excite with the Reviewers; for they, after all, are the only real encouragers and patrons of literature. If an author place much dependence upon the sale of his work, he will soon discover how galling it is to have that work unfeelingly abused; and for no other earthly reason, perhaps, than that it may afford some cold-blooded and bad-hearted scribbler, an opportunity of saying a few smart things, with no consideration whatever for the fate or feelings of the unfortunate author; who can only exclaim, with the frogs in the fable, "Hold, for God's sake, hold! This may be fine fun for but it is death and the d—l to me." There are many circumstances which may give rise to an ill-natured criticism, for the writer has always the shield of an incognito, (witness the attack on myself, in "The Atlas,") and there are few minds that can endure the scoff, and ridicule of a hidden foe; upon a subject, too, of the most vital, and tender importance to him. Some one has said, that, although few persons, comparatively, can write a book, every booby imagines himself competent to criticise it; and, unless an author can endure to have his feelings wounded in every possible manner, his temper ruffled, and his best hopes discouraged, let him, as I said before, take early warning, and "eschew book-writing for ever." you, [18] THE MANIAC'S TALE. I'LL tell thee of my fate.-I am of those Whose youth is past in dreamings; all things bright While fond regrets can mix with the last sights, |