Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 54, April, 1862 | Page 7

to it, all his
experience stands related to it, it is the net result of his existence up to a
certain time, it is the cistern into which he pours his accumulated life.
Emboldened by success, he mistakes the cistern for a fountain, and
instantly taps his brain again. The second production, as compared with
the first, costs but half the pains and attains but a quarter part of the
merit; a little more of fluency and facility perhaps,--but the vigor, the
wealth, the originality, the head of water, in short, are wanting. One
would think that almost any intelligent man might write one good thing
in a lifetime, by reserving himself long enough: it is the effort after
quantity which proves destructive. The greatest man has passed his
zenith, when he once begins to cheapen his style of work and sink into
a book-maker: after that, though the newspapers may never hint at it,
nor his admirers own it, the decline of his career is begun.
Yet the author is not alone to blame for this, but also the world which
first tempts and then reproves him. Goethe says, that, if a person once
does a good thing, society forms a league to prevent his doing another.
His seclusion is gone, and therefore his unconsciousness and his leisure;
luxuries tempt him from his frugality, and soon he must toil for
luxuries; then, because he has done one thing well, he is urged to
squander himself and do a thousand things badly. In this country
especially, if one can learn languages, he must go to Congress; if he can
argue a case, he must become agent of a factory: out of this comes a
variety of training which is very valuable, but a wise man must have
strength to call in his resources before middle-life, prune off divergent
activities, and concentrate himself on the main work, be it what it may.
It is shameful to see the indeterminate lives of many of our gifted men,
unable to resist the temptations of a busy land, and so losing
themselves in an aimless and miscellaneous career.
Yet it is unjust and unworthy in Marsh to disfigure his fine work on the
English language by traducing all who now write that tongue. "None
seek the audience, fit, though few, which contented the ambition of
Milton, and all writers for the press now measure their glory by their
gains," and so indefinitely onward,--which is simply cant. Does
Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., who honestly earns his annual five thousand dollars
from the "New York Ledger," take rank as head of American literature
by virtue of his salary? Because the profits of true literature are

rising,--trivial as they still are beside those of commerce or the
professions,--its merits do not necessarily decrease, but the contrary is
more likely to happen; for in this pursuit, as in all others, cheap work is
usually poor work. None but gentlemen of fortune can enjoy the bliss
of writing for nothing and paying their own printer. Nor does the
practice of compensation by the page work the injury that has often
been ignorantly predicted. No contributor need hope to cover two pages
of a periodical with what might be adequately said in one, unless he
assumes his editor to be as foolish as himself. The Spartans exiled
Ctesiphon for bragging that he could speak the whole day on any
subject selected; and a modern magazine is of little value, unless it has
a Spartan at its head.
Strive always to remember--though it does not seem intended that we
should quite bring it home to ourselves--that "To-Day is a king in
disguise," and that this American literature of ours will be just as
classic a thing, if we do our part, as any which the past has treasured.
There is a mirage over all literary associations. Keats and Lamb seem
to our young people to be existences as remote and legendary as Homer,
yet it is not an old man's life since Keats was an awkward boy at the
door of Hazlitt's lecture-room, and Lamb was introducing Talfourd to
Wordsworth as his own only admirer. In reading Spence's "Anecdotes,"
Pope and Addison appear no farther off; and wherever I open Bacon's
"Essays," I am sure to end at last with that one magical sentence,
annihilating centuries, "When I was a child, and Queen Elizabeth was
in the flower of her years."
And this imperceptible transformation of the commonplace present into
the storied past applies equally to the pursuits of war and to the serenest
works of peace. Be not misled by the excitements of the moment into
overrating the charms of military life. In this chaos of uniforms, we
seem to be approaching times such as existed in England after Waterloo,
when the