Newton Forster | Page 2

people
would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that they were
incontrovertible--"there is nothing but death."
"Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the lookout man at
the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "is
not death, sir, a true picture of human life?"
"Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not taking; "it's all very well,
but--there's too much killing in it."
"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you
must also allow something for professional feeling--''tis my

occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice,
whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit----"
"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it. Otherwise,"
continued this hypercritic, softening a little, "some of the chapters are
amusing, and, on the whole, it may be said to be rather--that is--not
unpleasantly written."
"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out
something intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and
collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.
"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Peego; I think
the second and third volumes are by far the most readable" exclaimed
another thing, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling half way
between her seat and the carpet.
"If I might presume upon my long standing in the service, Captain----,"
said a pompous general officer, whose back appeared to have been
fished with the kitchen poker--"if I might venture to offer you advice,"
continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one side, "it
would be not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I consider, sir,
that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have strangely
committed yourself."
"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."
"You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you that I
should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."
"Indeed, sir!" replied I, with assumed alarm.
I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he
walked away.
But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to
exclaim, with the expiring Lion in the fable----

A midshipman--yes, reader, a midshipman--who had formerly belonged
to my ship and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me,
and, with a supercilious air, observed--
"I have read your book, and--there are one or two good things in it."
Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals
and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was deteriorating,
going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the opinion before.
Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation
"O that mine adversary had written a book!" To be snarled at, and
bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault because their
intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take my
resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has
passed through the ordeal of the Reviews--keep your room for the
month after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father
confessors--guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow
the suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary
consciences. If your work is denounced and to be released at once from
your sufferings by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried
piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to
inflict the coup de grace?
The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary
to a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal
personage to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of
the qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and
its necessary concomitants, &c, &c." That such preparation ought to be
made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to these rules,
the public would never be troubled with any production of mine. It
would be too tedious a journey in perspective for my wayward intellect;
and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I should abandon
the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a journey of that
methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble hand-in-hand
with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for my whole
wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea--but ideas are
hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific. To

speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot
when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish