The Principles of Success in Literature | Page 3

they distinctly
conceived the real aims of Literature this mistake would often have
been avoided. A recognition of the aims would have pressed on their
attention a more distinct appreciation of the requirements.
No one ever doubted that special aptitudes were required for music,
mathematics, drawing, or for wit; but other aptitudes not less special
are seldom recognised. It is with authors as with actors: mere delight in
the art deludes them into the belief that they could be artists. There are
born actors, as there are born authors. To an observant eye such men
reveal their native endowments. Even in conversation they
spontaneously throw themselves into the characters they speak of. They
mimic, often quite unconsciously the speech and gesture of the person.
They dramatise when they narrate. Other men with little of this faculty,
but with only so much of it as will enable them to imitate the tones and
gestures of some admired actor, are misled by their vanity into the
belief that they also are actors, that they also could move an audience
as their original moves it.
In Literature we see a few original writers, and a crowd of imitators:
men of special aptitudes, and men who mistake their power of
repeating with slight variation what others have done, for a power of
creating anew. The imitator sees that it is easy to do that which has
already been done. He intends to improve on it; to add from his own
stores something which the originator could not give; to lend it the
lustre of a richer mind; to make this situation more impressive, and that
character more natural. He is vividly impressed with the imperfections

of the original. And it is a perpetual puzzle to him why the public,
which applauds his imperfect predecessor, stupidly fails to recognise
his own obvious improvements.
It is from such men that the cry goes forth about neglected genius and
public caprice. In secret they despise many a distinguished writer, and
privately, if not publicly, assert themselves as immeasurably superior.
The success of a Dumas is to them a puzzle and an irritation. They do
not understand that a man becomes distinguished in virtue of some
special talent properly directed; and that their obscurity is due either to
the absence of a special talent, or to its misdirection. They may
probably be superior to Dumas in general culture, or various ability; it
is in particular ability that they are his inferiors. They may be conscious
of wider knowledge, a more exquisite sensibility, and a finer taste more
finely cultivated; yet they have failed to produce any impression on the
public in a direction where the despised favourite has produced a strong
impression. They are thus thrown upon the alternative of supposing that
he has had "the luck" denied to them, or that the public taste is
degraded and prefers trash. Both opinions are serious mistakes. Both
injure the mind that harbours them.
In how far is success a test of merit? Rigorously considered it is an
absolute test. Nor is such a conclusion shaken by the undeniable fact
that temporary applause is often secured by works which have no
lasting value. For we must always ask, What is the nature of the
applause, and from what circles does it rise? A work which appears at a
particular juncture, and suits the fleeting wants of the hour, flattering
the passions of the hour, may make a loud noise, and bring its author
into strong relief. This is not luck, but a certain fitness between the
author's mind and the public needs. He who first seizes the occasion,
may be for general purposes intrinsically a feebler man than many who
stand listless or hesitating till the moment be passed; but in Literature,
as in Life, a sudden promptitude outrivals vacillating power.
Generally speaking, however, this promptitude has but rare occasions
for achieving success. We may lay it down as a rule that no work ever
succeeded, even for a day, but it deserved that success; no work ever
failed but under conditions which made failure inevltable. This will
seem hard to men who feel that in their case neglect arises from
prejudice or stupidity. Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true even

when the work once neglected has since been acknowleged superior to
the works which for a time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring,
is the measure of the relatlon, temporary or enduring, which exists
between a work and the public mind. The millet seed may be
intrinsically less valuable than a pearl; but the hungry cock wisely
neglected the pearl, because pearls could not, and millet seeds could,
appease his hunger. Who shall say how much of the subsequent success
of a once neglected work is due to