Every man who has had his German tutor, and has been coached through the famous "Faust" of Goethe (thou wert my instructor, good old Weissenborn, and these eyes beheld the great master himself in dear little Weimar town!) has read those charming verses which are prefixed to the drama, in which the poet reverts to the time when his work was first composed, and recalls the friends now departed, who once listened to his song.The dear shadows rise up around him, he says; he lives in the past again.It is to-day which appears vague and visionary.We humbler writers cannot create Fausts, or raise up monumental works that shall endure for all ages; but our books are diaries, in which our own feelings must of necessity be set down.As we look to the page written last month, or ten years ago, we remember the day and its events; the child ill, mayhap, in the adjoining room, and the doubts and fears which racked the brain as it still pursued its work; the dear old friend who read the commencement of the tale, and whose gentle hand shall be laid in ours no more.I own for my part that, in reading pages which this hand penned formerly, I often lose sight of the text under my eyes.
It is not the words I see; but that past day; that bygone page of life's history; that tragedy, comedy it may be, which our little home company was enacting; that merry-making which we shared; that funeral which we followed; that bitter, bitter grief which we buried.
And, such being the state of my mind, I pray gentle readers to deal kindly with their humble servant's manifold shortcomings, blunders, and slips of memory.As sure as I read a page of my own composition, I find a fault or two, half a dozen.Jones is called Brown.Brown, who is dead, is brought to life.Aghast, and months after the number was printed, I saw that I had called Philip Firmin, Clive Newcome.Now Clive Newcome is the hero of another story by the reader's most obedient writer.The two men are as different, in my mind's eye, as--as Lord Palmerston and Mr.Disraeli let us say.But there is that blunder at page 990, line 76, volume 84 of the Cornhill Magazine, and it is past mending; and I wish in my life Ihad made no worse blunders or errors than that which is hereby acknowledged.
Another Finis written.Another mile-stone passed on this journey from birth to the next world! Sure it is a subject for solemn cogitation.Shall we continue this story-telling business and be voluble to the end of our age? Will it not be presently time, Oprattler, to hold your tongue, and let younger people speak? I have a friend, a painter, who, like other persons who shall be nameless, is growing old.He has never painted with such laborious finish as his works now show.This master is still the most humble and diligent of scholars.Of Art, his mistress, he is always an eager, reverent pupil.In his calling, in yours, in mine, industry and humility will help and comfort us.A word with you.In a pretty large experience I have not found the men who write books superior in wit or learning to those who don't write at all.In regard of mere information, non-writers must often be superior to writers.
You don't expect a lawyer in full practice to be conversant with all kinds of literature; he is too busy with his law; and so a writer is commonly too busy with his own books to be able to bestow attention on the works of other people.After a day's work (in which I have been depicting, let us say, the agonies of Louisa on parting with the Captain, or the atrocious behavior of the wicked Marquis to Lady Emily) I march to the Club, proposing to improve my mind and keep myself "posted up," as the Americans phrase it, with the literature of the day.And what happens? Given, a walk after luncheon, a pleasing book, and a most comfortable armchair by the fire, and you know the rest.A doze ensues.Pleasing book drops suddenly, is picked up once with an air of some confusion, is laid presently softly in lap: head falls on comfortable arm-chair cushion: eyes close: soft nasal music is heard.Am I telling Club secrets? Of afternoons, after lunch, I say, scores of sensible fogies have a doze.Perhaps I have fallen asleep over that very book to which "Finis" has just been written."And if the writer sleeps, what happens to the readers?" says Jones, coming down upon me with his lightning wit.What? You DID sleep over it? And a very good thing too.These eyes have more than once seen a friend dozing over pages which this hand has written.There is a vignette somewhere in one of my books of a friend so caught napping with "Pendennis," or the "Newcomes," in his lap and if a writer can give you a sweet soothing, harmless sleep, has he not done you a kindness? So is the author who excites and interests you worthy of your thanks and benedictions.I am troubled with fever and ague, that seizes me at odd intervals and prostrates me for a day.There is cold fit, for which, I am thankful to say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed, and this induces hot fit, and so on.In one or two of these fits I have read novels with the most fearful contentment of mind.Once, on the Mississippi, it was my dearly beloved "Jacob Faithful:" once at Frankfort O.M., the delightful "Vingt Ans Apres" of Monsieur Dumas:
once at Tunbridge wells, the thrilling "Woman in White:" and these books gave me amusement from morning till sunset.I remember those ague fits with a great deal of pleasure and gratitude.Think of a whole day in bed, and a good novel for a companion! No cares: no remorse about idleness: no visitors: and the Woman in White or the Chevalier d'Artagnan to tell me stories from dawn to night!"Please, ma'am, my master's compliments, and can he have the third volume?" (This message was sent to an astonished friend and neighbor who lent me, volume by volume, the W.in W.) How do you like your novels? I like mine strong, "hot with," and no mistake:
