: literary critics, or in places professedly learned. One reason for this as signed by him is, that in trading towns the time is more happily distributed; the day given to business and active duties-the evening to relaxation; on which account, books, conversation, and literary leisure, are more cordially enjoyed the same satiation never can take place, which too frequently deadens the genial enjoyment of those who have a surfeit of books and a monotony of leisure. Another reason assigned by him is, that more simplicity of manner may be expected, and more natural pieturesqueness of conversation, more open expression of character, in places where people have no previous name to support: men in trading towns are not afraid to open their lips, for fear they should disappoint your expectations, nor do they strain for showy sentiments* that they may meet them. "But elsewhere many are the men who stand in awe of their own reputation: not a word which is unstudied, not a movement in the spirit of natural freedom dare they give way to; because it might happen that on review something would be seen to retract or to qualify-something not properly planed and chiselled, to build into the general architecture of an artificial reputation."+ The young scholar, it has been said, fancies it happiness enough to live with people who can give an inside to the world; without reflecting that they too are prisoners of their own thought, and cannot apply themselves to yours. The conditions of literary success are, in Mr. Emerson's judgment, almost destructive of the best social power, as they do not leave that frolic liberty which only can encounter a companion on the best terms. It is probable, says he, "you left some obscure comrade at a tavern, or in the farms, with right mother-wit, and equality to life, when you [as Emerson himself did] crossed sea and land to play bo-peep with celebrated scribes."+ It is one of Christopher North's Recreations to classify dinner-parties of all sorts and sizes, and among them a Literary Dinner stands out in capitals, backed by a note of admiration. On each side of the lord of the mansion he places a philosopher-on each side of the lady, a poet somewhere or other about the board, a theatrical star-a foreign fiddler -an outlandish traveller-and a continental refugee. And all the air a solemn stillness holds. All lips are hermetically sealed. The author of the five-guinea quarto on the drawing-room table is sound asleep, with round unmeaning face, breathing tranquillity. The author of a profound treatise on the Sinking Fund sits beside him, with eyes fixed on the ceiling. The illustrious traveller, whose conversational prowess has been the talk of Europe, has been stroking his chin for the last half-hour, and nothing more. You might not only hear a pin drop-a mouse stir-but either event would *When M. le Comte de Marcellus started with Chateaubriand for London, Madame de Montcalm, cette aimable sœur of the Duc de Richelieu, warned the young nobleman against exaggerated expectations of the people he would meet, "Chez ces génies qui expriment si bien le sentiment, le sentiment réside peu. Leur estime, leur confiance même, ne mène pas à l'affection."-Marcellus, Chateaubriand et son Temps, p. 214. De Quincey's Collected Works, vol. i. p. 158. rouse the whole company like a peal of thunder. A prandial parallel, in short, to Wordsworth's tea-bibbing "party in a parlour”—all silent, and all d dash d. So, again, in the Noctes, the Shepherd interrupts a remark of Mr. North's, on all great poets being great talkers, with the conditional assent, "Tiresome aften to a degree-though sometimes... they are a sulky set, and as gruffly and grimly silent as if they had the toothache, or something the matter wi' their inside."† Sir Walter Scott could never" willingly endure," his son-in-law records, either in London or in Edinburgh, the "little exclusive circles of literary society," much less their occasional fastidiousness and petty partialities. He often complained of the real dulness of parties where each guest arrived under the implied and tacit obligation of exhibiting some extraordinary powers of talk or wit. "If," he said, "I encounter men of the world, men of business, odd or striking characters of professional excellence in any department, I am in my element, for they cannot lionise me without my returning the compliment and learning something from them."-But as for a table-full of essayists and reviewers, or an evening with bards and blues, give him a crack with Tom Purdie in preference to that, a thousand times over. Leigh Hunt makes the hero of his seventeenth-century historical fiction record, after dining with Dryden and the wits, first at a dueal table, and afterwards in their own sphere, that at great tables they never appeared at advantage: either the host did not know how to treat them; or they were too anxious to shine; or they affected an indifference to their value, and wished to be confounded with fine gentlemen; or they were too many of them together, and so were afraid to speak, lest another should excel; or one of the lowest of their fraternity was present, who was most welcome on that account, and gave himself airs; or something else was sure to occur, which made them uneasy, and showed them to a disadvantage, both as wits and gentlemen.§ Happy, and rare the happiness of, a host like Mrs. Gore's Bernard Forbes, the circle of whose "literary friends," so far from meriting the stigma of "cold, solemn, and formal," assigned by the narrow experience of the coteries, was no less cheerful than intellectual; no one among them pretending to wisdom, because the pretension would have been ridiculous where the claim was so well established. "No one talked for conquest, as when two men of superior information find themselves matched against each other in an arena, in presence of a crowd of dunces. In Bernard Forbes's house there was still a Republic of letters. Every citizen furnished his quota, without pomp or parsimony."|| Theodore The unpleasantness of a literary party, gathered together mainly as such, is a by-word in satirical fictions founded upon fact. Hook describes one which, from its miscellaneous character, promised a great treat, the sequel of which was, however, "most disappointing"every one of the guests being celebrated for something, and each of them jealous of his neighbour.¶ Mr. Peacock makes out the understanding of literary people to be so exalted, not so much by the love of truth and virtue, as by arrogance and self-sufficiency, that "there is, perhaps, less disinterestedness, less liberality, less general benevolence, and more envy, hatred, and uncharitableness among them, than among any other description of men. ""* What is it that makes you literary persons so stupid? asks Mr. Thackeray's Fitz-boodle of Oliver Yorke, Esquire. "I have met various individuals in society who I was told were writers of books, and that sort of thing, and, expecting rather to be amused by their conversation, have invariably found them dull to a degree, and as for information, without a particle of it."† So again the same author's George Warrington impatiently exclaims, "A fiddlestick about men of genius!" when Pen, his protégé, is glorifying that august race. "The talk of professional critics and writers," Mr. George is pleased to add, after a deal of experience, "is not a whit more brilliant, or profound, or amusing, than that of any other society of educated people.” And after his younger associate has had his first experience of the same community, the disenchanted authorling comes to a not dissimilar conclusion. Pen was forced to confess, a subsequent chapter tells us, § that the literary personages with whom he had become acquainted had not said much, in the course of the night's conversation, that was worthy to be remembered or quoted :-in fact, not one word about literature had been said during the whole course of that night at Mr. Bungay's, the eminent publisher; and Mr. Thackeray does not mind whispering to those uninitiated people who are anxious to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters, that there are no sort of people who talk about books, or, perhaps, who read books, so little as literary men. But, sir, once said Boswell to Johnson, when the Doctor was bepraising a life of rustic seclusion-but, sir, is it not a sad thing to be at a distance from all our literary friends? "Sir," was Johnson's reply, "you will by-and-by have enough of this conversation which now delights you so much."|| Leigh Hunt, in his essay on Amiableness as superior to Intellect, ¶ refers assentingly to a remark of Hazlitt's, that the being accustomed to the society of men of genius renders the conversation of others tiresome, as consisting of a parcel of things that have been heard a thousand times, and from which no stimulus is to be obtained. But a common complaint by men of genius themselves is, as we have seen and shall see, rather the other way. Converse with a mind that is grandly simple, says Emerson, and literature looks like word-catching."The mere author, in such society, is like a pickpocket among gentlemen, who has come in to steal a gold button or a pin. "** Chesterfield, from quite another point of view, warns his son that a company wholly composed of men of learning, though greatly to be valued and respected, is not "good company"-" they cannot have the * Headlong Hall, ch. v. Pendennis, ch. xxxii. † Fitz-boodle's Confessions, Preface. § Ch. xxxv. Boswell's Life of Johnson, sub anno 1778. Oct.-VOL. CXXXVIII. NO. DL. **Emerson's Essays, The Over-soul. N easy manners and tournure of the world, as they do not live in it." So pray let young Mr. Stanhope beware of being engrossed by such company; for, if he is, he will be "only considered as one of the literati by profession, which is not the way either to shine or rise in the world." Horace Walpole shared notably in these precautionary principles and practice. Consistent enough, and rather too demonstrative, was his avowed aversion to literary society, as such. He writes of young Mr. Burke, in 1761, that, although a sensible man, he "has not worn off his authorism yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. He will know better one of these days." Of Rousseau he writes from Paris, some five years later, "But, however I admire his parts, neither he nor any Genius I have known has had common sense enough to balance the impertinence of their pretensions. They hate priests, but love dearly to have an altar at their feet; for which reason it is much pleasanter to read them than to know them." Seven years later we have Horace trying to decline the acquaintance of Mr. Gough, and telling a correspondent, "Besides, you know I shun authors, and would never have been one myself, if it obliged me to keep such bad company." They are always in earnest, he complains, and think their profession serious, and dwell upon trifles, and reverence learning; while he laughs at all those things, and writes only to laugh at them, and divert himself. § This was one of Walpole's most cherished and most transparent affectations. And once more, we find him recording the avowal of a fellow-feeling by one of Fanny Burney's favourite friends. "Mr. Cambridge has been with me, and asked me if I knew the famous Beaumarchais, who has been in England. I said, 'No, sir, nor ever intend it.' 6 Well, now,' said he, that is exactly my way: I made a resolution early never to be acquainted with authors, they are so vain and so troublesome." For all which, Horace is persuaded that this protesting friend has already got acquainted with Beaumarchais. 6 Bayle says in one of his letters-which, after the earlier ones, are notably free from la superstition littéraire pour les illustres-that when once you have come to know personally a good number of persons celebrated for their writings, you find out that it is no such great matter after all to have composed a book, and that a good one. Montaigne duly records his sire's enthusiasm-with more zeal than knowledge-in imitating the king's ¶ new-born ardour for literature and for the company of literary men. "Moy," adds Michel the malicious, "je les aime bien, mais je ne les adore pas." The point of the adoration consists in what Montaigne had said just before-that his father kept the doors of his house for ever open aux hommes doctes, whom he as reverently as eagerly welcomed under his roof comme personnes saintes. When pleasure and business combined first brought Francis Jeffrey to London, in 1804, his account of the great metropolis, in its social aspects, includes this avowal: "The literary men, I acknowledge, excite * Lord Chesterfield to his Son, Oct. 12, 1748. 2 TER my reverence the least."* One of Charlotte Brontè's letters, which is almost entirely occupied with the works and ways of Mr. G. H. Lewes, has this passage to the purpose: "He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and especially the female part of it; but all coteries, whether they be literary, scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems to me, have a tendency to change truth into affectation. When people belong to a clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and live for that clique; a harassing and narrowing necessity."+ Long before Currer Bell's time had Washington Irving's "poor devil author" put on record his experiences to a like effect-how he determined to cultivate the society of the literary, and to enrol himself in the fraternity of authorship-how he found no difficulty in making a circle of literary acquaintances, not having the sin of success lying at his door ("indeed, the failure of my poem was a kind of recommendation to their favour"):—and how soon he discovered his want of esprit de corps to turn these literary fellowships to any account: he could not bring himself to enlist in any particular sect: he saw something to like in them all, but found that would never do, for that the tacit condition on which a man enters into one of these sects is, that he abuses all the rest. "I perceived," says honest Dribble, of Green Arbour Court, "that there were little knots of authors, who lived with, and for, and by one another. They considered themselves the salt of the earth. They fostered and kept up a conversational vein of thinking, and talking, and joking on all subjects; and they cried each other up to the skies."+ Orna me is apt to be a bien entendu, all round, for a good understanding in such circles. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. BY NICHOLAS MICHELL. YE who gaze on God's blue sky, Walk the meadows, scent the flowers, Cannot grasp the agony, E'en in thought, of my past hours Lonely, lonely, all alone, With no human voice, no sound, Pent within damp walls of stone, All my world that narrow bound- Of the solitary cell? * Life of Lord Jeffrey, vol. i. p. 156. † Miss Brontè to W. S. Williams, Esq., April 26, 1848. |