Chapter 33
dine with thepublisher—religions—no animal food—unprofitable discussions—principles of criticism—thebook market—newgate lives—goethe—german acquirements—moral dignity
On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment todine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his housestood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man, that I passed byhim without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as Iwas about to knock at the door. 'Let us take a turn in the square,' said he,'we shall not dine for half an hour.'
'Well,' said he, as we were walking in the square,'what have you been doing since I last saw you?'
'I have been looking about London,' said I, 'and Ihave bought the Dairyman's Daughter; here it is.'
'Pray put it up,' said the publisher; 'I don'twant to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything likeit?'
'I do not,' said I.
'How is that?' said the publisher, looking at me.
'Because,' said I, 'the man who wrote it seems tobe perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from theheart.'
'By the subject you mean—'
'Religion.'
'And ain't you acquainted with religion?'
'Very little.'
'I am sorry for that,' said the publisherseriously, 'for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not onlywith religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friendin the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the Dairyman'sDaughter, or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at thepresent moment, unless to himself; and after all I question whether his styleis exactly suited for an evangelical novel.'
'Then you do not wish for an imitation of theDairyman's Daughter?'
'I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I toldyou before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to youmy intentions after dinner.'
At dinner, beside the publisher and myself, werepresent his wife and son with his newly-married bride; the wife appeared aquiet respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy andgood-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contemptand dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; thepublisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciouslyon rice and vegetables prepared in various ways.
'You eat no animal food, sir?' said I.
'I do not, sir,' said he; 'I have forsworn itupwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor takingaway life—the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves.'
'But,' said I, 'if the brutes were not killed,there would be such a superabundance of them that the land would be overrunwith them.'
'I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India,and yet there is plenty of room.'
'But,' said I, 'Nature intended that they shouldbe destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is wellfor themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of thingsif every insect, bird, and worm were left to perish of old age?'
'We will change the subject,' said the publisher;'I have never been a friend of unprofitable discussions.'
I looked at the publisher with some surprise, Ihad not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance wasdressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; atthat moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read inthe history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I tomyself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered howvery much I was in the power of that man.
The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife,who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he wouldwillingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a smalldecanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses,one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son; saying, 'Supposeyou two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you,' said he,addressing himself to me, 'but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respectto meat, I am a Mahometan with respect to wine.'
So the son and I drank success to the Review, andthen the young man asked me various questions; for example—How I likedLondon?—Whether I did not think it a very fine place?—Whether I was at the playthe night before?—and whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed preparingto ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look from his father,he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it off, looked at thetable for about a minute, then got up, pushed back his chair, made me a bow,and left the room.
'Is that young gentleman, sir,' said I, 'wellversed in the principles of criticism?'
'He is not, sir,' said the publisher; 'and if Iplace him at the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope ofprocuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing,except that the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of thatwine is grape. Will you take another glass?'
I looked at the decanter; but, not feelingaltogether so sure as the publisher's son with respect to the principle of whatit contained, I declined taking any more.
'No, sir,' said the publisher, adjusting himselfin his chair, 'he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more todo with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to reviewthem; the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, towhom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the matterwhich we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had changed my mindwith respect to you; I have been considering the state of the market, sir, thebook market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitablyemployed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, andconsequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and trials.'
'Newgate lives and trials!'
'Yes, sir,' said the publisher, 'Newgate lives andtrials; and now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expectyou to perform, and the terms which I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir,to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain byno manner of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which youwill receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewiseintended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers, andmanuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of youremployments, sir,—such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected tomake yourself useful in the Review—generally useful, sir—doing whatever isrequired of you; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers,especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments,sir, namely compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after dueconsideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you nofarther, sir—at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received aletter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms ofstrong admiration (I don't overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he saysthat it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language shouldbe lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to thinkof some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all timeswilling, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encouragemerit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German.'
'Sir,' said I, rubbing my hands, 'you are verykind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful inGerman; and if you think a good translation from Goethe—his Sorrows for example,or more particularly his Faust—'
'Sir,' said the publisher, 'Goethe is a drug; hisSorrows are a drug, so is his Faustus, more especially the last, since thatfool —— rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translateGoethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anythingfrom the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I amwilling to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter hasspoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that youshall translate my book of philosophy into German.'
'Your book of philosophy into German, sir?'
'Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I amnot a drug, sir, in Germany as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend toprint the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitablespeculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be wellexecuted, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will bedetermined by the success of your translation.'
'But, sir—'
'Sir,' said the publisher, interrupting me, 'youhave heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highlygratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with awriter, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir,permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir;I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sundayafternoon alone—profitably I hope, sir—in musing on the magnificence of natureand the moral dignity of man.'
Chapter 34
twovolumes—editor—quintilian—loose money
'What can't be cured must be endured,' and 'it ishard to kick against the pricks.'
At the period to which I have brought my history,I bethought me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, anddetermined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face ofthe publisher, and to bear—what I could not cure—his arrogance and vanity. Atpresent, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad that Icame to that determination, which I did my best to carry into effect.
Two or three days after our last interview, thepublisher made his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumesunder his arm, which he placed on the table. 'I have brought you two volumes oflives, sir,' said he, 'which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find themof service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally andencourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them,though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our agreement,you are to provide any books and materials which may be necessary. Have youbeen in quest of any?'
'No,' said I, 'not yet.'
'Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time indoing so; you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in theby-streets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find thedescription of literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; itwill not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town.To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for theReview. And, by the bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book ofphilosophy for the Review; the other reviews not having noticed it. Sir, beforetranslating it, I wish you to review my book of philosophy for the Review.'
'I shall be happy to do my best, sir.'
'Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable toexpect anything beyond a person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I willconduct you to the future editor of the Review. As you are to co-operate, sir,I deem it right to make you acquainted.'
The intended editor was a little old man, who satin a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of thepurlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilionwere covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerableportion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The publisherintroduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than inmusic, and me to him as an aspirant critic—a young gentleman scarcely lesseminent in philosophy than in philology. The conversation consisted entirely ofcompliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired ofme whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative,expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic whohad never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that hecould supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made byhimself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on thefloor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, perhaps apoor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of Quintilian.
'Sir,' said the publisher, as we were returningfrom our visit to the editor, 'you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am notprepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but Iam prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap ofrubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may haveto purchase the description of literature which is required for yourcompilation.'
The publisher presently paused before the entranceof a very forlorn-looking street. 'Sir,' said he, after looking down it withattention, 'I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected withthe description of literature which is required for your compilation. It is instreets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to befound. You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way.'
I searched the street to which the publisher hadpointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of asimilar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded to by thepublisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I hadexpended much more than my loose money long before I could procure materialseven for the first volume of my compilation.
