Our Conception of Authors

I DO not classify myself among authors, for authorship is not my vocation, and I disclaim all pretension to its honorable callings; I have written because I felt like it and not for fame, bread, or gold. But let the impulse for writing be what it may, reason has convinced me that not one author in a thousand ever fills a reader’s conception of him, even when Nature has done its best in his mould.

The freshness, vitality, and glow of his ideas, the evoked essence and spirit of events and scenes, be they caught in the high, rapturous notes of the lyric or in the subdued charm of prose, begetting as they do in each case a procession of secondary ideas in the reader’s mind, and causing his heart to beat with that of the author, — inasmuch as that which comes from the heart goes to the heart,—those spiritual, intellectual pleasures are beyond reflection, I think, in the personality of any writer.

For what are inspired prose and poetry but creations, the reproductive handiwork of heart and mind when moved by contemplation of illustrious deeds, or entranced by the tender beauties of woods and streams and evening clouds; or when transported by the mighty voices of Nature, by the brave souls who have dared to face tyranny and wrong, and have been merciful; by Destiny sowing her hopes with prodigal hand over a land like ours; by the songs of stars, and the sight of gates of another world than this. These, all these, as well as the longings and tears of the poor down-trodden and sorrowful, inflame our spiritual natures, and we have re-creations, by fiearl and mind, of sights and sounds and circumstances, with their appeals translated into prose and poetry. And at the hour of creation, what is the writer but a mere husk enwrapping formative elements which, when they have assembled through the generative warmth of natural laws (and to the degree of the clearness of his vision and to the depth of his sincerity will they gather into perfection and beauty), the heart begins to throb with feeling; and lo! as she gives them birth, at that moment and not before, Imagination clothes them; and it is their wings, brushing as they rise the chords that Nature has strung across the recesses of the heart from intellect to soul, that are the sources of our pleasurable mental elevations. And the instant the creations spring into life they join a higher company, and the poor husk is left undistinguishable from the commonplace. Therefore is it idle indeed to expect the embodiment of the creative moods in looks, tones, flesh and blood.

And so sure am I of this, that of the writers who have pleased me — there have been many —yet of them all there are only four whom, on crossing the bar, I longingly care to see. Two of the four, Steele and Burns, were drunkards — so at least it is said, at the end of their lives; and two, John and Luke, were saints. I long to take the hands of Steele and Burns, and I long to see St. John, for his pen moved with so much gentleness, love, and peace, and his eye saw the New Jerusalem and the Tree of Life; and Luke, who tells us of that moonlit night when the angels came to the shepherds among their sleeping flocks and sang, for the first time on this green earth, so far as we know, the song of peace and good-will among men.