lf original
and alone in his conceptions. It is not enough for him that these
conceptions should be approved as good, unless they are admitted as
inventive, if they mix him with the herd he has shunned, not separate
him in fame as he has been separated in soul. Some Frenchman, the oracle
of his circle, said of the poet of the 'Phedre,' 'Racine and the other
imitators of Corneille;' and Racine, in his wrath, nearly forswore
tragedy forever. It is in vain to tell the author that the public is the
judge of his works. The author believes himself above the public, or he
would never have written; and," continued Trevylyan, with enthusiasm,
"he _is_ above them; their fiat may crush his glory, but never his
self-esteem. He stands alone and haughty amidst the wrecks of the temple
he imagined he had raised 'To THE FUTURE,' and retaliates neglect with
scorn. But is this, the life of scorn, a pleasurable state of existence?
Is it one to be cherished? Does even the moment of fame counterbalance
the years of mortification? And what is there in literary fame itself
present and palpable to its heir? His work is a pebble thrown into
the deep; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes up, to be
susceptible no more to the same impression. The circle may widen to
other lands and other ages, but around _him_ it is weak and faint. The
trifles of the day, the low politics, the base intrigues, occupy the
tongue, and fill the thought of his contemporaries. He is less known
than a mountebank, or a new dancer; his glory comes not home to him; it
brings no present, no perpetual reward, like the applauses that wait the
actor, or the actor-like murmur of the senate; and this, which vexes,
also lowers him; his noble nature begins to nourish the base vices of
jealousy, and the unwillingness to admire. Goldsmith is forgotten in the
presence of a puppet; he feels it, and is mean; he expresses it, and
is ludicrous. It is well to say that great minds will not stoop to
jealousy; in the greatest minds, it is most frequent.* Few authors are
ever so aware of the admiration they excite as to afford to be generous;
and this melancholy truth revolts us with our own ambition. Shall we be
demigods in our closets at the price of sinking below mortality in the
world? No! it was from this deep sentiment of the unrealness of literary
fame, of dissatisfaction at the fruits it produced, of fear for the
meanness it engendered, that I resigned betimes all love for it