All through my boyhood and youth, I was known and pointed2 out for the pattern of an idler; and yet I was always busy on my own private end, which was to learn to write. I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in. As I walked, my mind was busy fitting what I saw with appropriate words; when I sat by the roadside, I would either read, or a pencil and a penny version-book would be in my hand, to note down the features of the scene or commemorate3 some halting stanzas4. Thus I lived with words. And what I thus wrote was for no ulterior use, it was written consciously for practice. It was not so much that I wished to be an author (though I wished that too) as that I had vowed5 that I would learn to write. That was a proficiency6 that tempted7 me; and I practised to acquire it, as men learn to whittle8, in a wager9 with myself. Description was the principal field of my exercise; for to any one with senses there is always something worth describing, and town and country are but one continuous subject. But I worked in other ways also; often accompanied my walks with dramatic dialogues, in which I played many parts; and often exercised myself in writing down conversations from memory.
This was all excellent, no doubt; so were the diaries I sometimes tried to keep, but always and very speedily discarded, finding them a school of posturing10 and melancholy11 self-deception. And yet this was not the most efficient part of my training. Good though it was, it only taught me (so far as I have learned them at all) the lower and less intellectual elements of the art, the choice of the essential note and the right word: things that to a happier constitution had perhaps come by nature. And regarded as training, it had one grave defect; for it set me no standard of achievement. So that there was perhaps more profit, as there was certainly more effort, in my secret labours at home. Whenever I read a book or a passage that particularly pleased me, in which a thing was said or an effect rendered with propriety12, in which there was either some conspicuous13 force or some happy distinction in the style, I must sit down at once and set myself to ape that quality. I was unsuccessful, and I knew it; and tried again, and was again unsuccessful and always unsuccessful; but at least in these vain bouts14, I got some practice in rhythm, in harmony, in construction and the co-ordination of parts. I have thus played the sedulous15 ape to Hazlitt, to Lamb, to Wordsworth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to Hawthorne, to Montaigne, to Baudelaire and to Obermann. I remember one of these monkey tricks, which was called The Vanity of Morals: it was to have had a second part, The Vanity of Knowledge; and as I had neither morality nor scholarship, the names were apt; but the second part was never attempted, and the first part was written (which is my reason for recalling it, ghost-like, from its ashes) no less than three times: first in the manner of Hazlitt, second in the manner of Ruskin, who had cast on me a passing spell, and third, in a laborious16 pasticcio of Sir Thomas Browne. So with my other works: Cain, an epic17, was (save the mark!) an imitation of Sordello: Robin18 Hood1, a tale in verse, took an eclectic middle course among the fields of Keats, Chaucer and Morris: in Monmouth, a tragedy, I reclined on the bosom19 of Mr. Swinburne; in my innumerable gouty-footed lyrics20, I followed many masters; in the first draft of The King’s Pardon, a tragedy, I was on the trail of no lesser21 man than John Webster; in the second draft of the same piece, with staggering versatility22, I had shifted my allegiance to Congreve, and of course conceived my fable23 in a less serious vein24 — for it was not Congreve’s verse, it was his exquisite25 prose, that I admired and sought to copy. Even at the age of thirteen I had tried to do justice to the inhabitants of the famous city of Peebles in the style of the Book of Snobs26. So I might go on for ever, through all my abortive27 novels, and down to my later plays, of which I think more tenderly, for they were not only conceived at first under the bracing28 influence of old Dumas, but have met with resurrection: one, strangely bettered by another hand, came on the stage itself and was played by bodily actors; the other, originally known as Semiramis: a Tragedy, I have observed on bookstalls under the alias29 of Prince Otto. But enough has been said to show by what arts of impersonation, and in what purely30 ventriloquial efforts I first saw my words on paper.
That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write whether I have profited or not, that is the way. It was so Keats learned, and there was never a finer temperament31 for literature than Keats’s; it was so, if we could trace it out, that all men have learned; and that is why a revival32 of letters is always accompanied or heralded33 by a cast back to earlier and fresher models. Perhaps I hear some one cry out: But this is not the way to be original! It is not; nor is there any way but to be born so. Nor yet, if you are born original, is there anything in this training that shall clip the wings of your originality34. There can be none more original than Montaigne, neither could any be more unlike Cicero; yet no craftsman35 can fail to see how much the one must have tried in his time to imitate the other. Burns is the very type of a prime force in letters: he was of all men the most imitative. Shakespeare himself, the imperial, proceeds directly from a school. It is only from a school that we can expect to have good writers; it is almost invariably from a school that great writers, these lawless exceptions, issue. Nor is there anything here that should astonish the considerate. Before he can tell what cadences36 he truly prefers, the student should have tried all that are possible; before he can choose and preserve a fitting key of words, he should long have practised the literary scales; and it is only after years of such gymnastic that he can sit down at last, legions of words swarming37 to his call, dozens of turns of phrase simultaneously38 bidding for his choice, and he himself knowing what he wants to do and (within the narrow limit of a man’s ability) able to do it.
And it is the great point of these imitations that there still shines beyond the student’s reach his inimitable model. Let him try as he please, he is still sure of failure; and it is a very old and a very true saying that failure is the only highroad to success. I must have had some disposition39 to learn; for I clear-sightedly condemned40 my own performances. I liked doing them indeed; but when they were done, I could see they were rubbish. In consequence, I very rarely showed them even to my friends; and such friends as I chose to be my confidants I must have chosen well, for they had the friendliness41 to be quite plain with me, “Padding,” said one. Another wrote: “I cannot understand why you do lyrics so badly.” No more could I! Thrice I put myself in the way of a more authoritative42 rebuff, by sending a paper to a magazine. These were returned; and I was not surprised nor even pained. If they had not been looked at, as (like all amateurs) I suspected was the case, there was no good in repeating the experiment; if they had been looked at — well, then I had not yet learned to write, and I must keep on learning and living. Lastly, I had a piece of good fortune which is the occasion of this paper, and by which I was able to see my literature in print, and to measure experimentally how far I stood from the favour of the public.
II
The Speculative43 Society is a body of some antiquity44, and has counted among its members Scott, Brougham, Jeffrey, Horner, Benjamin Constant, Robert Emmet, and many a legal and local celebrity45 besides. By an accident, variously explained, it has its rooms in the very buildings of the University of Edinburgh: a hall, Turkey-carpeted, hung with pictures, looking, when lighted up at night with fire and candle, like some goodly dining-room; a passage-like library, walled with books in their wire cages; and a corridor with a fireplace, benches, a table, many prints of famous members, and a mural tablet to the virtues47 of a former secretary. Here a member can warm himself and loaf and read; here, in defiance48 of Senatus-consults, he can smoke. The Senatus looks askance at these privileges; looks even with a somewhat vinegar aspect on the whole society; which argues a lack of proportion in the learned mind, for the world, we may be sure, will prize far higher this haunt of dead lions than all the living dogs of the professorate.
I sat one December morning in the library of the Speculative; a very humble-minded youth, though it was a virtue46 I never had much credit for; yet proud of my privileges as a member of the Spec.; proud of the pipe I was smoking in the teeth of the Senatus; and in particular, proud of being in the next room to three very distinguished49 students, who were then conversing50 beside the corridor fire. One of these has now his name on the back of several volumes, and his voice, I learn, is influential51 in the law courts. Of the death of the second, you have just been reading what I had to say.
And the third also has escaped out of that battle of in which he fought so hard, it may be so unwisely. They were all three, as I have said, notable students; but this was the most conspicuous. Wealthy, handsome, ambitious, adventurous52, diplomatic, a reader of Balzac, and of all men that I have known, the most like to one of Balzac’s characters, he led a life, and was attended by an ill fortune, that could be properly set forth53 only in the Comedie Humaine. He had then his eye on Parliament; and soon after the time of which I write, he made a showy speech at a political dinner, was cried up to heaven next day in the courant, and the day after was dashed lower than earth with a charge of plagiarism54 in the Scotsman. Report would have it (I daresay, very wrongly) that he was betrayed by one in whom he particularly trusted, and that the author of the charge had learned its truth from his own lips. Thus, at least, he was up one day on a pinnacle55, admired and envied by all; and the next, though still but a boy, he was publicly disgraced. The blow would have broken a less finely tempered spirit; and even him I suppose it rendered reckless; for he took flight to London, and there, in a fast club, disposed of the bulk of his considerable patrimony56 in the space of one winter. For years thereafter he lived I know not how; always well dressed, always in good hotels and good society, always with empty pockets. The charm of his manner may have stood him in good stead; but though my own manners are very agreeable, I have never found in them a source of livelihood57; and to explain the miracle of his continued existence, I must fall back upon the theory of the philosopher, that in his case, as in all of the same kind, “there was a suffering relative in the background.” From this genteel eclipse he reappeared upon the scene, and presently sought me out in the character of a generous editor. It is in this part that I best remember him; tall, slender, with a not ungraceful stoop; looking quite like a refined gentleman, and quite like an urbane59 adventurer; smiling with an engaging ambiguity60; cocking at you one peaked eyebrow61 with a great appearance of finesse62; speaking low and sweet and thick, with a touch of burr; telling strange tales with singular deliberation and, to a patient listener, excellent effect. After all these ups and downs, he seemed still, like the rich student that he was of yore, to breathe of money; seemed still perfectly63 sure of himself and certain of his end. Yet he was then upon the brink64 of his last overthrow65. He had set himself to found the strangest thing in our society: one of those periodical sheets from which men suppose themselves to learn opinions; in which young gentlemen from the universities are encouraged, at so much a line, to garble66 facts, insult foreign nations and calumniate67 private individuals; and which are now the source of glory, so that if a man’s name be often enough printed there, he becomes a kind of demigod; and people will pardon him when he talks back and forth, as they do for Mr. Gladstone; and crowd him to suffocation68 on railway platforms, as they did the other day to General Boulanger; and buy his literary works, as I hope you have just done for me. Our fathers, when they were upon some great enterprise, would sacrifice a life; building, it may be, a favourite slave into the foundations of their palace. It was with his own life that my companion disarmed69 the envy of the gods. He fought his paper single-handed; trusting no one, for he was something of a cynic; up early and down late, for he was nothing of a sluggard70; daily ear-wigging influential men, for he was a master of ingratiation. In that slender and silken fellow there must have been a rare vein of courage, that he should thus have died at his employment; and doubtless ambition spoke71 loudly in his ear, and doubtless love also, for it seems there was a marriage in his view had he succeeded. But he died, and his paper died after him; and of all this grace, and tact72, and courage, it must seem to our blind eyes as if there had come literally73 nothing.
These three students sat, as I was saying, in the corridor, under the mural tablet that records the virtues of Macbean, the former secretary. We would often smile at that ineloquent memorial and thought it a poor thing to come into the world at all and have no more behind one than Macbean. And yet of these three, two are gone and have left less; and this book, perhaps, when it is old and foxy, and some one picks it up in a corner of a book-shop, and glances through it, smiling at the old, graceless turns of speech, and perhaps for the love of Alma Mater (which may be still extant and flourishing) buys it, not without haggling74, for some pence — this book may alone preserve a memory of James Walter Ferrier and Robert Glasgow Brown.
Their thoughts ran very differently on that December morning; they were all on fire with ambition; and when they had called me in to them, and made me a sharer in their design, I too became drunken with pride and hope. We were to found a University magazine. A pair of little, active brothers — Livingstone by name, great skippers on the foot, great rubbers of the hands, who kept a book-shop over against the University building — had been debauched to play the part of publishers. We four were to be conjunct editors and, what was the main point of the concern, to print our own works; while, by every rule of arithmetic — that flatterer of credulity — the adventure must succeed and bring great profit. Well, well: it was a bright vision. I went home that morning walking upon air. To have been chosen by these three distinguished students was to me the most unspeakable advance; it was my first draught75 of consideration; it reconciled me to myself and to my fellow-men; and as I steered76 round the railings at the Tron, I could not withhold77 my lips from smiling publicly. Yet, in the bottom of my heart, I knew that magazine would be a grim fiasco; I knew it would not be worth reading; I knew, even if it were, that nobody would read it; and I kept wondering how I should be able, upon my compact income of twelve pounds per annum, payable78 monthly, to meet my share in the expense. It was a comfortable thought to me that I had a father.
The magazine appeared, in a yellow cover, which was the best part of it, for at least it was unassuming; it ran four months in undisturbed obscurity, and died without a gasp79. The first number was edited by all four of us with prodigious80 bustle81; the second fell principally into the hands of Ferrier and me; the third I edited alone; and it has long been a solemn question who it was that edited the fourth. It would perhaps be still more difficult to say who read it. Poor yellow sheet, that looked so hopefully Livingtones’ window! Poor, harmless paper, that might have gone to print a Shakespeare on, and was instead so clumsily defaced with nonsense; And, shall I say, Poor Editors? I cannot pity myself, to whom it was all pure gain. It was no news to me, but only the wholesome82 confirmation83 of my judgment84, when the magazine struggled into half-birth, and instantly sickened and subsided85 into night. I had sent a copy to the lady with whom my heart was at that time somewhat engaged, and who did all that in her lay to break it; and she, with some tact, passed over the gift and my cherished contributions in silence. I will not say that I was pleased at this; but I will tell her now, if by any chance she takes up the work of her former servant, that I thought the better of her taste. I cleared the decks after this lost engagement; had the necessary interview with my father, which passed off not amiss; paid over my share of the expense to the two little, active brothers, who rubbed their hands as much, but methought skipped rather less than formerly86, having perhaps, these two also, embarked87 upon the enterprise with some graceful58 illusions; and then, reviewing the whole episode, I told myself that the time was not yet ripe, nor the man ready; and to work I went again with my penny version-books, having fallen back in one day from the printed author to the manuscript student.
III
From this defunct88 periodical I am going to reprint one of my own papers. The poor little piece is all tail-foremost. I have done my best to straighten its array, I have pruned89 it fearlessly, and it remains90 invertebrate91 and wordy. No self-respecting magazine would print the thing; and here you behold92 it in a bound volume, not for any worth of its own, but for the sake of the man whom it purports93 dimly to represent and some of whose sayings it preserves; so that in this volume of Memories and Portraits, Robert Young, the Swanston gardener, may stand alongside of John Todd, the Swanston shepherd. Not that John and Robert drew very close together in their lives; for John was rough, he smelt94 of the windy brae; and Robert was gentle, and smacked95 of the garden in the hollow. Perhaps it is to my shame that I liked John the better of the two; he had grit96 and dash, and that salt of the Old Adam that pleases men with any savage97 inheritance of blood; and he was a way-farer besides, and took my gipsy fancy. But however that may be, and however Robert’s profile may be blurred98 in the boyish sketch99 that follows, he was a man of a most quaint100 and beautiful nature, whom, if it were possible to recast a piece of work so old, I should like well to draw again with a maturer touch. And as I think of him and of John, I wonder in what other country two such men would be found dwelling101 together, in a hamlet of some twenty cottages, in the woody fold of a green hill.
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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garble
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| v.曲解，窜改 | |
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calumniate
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| v.诬蔑，中伤 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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purports
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的第三人称单数 ) | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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99
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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100
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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101
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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