Meet us on:
Entire Site
    Try our fun game

    Dueling book covers…may the best design win!

    Random Quote
    "One man that has a mind and knows it can always beat ten men who haven't and don't."

    Subscribe to Our Newsletter

    Follow us on Twitter

    Never miss a good book again! Follow Read Print on Twitter

    Ch. 4 - A College Magazine

    • Rate it:
    Launch Reading Mode Next Chapter
    Chapter 5
    Previous Chapter

    ALL through my boyhood and youth, I was known and pointed 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
    commemorate some halting stanzas. 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 vowed that I
    would learn to write. That was a proficiency that tempted me; and
    I practised to acquire it, as men learn to whittle, in a wager 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 posturing and melancholy 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 propriety, in which there was either some
    conspicuous 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
    bouts, I got some practice in rhythm, in harmony, in construction
    and the co-ordination of parts. I have thus played the sedulous
    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 laborious pasticcio of Sir Thomas
    Browne. So with my other works: CAIN, an epic, was (save the
    mark!) an imitation of SORDELLO: ROBIN HOOD, 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 bosom of Mr.
    Swinburne; in my innumerable gouty-footed lyrics, I followed many
    masters; in the first draft of THE KING'S PARDON, a tragedy, I was
    on the trail of no lesser man than John Webster; in the second
    draft of the same piece, with staggering versatility, I had shifted
    my allegiance to Congreve, and of course conceived my fable in a
    less serious vein - for it was not Congreve's verse, it was his
    exquisite 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 SNOBS. So I
    might go on for ever, through all my abortive novels, and down to
    my later plays, of which I think more tenderly, for they were not
    only conceived at first under the bracing 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 ALIAS of Prince Otto. But enough has been
    said to show by what arts of impersonation, and in what purely
    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 temperament for literature than Keats's; it
    was so, if we could trace it out, that all men have learned; and
    that is why a revival of letters is always accompanied or heralded
    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 originality. There can be none more original than
    Montaigne, neither could any be more unlike Cicero; yet no
    craftsman 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 cadences 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
    swarming to his call, dozens of turns of phrase simultaneously
    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 disposition to learn; for I clear-
    sightedly condemned 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 friendliness 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
    authoritative 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.


    The Speculative Society is a body of some antiquity, and has
    counted among its members Scott, Brougham, Jeffrey, Horner,
    Benjamin Constant, Robert Emmet, and many a legal and local
    celebrity 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 virtues of a former secretary.
    Here a member can warm himself and loaf and read; here, in defiance
    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 virtue 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
    distinguished students, who were then conversing beside the
    corridor fire. One of these has now his name on the back of
    several volumes, and his voice, I learn, is influential 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, adventurous, 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 forth 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 plagiarism 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 pinnacle, 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 patrimony 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 livelihood; 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 urbane
    adventurer; smiling with an engaging ambiguity; cocking at you one
    peaked eyebrow with a great appearance of finesse; 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
    perfectly sure of himself and certain of his end. Yet he was then
    upon the brink of his last overthrow. 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 garble facts, insult foreign nations and calumniate 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 suffocation 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 disarmed 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 sluggard; 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 spoke 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 tact, and courage, it must seem to our blind eyes
    as if there had come literally 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 haggling, 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
    draught of consideration; it reconciled me to myself and to my
    fellow-men; and as I steered round the railings at the Tron, I
    could not withhold 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, payable 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 gasp. The first number
    was edited by all four of us with prodigious bustle; 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
    wholesome confirmation of my judgment, when the magazine struggled
    into half-birth, and instantly sickened and subsided 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
    formerly, having perhaps, these two also, embarked upon the
    enterprise with some graceful 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.


    From this defunct 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 pruned it fearlessly, and
    it remains invertebrate and wordy. No self-respecting magazine
    would print the thing; and here you behold it in a bound volume,
    not for any worth of its own, but for the sake of the man whom it
    purports 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 smelt of the windy brae; and
    Robert was gentle, and smacked of the garden in the hollow.
    Perhaps it is to my shame that I liked John the better of the two;
    he had grit and dash, and that salt of the Old Adam that pleases
    men with any savage 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 blurred in the boyish sketch that
    follows, he was a man of a most quaint 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
    dwelling together, in a hamlet of some twenty cottages, in the
    woody fold of a green hill.
    Next Chapter
    Chapter 5
    Previous Chapter
    If you're writing a Robert Louis Stevenson essay and need some advice, post your Robert Louis Stevenson essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

    Top 5 Authors

    Top 5 Books

    Book Status
    Want to read

    Are you sure you want to leave this group?