February 16, 1828
For the New York Mirror
THE VANITY OF AUTHORS
There is no kind of vanity that is more prevalent, or more overwhelming, than that of authorship. The vanity of the author does no actual injury, but it is, at times, so very disagreeable, as entirely to destroy the effect that would otherwise have been produced by his writings. It vents itself mostly in decrying the works of others, inasmuch as he will not allow that they have any innate beauty, moral tendency, or even that they are of any practical utility. This almost invariable concomitant of authorship, has infected the greatest authors of every age and clime. Not that the possession of this vanity is any indication of genius, or even of ordinary abilities, but that it appears to be engrafted in their dispositions, to serve as a check upon their abilities, and by this means to preserve the equilibrium of power, which, if thero were nothing of the kind, might be destroyed by their too extensive influence upon the community at large.
This master passion continues strong even in the hour of the dissolution of the soul and body. This is humorously illustrated in an anecdote of the Spectator. The characters are an atheist and an honest curate. The former, supposing himself on the bed of death, discovers that his reasoning will not support him in that awful hour; he therefore sends for the curate, and confesses to him, with great contrition, that nothing sat so heavy on his mind as the sense of having seduced the ago from virtue and morality by his atheistical writings. The curate endeavors to console him by the ordinary topics, of the goodness of heaven, and its never-ending mercy. But all would not serve; and seeing no other way to comfort him, and finding his penitent writing in the agonies of despair, he tells him that he does well in being affected for the evil of his design, but that he ought to be thankful that there was no apprehension of his doing any injury, as his cause was so bad, and his arguments so weak, that he apprehended no ill effects from them. And, to satisfy his conscience still further, he tells him he does not think that any, except his particular friends, and connexions, will take the trouble, or spend the time necessary to read his productions. The dying penitent has still so much of the frailty of the author in his disposition, as to be cut to the heart by these consolations. Instead of replying to his affectionate and gentle comforter, he turns to his friends, and with the peevishness natural to a sick bed, asks where they had picked up such a blockhead––and whether they thought him a proper man to attend upon a person in his condition? This, although possibly fabulous, is still a correct illustration of the disposition of the author. We here see him throwing aside the thoughts of death, and his probable future punishment, and totally occupied with the insult offered to his genius. Authors are an irritable, conceited race, and proverbially easy dupes to flatterers. As Goldsmith says of Garrick, “they please the most who pepper highest.” Such is the nature of man; he has no good qualities which are not checked by counterbalancing bad ones. As the good or bad predominate, we estimate his claim to public notice, and by the same standard is determined the happiness he himself enjoys, and the pleasure he diffuses through the circle of his friends and connexions.
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