But the following remarks on How to fail in Literature are certainly meant to discourage nobody who loves books, and has an impulse to tell a story, or to try a song or a sermon.  Discouragements enough exist in the pursuit of this, as of all arts, crafts, and professions, without my adding to them.  Famine and Fear crouch by the portals of literature as they crouch at the gates of the Virgilian Hades.  There is no more frequent cause of failure than doubt and dread; a beginner can scarcely put his heart and strength into a work when he knows how long are the odds against his victory, how difficult it is for a new man to win a hearing, even though all editors and publishers are ever pining for a new man.  The young fellow, unknown and unwelcomed, who can sit down and give all his best of knowledge, observation, humour, care, and fancy to a considerable work has got courage in no common portion; he deserves to triumph, and certainly should not be disheartened by our old experience.  But there be few beginners of this mark, most begin so feebly because they begin so fearfully.  They are already too discouraged, and can scarce do themselves justice.  It is easier to write more or less well and agreeably when you are certain of being published and paid, at least, than to write well when a dozen rejected manuscripts are cowering (as Theocritus says) in your chest, bowing their pale faces over their chilly knees, outcast, hungry, repulsed from many a door.  To write excellently, brightly, powerfully, with these poor unwelcomed wanderers, returned MSS., in your possession, is difficult indeed.  It might be wiser to do as M. Guy de Maupassant is rumoured to have done, to write for seven years, and shew your essays to none but a mentor as friendly severe as M. Flaubert.  But all men cannot have such mentors, nor can all afford so long an unremunerative apprenticeship.  For some the better plan is not to linger on the bank, and take tea and good advice, as Keats said, but to plunge at once in mid-stream, and learn swimming of necessity.

One thing, perhaps, most people who succeed in letters so far as to keep themselves alive and clothed by their pens will admit, namely, that their early rejected MSS. deserved to be rejected.  A few days ago there came to the writer an old forgotten beginner’s attempt by himself.  Whence it came, who sent it, he knows not; he had forgotten its very existence.  He read it with curiosity; it was written in a very much better hand than his present scrawl, and was perfectly legible.  But readable it was not.  There was a great deal of work in it, on an out of the way topic, and the ideas were, perhaps, not quite without novelty at the time of its composition.  But it was cramped and thin, and hesitating between several manners; above all it was uncommonly dull.  If it ever was sent to an editor, as I presume it must have been, that editor was trebly justified in declining it.  On the other hand, to be egotistic, I have known editors reject the attempts of those old days, and afterwards express lively delight in them when they struggled into print, somehow, somewhere.  These worthy men did not even know that they had despised and refused what they came afterwards rather to enjoy.