altogether. The social and gregarious instinct
is really very dominant in all art; and all writers
who have a public at all must become aware of this
fact, by the number of manuscripts which are submitted
to them by would-be authors, who ask for advice and
criticism and introductions to publishers. It
would be quite easy for me, if I complied fully with
all such requests, to spend the greater part of my
time in the labour of commenting on these manuscripts.
It is indeed the nearest that many amateurs can get
to publication. As Ruskin, I think, once said,
it is a curious irony of authorship that if a writer
once makes a success the world does its best, by inundating
him with every sort of request, to prevent his ever
repeating it. I suppose that painters and sculptors
do not suffer so much in this way, because it is not
easy to send about canvases or statues by parcels
post. But nothing is easier than to slip a manuscript
into an envelope and to require an opinion from an
author. I will confess that I very seldom refuse
these requests. At the moment at which I write
I have three printed novels and a printed book of travel,
a poem, and two volumes of essays in manuscript upon
my table, and I shall make shift to say something
in reply, though except for the satisfaction of the
authors in question, I believe that my pains will
be wholly thrown away, for the simple reason that it
is a very lengthy business to teach any one how to
write, and also partly because what these authors
desire is not criticism but sympathy and admiration.
The third motive which underlies the practice of art
is undoubtedly the sense of performance and the desire
for applause. It is easy from a pose of dignity
and high-mindedness to undervalue and overlook this.
But it may safely be said that when a man challenges
the attention of the public, he does not do it that
he may give pleasure, but that he may receive praise.
As Elihu the Buzite said with such exquisite frankness
in the book of Job, “I will speak, that I may
be refreshed!” The amateurs who send their work
for inspection cannot as a rule bear to face this
fact. They constantly say that they wish to do
good, or to communicate enjoyment and pleasure.
To be honest, I do not much believe that the motive
of the artist is altruistic. He writes for his
own enjoyment, perhaps, but he publishes that his
skill and power of presentment may be recognised and
applauded. In FitzGerald’s Letters there
is a delightful story of a parrot who had one accomplishment—that
of ruffling up his feathers and rolling his eyes so
that he looked like an owl. When the other domestic
pets were doing their tricks, the owner of the parrot,
to prevent its feelings being hurt, used carefully
to request it “to do its little owl.”
And the truth is that we most of us want to do our
little owl. Stevenson said candidly that applause
was the breath of life to an artist. Many, indeed,
find the money they make by their work delightful as