unusual things for a modern to want, he need not be uneasy, if he can only manage to pass for an eccentric, and then his excessive stupidity will be placed to the account of his deep study and total abstraction. He should on no account shave oftener than once a week, because a long beard may be considered a mark of singularity inseparable from original genius. He must never think of paying his debts: first, because such a practice is wholly unprecedented, and would ruin the whole profession by example; secondly, because if any one has trusted him he may be sure they did so from motives of charity, and without hope of payment; or thirdly, if any one has been mad enough to indulge in such a chimerical expectation, his folly deserves correction. His residence should be in the attic of some old fashioned building, where in times past a celebrated poet was starved to death, or some distinguished literary character has since committed suicide. His furniture should be a truckle bedstead, with a flock mattress, and an old great coat for a coverlid; his couch or settee formed by the side or end of it; his box, for if he has no wardrobe to fill it with, he still should have a box, to give him consequence with his landlady, and serve the double purpose of shutting out prying curiosity from his papers, and forming a writing desk by his bedside. In writing he should be ambidextrous, and in catching an idea, or a passing thought, jump instantly out of bed, and commit the subject to paper on the inspiration of the moment (see vignette). If he is ever imprisoned for debt, he should attribute such an occurrence, not to any wild hope of enforcing payment, but merely as a friendly act, done in the idea that seclusion from the world may correct his idleness, better his fortunes, and afford him at once the opportunity and incitement to pursue his labours. If he has not tasted of all these, ay, and ten times more miseries than are here related, then is he no true author. There are a set of dull, heavy, leaden-headed college mechanics, who having served an apprenticeship to the art of translating the classic languages, as they are called, lard their conversation with a succession of misplaced quotation, in monkish Greek or Latin, in the hope of passing for authors. Now be it known, we utterly reject any such pedantic persons, and any such claims to the rights and privileges of genius, or the delightful sensations of the miseries of authorcraft. |