If any one has kindly attended to this discourse,without desiring to be a failure,he has only to turn the advice outside in.He has only to be studious of the very best literature,observant,careful,original,he has only to be himself and not an imitator,to aim at excellence,and not be content with falling a little lower than mediocrity.He needs but bestow the same attention on this art as others give to the other arts and other professions.With these efforts,and with a native and natural gift,which can never be taught,never communicated,and with his mind set not on his reward,but on excellence,on style,on matter,and even on the not wholly unimportant virtue of vivacity,a man will succeed,or will deserve success.First,of course,he will have to "find"himself,as the French say,and if he does NOT find an ass,then,like Saul the son of Kish,he may discover a kingdom.One success he can hardly miss,the happiness of living,not with trash,but among good books,and "the mighty minds of old."In an unpublished letter of Mr.
Thackeray's,written before he was famous,and a novelist,he says how much he likes writing on historical subjects,and how he enjoys historical research.THE WORK IS SO GENTLEMANLY,he remarks.Often and often,after the daily dreadful lines,the bread and butter winning lines on some contemporary folly or frivolity,does a man take up some piece of work hopelessly unremunerative,foredoomed to failure as far as money or fame go,some dealing with the classics of the world,Homer or Aristotle,Lucian or Moliere.It is like a bath after a day's toil,it is tonic and clean;and such studies,if not necessary to success,are,at least,conducive to mental health and self-respect in literature.
To the enormous majority of persons who risk themselves in literature,not even the smallest measure of success can fall.They had better take to some other profession as quickly as may be,they are only making a sure thing of disappointment,only crowding the narrow gates of fortune and fame.Yet there are others to whom success,though easily within their reach,does not seem a thing to be grasped at.Of two such,the pathetic story may be read,in the Memoir of A Scotch Probationer,Mr.Thomas Davidson,who died young,an unplaced Minister of the United Presbyterian Church,in 1869.He died young,unaccepted by the world,unheard of,uncomplaining,soon after writing his latest song on the first grey hairs of the lady whom he loved.And she,Miss Alison Dunlop,died also,a year ago,leaving a little work newly published,Anent Old Edinburgh,in which is briefly told the story of her life.There can hardly be a true tale more brave and honourable,for those two were eminently qualified to shine,with a clear and modest radiance,in letters.