I wish I had any faculty whatever of remembering what people say; but,
though I appreciate anything good at the moment, it never stays in my
memory; nor do I think, in fact, that anything definite, rounded,
pointed, separable, and transferable from the general lump of
conversation was said by anybody. I recollect that they laughed at
Mr. ------, and at his shedding a tear into a Scottish river, on occasion
of some literary festival. . . . . They spoke approvingly of Bulwer, as
valuing his literary position, and holding himself one of the brotherhood
of authors; and not so approvingly of Charles Dickens, who, born a
plebeian, aspires to aristocratic society. But I said that it was easy
to condescend, and that Bulwer knew he could not put off his rank, and
that he would have all the advantages of it in spite of his authorship.
We talked about the position of men of letters in England, and they said
that the aristocracy hated and despised and feared them; and I asked why
it was that literary men, having really so much power in their hands,
were content to live unrecognized in the State.
Douglas Jerrold talked of Thackeray and his success in America, and said
that he himself purposed going and had been invited thither to lecture.
I asked him whether it was pleasant to a writer of plays to see them
performed; and he said it was intolerable, the presentation of the
author's idea being so imperfect; and Dr. ------ observed that it was
excruciating to hear one of his own songs sung.
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