The moment an author is conceited about his work, he becomes
absurd and is passing into a hopeless condition. If worthy to
write at all, he knows that he falls far short of his ideals; if
honest, he wishes to be estimated at his true worth, and to cast
behind him the mean little Satan of vanity. If he walks under a
conscious sense of greatness, he is a ridiculous figure, for
beholders remember the literary giants of other days and of his
own time, and smile at the airs of the comparatively little man.
On the other hand, no self-respecting writer should ape the false
deprecating "'umbleness" of Uriah Heep. In short, he wishes to
pass, like a coin, for just what he is worth. Mr. Matthew Arnold
was ludicrously unjust to the West when he wrote, "The Western
States are at this moment being nourished and formed, we hear, on
the novels of a native author called Roe." Why could not Mr.
Arnold have taken a few moments to look into the bookstores of the
great cities of the West, in order to observe for himself how the
demand of one of the largest and most intelligent reading publics
in the world is supplied? He would have found that the works of
Scott and Dickens were more liberally purchased and generally read
than in his own land of "distinction.
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