"If the whole 'trade' had one common nose, there would be some satisfaction in pulling it," answered the author."But, there does seem to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he tells me fairly, that no American publisher will meddle with an American work,-- seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new one,--unless at the writer's risk.""The paltry rogues!" cried I."Will they live by literature, and yet risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your own account.""And so I might," replied Oberon."But the devil of the business is this.These people have put me so out of conceit with the tales, that I loathe the very thought of them, and actually experience a physical sickness of the stomach, whenever I glance at them on the table.I tell you there is a demon in them! I anticipate a wild enjoyment in seeing them in the blaze; such as I should feel in taking vengeance on an enemy, or destroying something noxious."I did not very strenuously oppose this determination, being privately of opinion, in spite of my partiality for the author, that his tales would make a more brilliant appearance in the fire than anywhere else.Before proceeding to execution, we broached the bottle of champagne, whichOberon had provided for keeping up his spirits in this doleful business.We swallowed each a tumblerful, in sparkling commotion; it went bubbling down our throats, and brightened my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and heavy as before.He drew the tales towards him, with a mixture of natural affection and natural disgust, like a father taking a deformed infant into his arms.
"Pooh! Pish! Pshaw!" exclaimed he, holding them at arm's-length."It was Gray's idea of heaven, to lounge on a sofa and read new novels.Now, what more appropriate torture would Dante himself have contrived, for the sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be continually turning over the manuscript?""It would fail of effect," said I, "because a bad author is always his own great admirer.""I lack that one characteristic of my tribe,--the only desirable one," observed Oberon."But how many recollections throng upon me, as I turn over these leaves! This scene came into my fancy as I walked along a hilly road, on a starlight October evening; in the pure and bracing air, I became all soul, and felt as if I could climb the sky, and run a race along the Milky Way.Here is another tale, in which I wrapt myself during a dark and dreary night-ride in the month of March, till the rattling of the wheels and the voices of my companions seemed like faint sounds of a dream, and my visions a bright reality.That scribbled page describes shadows which I summoned to my bedside at midnight: they would not depart when I bade them; the gray dawn came, and found me wide awake and feverish, the victim of my own enchantments!""There must have been a sort of happiness in all this," said I, smitten with a strange longing to make proof of it.
"There may be happiness in a fever fit," replied the author."And then the various moods in which I wrote! Sometimes my ideas were like precious stones under the earth, requiring toil to dig them up, and care to polish and brighten them; but often a delicious stream of thought would gush out upon the page at once, like water sparkling up suddenly in the desert; and when it had passed, I gnawed my pen hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and miserable toil, as if there were a wall of ice between meand my subject."
"Do you now perceive a corresponding difference," inquired I, "between the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid flashes of the mind?""No," said Oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table."I find no traces of the golden pen with which I wrote in characters of fire.My treasure of fairy coin is changed to worthless dross.My picture, painted in what seemed the loveliest hues, presents nothing but a faded and indistinguishable surface.I have been eloquent and poetical and humorous in a dream,--and behold! it is all nonsense, now that I am awake."My friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing it blaze like Nebuchadnezzar's furnace, seized the champagne bottle, and drank two or three brimming bumpers, successively.The heady liquor combined with his agitation to throw him into a species of rage.He laid violent hands on the tales.In one instant more, their faults and beauties would alike have vanished in a glowing purgatory.But, all at once, I remembered passages of high imagination, deep pathos, original thoughts, and points of such varied excellence, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly.I caught his arm.
"Surely, you do not mean to burn them!" I exclaimed.
