It is impossible to prophesy the success of a man of letters from his
early promise, his early tastes; as impossible as it is to predict, from
her childish grace, the beauty of a woman.
But the following remarks on How to fail in Literature are certainly
meant to discourage nobody who loves books, and has an impulse to tell a
story, or to try a song or a sermon. Discouragements enough exist in the
pursuit of this, as of all arts, crafts, and professions, without my
adding to them. Famine and Fear crouch by the portals of literature as
they crouch at the gates of the Virgilian Hades. There is no more
frequent cause of failure than doubt and dread; a beginner can scarcely
put his heart and strength into a work when he knows how long are the
odds against his victory, how difficult it is for a new man to win a
hearing, even though all editors and publishers are ever pining for a new
man. The young fellow, unknown and unwelcomed, who can sit down and give
all his best of knowledge, observation, humour, care, and fancy to a
considerable work has got courage in no common portion; he deserves to
triumph, and certainly should not be disheartened by our old experience.
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