'For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely,owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I myself have written.I scarcely ever transgress without having almost instant reason to repent.To-day,when I took up the newspaper,I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron,at an agricultural dinner,the very same ideas,and almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary personage of mine,on a widely different occasion;you saw how Idashed the newspaper down-you saw how I touched the floor;the touch was to baffle the evil chance,to prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner and the speech of my personage.My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so great that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me,Iapply it to them in a superstitious sense;for example,when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on,I applied it to my works-it appeared to bode them evil fortune;you saw how I touched,it was to baffle the evil chance;but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me.To baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly incomprehensible;I have been known,when riding in company with other people,to leave the direct road,and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place to which we were going.I have also been seen attempting to ride across a morass,where I had no business whatever,and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths,and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of hands.I have,of course,frequently been asked the reason of such conduct,to which I have invariably returned no answer,for I scorn duplicity;whereupon people have looked mysteriously,and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads."And yet it can't be,"I once heard an old gentleman say;"don't we know what he is capable of?"and the old man was right;I merely did these things to avoid the evil chance,impelled by the strange feeling within me;and this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings,the only things at present which render life valuable to me.If I touch various objects,and ride into miry places,it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author,to prevent my books getting into disrepute;in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions,thoughts,or situations in any work which I am writing from resembling the thoughts,expressions,and situations of other authors,for my great wish,as I told you before,is to be original.
'I have now related my history,and have revealed to you the secrets of my inmost bosom.I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I have done,had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit.I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me;and truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts;you who seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular,and who are as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that relates to the star Jupiter or the mysterious tree at Upsal.'
Such was the story which my host related to me in the library,amidst the darkness,occasionally broken by flashes of lightning.
Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded.
'It is a singular story,'said I,at last,'though I confess that Iwas prepared for some part of it.Will you permit me to ask you a question?'
'Certainly,'said my host.
'Did you never speak in public?'said I.
'Never.'
'And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room,commencing with Mr.Speaker,no one was present?'
'None in the world,I double-locked the door;what do you mean?'
'An idea came into my head-dear me how the rain is pouring-but,with respect to your present troubles and anxieties,would it not be wise,seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety,to give it up altogether?'
'Were you an author yourself,'replied my host,'you would not talk in this manner;once an author,ever an author-besides,what could I do?return to my former state of vegetation?no,much as I endure,I do not wish that;besides,every now and then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without;foundation that whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind,and that it is the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those of other writers,such resemblance being inevitable from the fact of our common human origin.In short-'
'I understand you,'said I;'notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties you find life very tolerable;has your originality ever been called in question?'
'On the contrary,every one declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings;the man has some faults,they say,but want of originality is certainly not one of them.He is quite different from others-a certain newspaper,it is true,the-I think,once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned;it happened,however,that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of either,and of one of them had never even heard the name;so much for the discrimination of the-.By the bye,what a rascally newspaper that is!'
'A very rascally newspaper,'said I.
