The River Falls journal. (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1857-1861, 1858-02-24
BAYARD TAYLOReS PRO-
XII TEST

! TEST.
In a certain contingency, the ancient
Israelites excused a man from all military
duty for the space of one year; but, in eN-
acting times, | have no right to expect
that the same dispensation of Providence
will justify ne in laying aside my steel
/ (pen) for a longer space than one month.
Not that writing is necessity to me. On
the contrary, am sometimes heartily tir-
ed of it, and wish that | had been born
with spade in my hand, instead of q
quill. NV Nemesis is the word contract,
and my only consolation, when she some
times drives me too hard, is the saving
clause | inserted, that should only write
when | had (or supposed I had) some
thing to say. During the past mouth, [
have written nothing, and you have lost
nothing. For persist in the antiquated
idea that the public has no right to know
anything about the private life of an au-
thor. His household gods are as sacred
as those of any other individual whatever;
and if he chooses to keep a skeleton, that
is his business. ~ 81 &
That certain portions of my life have
been betrayed to the world, is a thing for
which ! am not accountable. / have al
ways resisted and protested against any
such revelation, either in my own case or
i'll that of others. You, anonymous A
merican females, who still persist in send
ING me letters, for the most part either
silly or impcrtinent-should you be wei
pleased, if |, knowing personally, we 9
to entertain the public with the secrets OF
your hearts or your toiettes r verse
the case, in your imaginations, and YOU
may perhaps spare me, henccforth, the
bore Of your advice and your neddling
criticism
There is scarcely an American author
OF any reputation who is not subjected to
this private annoyance, in addition to pub
lished misstatements of his life, plans, and
finances, political and religious creed, &c.
Two years ago, the newspapers insisted
on marrying me to somebody in Ohio
never could discover precisely to whom
and the result was shower Of anonv-
nous letters, some CT which were posi-
lively insulting. | have since learned
that English authors are subjected to the
same annoyance, though in q less degree.
In Germany there is not much Of it
which is rather to be wondered at |
have read lately, in American papers,
statements t at Tennyson was running
himself by opium-eating, and that Thack
cray formerly ma lie living by shaving,
at an enormous usury, the bills Of young
heirs. Knowing both the men, as do
and they are two Of Gods own noblemen
Il pronounce these stories outrageous
lies. There is not shadow Of a founda
ton for either of them. If these things
are the inevitable shadow Of an authors
fame, then, as Tennyson sings:
"Better the life of bus and bri r.
The bird that pipes his lone desire
And dies unheard within his tree.
Than him who wBrbles long and loud,
And falls at Glory's temple-gatos--
For vi HON the carbon vulture waits
To tear his heart before the crowd
| ask pardon for this depression, which
is not wholly personal, since the annoyance
is so general, Perhaps this protest, which
| make for the first and last time, may
save me future lamentations over "lost
ideal" I wish to be understood that l
uever set up for an ideal. Quite the con
trary. My tastes are really of the rcalest
kind, including rocking chairs, oysters,
fast horses, Chrsty's Ministries, lager bier,
macaroni, Havana cigars, Flemish artists,
sausages, sal. bathing, picked hcrrings,
the raising of vegetables, Newfoundland
dogs, camp-fires, sailors, lulnbermen, I'M
educated men, and sinners generally. If
your ideal embraces all theseye anonymice
(the plural, | suppose, of Anonymously,
hold on to it, and may it comfort you.
| know an American author who was
once bored for long time by female
acquaintance for sympathy and tender
appreciation of her ideas of spiritual
duty" "Mr Plutarch," she would say,
''is there a more serene and sublime salts
faction in life than that of discovering
your spiritual duty, and then contentious
ly performing it Have you not of en-, in
your own soul, felt this tranquil bliss!"
The author bore this for time, but hui
Juan patience has its limits. "No," he an
swered at last; 81 hate to do my spiritual
duty. III know what It'll | won't do it;
but, Madam, there is one thing which does
fill me with a serene and sublime salts
faction, and reconciles me to the hollow
ness of life" "Pray, pray, what is it {"
she asked eagerly. MADAM it is pigs
nose, boiled with cabbage was his quiet
answer. He was never forgiven.
I am not afraid Of applying the moral
of this story-eyeryz word of which is
tr,le-to nv own case.-N y Tribune.