He was easily set on edge,
however, by didactic writing; and held that books should teach no
other lesson but what 'real life would teach, were it as vividly
presented.' Again, it was the thing made that took him, the drama
in the book; to the book itself, to any merit of the making, he was
long strangely blind. He would prefer the AGAMEMNON in the prose
of Mr. Buckley, ay, to Keats. But he was his mother's son,
learning to the last. He told me one day that literature was not a
trade; that it was no craft; that the professed author was merely
an amateur with a door-plate. 'Very well,' said I, 'the first time
you get a proof, I will demonstrate that it is as much a trade as
bricklaying, and that you do not know it.' By the very next post,
a proof came. I opened it with fear; for he was indeed, as the
reader will see by these volumes, a formidable amateur; always
wrote brightly, because he always thought trenchantly; and
sometimes wrote brilliantly, as the worst of whistlers may
sometimes stumble on a perfect intonation. But it was all for the
best in the interests of his education; and I was able, over that
proof, to give him a quarter of an hour such as Fleeming loved both
to give and to receive.
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