The editor of this volume laments that Allingham’s letters to Rossetti
are beyond all editorial reach. But who has any right to ask for
Allingham’s private letters? Rossetti, who was strongly against the
printing of private letters, had the wholesome practice of burning all
his correspondence. This he did at periodical holocausts—memorable
occasions when the coruscations of the poet’s wit made the sparks from
the burning paper seem pale and dull. He died away from home, or not a
scrap of correspondence would have been left for the publishers.
Although the “public” acknowledges no duties towards the man of literary
or artistic genius, but would shrug up its shoulders or look with dismay
at being asked to give five pounds in order to keep a poet from the
workhouse, the moment a man of genius becomes famous the public becomes
aware of certain rights in relation to him. Strangely enough, these
rights are recognized more fully in the literary arena than anywhere
else, and among them the chief appears to be that of reading an author’s
private letters. One advantage—and surely it is a very great one—that
the “writing man” has over the man of action is this: that, while the
portrait of the man of action has to be painted, if painted at all, by
the biographer, the writing man paints his own portrait for himself.
And as, in a deep sense, every biographer is an inventor like the
novelist—as from the few facts that he is able to collect he infers a
character—the man of action, after he is dead, is at the mercy of every
man who writes his life. Is not Alexander the Great no less a figment of
another man’s brain than Achilles, or Macbeth, or Mr. Pickwick? But a
poet, howsoever artistic, howsoever dramatic, the form of his work may
be, is occupied during his entire life in painting his own portrait. And
if it were not for the intervention of the biographer, the reminiscence
writer, or the collector of letters for publication, our conception of
every poet would be true and vital according to the intelligence with
which we read his work.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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