They may even ask you to their
houses, if that is your ambition. You may urge that they condone
your deeds, and are even art and part in them. But you must also be
aware that they call you, and think you, a reptile. You are not one
of those who will do the devil's work without the devil's wages; but
do you seriously think that the wages are worth the degradation?
Many men think so, and are not in other respects bad men. They may
even be kindly and genial. Gentlemen they cannot be, nor men of
delicacy, nor men of honour. They have sold themselves and their
self-respect, some with ease (they are the least blamable), some
with a struggle. They have seen better things, and perhaps vainly
long to return to them. These are "St. Satan's Penitents," and
their remorse is vain:
Virtutem videant, intabescantque relicta.
If you don't wish to be of this dismal company, there is only one
course open to you. Never write for publication one line of
personal tattle. Let all men's persons and private lives be as
sacred to you as your father's,--though there are tattlers who would
sell paragraphs about their own mothers if there were a market for
the ware. There is no half-way house on this road. Once begin to
print private conversation, and you are lost--lost, that is, to
delicacy and gradually, to many other things excellent and of good
report. The whole question for you is, Do you mind incurring this
damnation? If there is nothing in it which appals and revolts you,
if your conscience is satisfied with a few ready sophisms, or if you
don't care a pin for your conscience, fall to!
Vous irez loin! You will prattle in print about men's private lives
their hidden motives, their waistcoats, their wives, their boots,
their businesses, their incomes.
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