Ten, after a long fight with poverty, left their families in such needy circumstances that subscriptions were made in some cases for their relief;

One (Sir W. Scott) reaped a fortune by his pen, but lost it again in printing speculations;

A few earned a moderate subsistence, but this only by incessant toil;

And a few, not dependent upon literature for a livelihood, added something to their means by the occasional use of

their pens.

In the present day matters have greatly changed. Since the institution of circulating libraries which can carry off a whole edition of a book without trouble to the author or publisher; since the establishment of hundreds of periodicals, each of which requires a corps of contributors; above all, since the extraordinary development of the newspaper press has raised up a standing army of writers as well as readers, the profession of Literature has acquired a substantial character, and a moneyed dignity which it never previously possessed. The chink of coin is now heard, and sovereigns are constantly flitting about in the Republic of Letters. Cheques are not unknown even in Grub Street, and authors who, had they lived in the last century, would have slept in garrets (scarcely that), and gone about with a hole at each elbow, are often reputed to keep an account at the bankers and to invest rather heavily in railway preference shares. But of course these advantages are to be secured only by considering the tastes and requirements of the public, and by pursuing the trade-tracks (if they may be so called) which lead to success. The unknown author who hoped to command a brilliant livelihood by producing epics, or tragedies, or profound metaphysical works, or prodigiously learned treatises of any

description, would soon find himself in debt at his publisher's, and, if he persisted, would probably have to take his degrees in the Bankruptcy Court.

It will still therefore be prudent to remember, even in these better-paid days of ours, that John Milton received only £10 for Paradise Lost, and that Wordsworth informed Matthew Arnold that he could not tell the number of years which elapsed before his poetry brought him enough 'to buy his own shoestrings. Nor will it be amiss to compare the receipts of a jockey with those of the finest poet or the profoundest thinker. The Duke of Westminster paid Cannon £1500 a year for his labours in bestriding horses, and Frederic Archer's revenue returns astounded all who failed to see the inestimable services which he rendered civilisation, and who, if told in explanation, that these worthy persons had helped their employers to win large sums of money, would be simple enough to inquire whether others must not have lost every guinea that had been so gained. They would argue, doubtless, that no solid addition to the resources of mankind was perceptible, as the result of a race on Epsom Downs or Newmarket Heath, whereas a good book is a gift which may prove of value to millions, and may constitute the heirloom of all succeeding generations.

That remarkable man Thomas Holcroft, who spent part of his life as a stable-boy, and part of his maturity as a dramatist and novelist, pouring forth nearly thirty plays, amongst which The Road to Ruin stands conspicuous, bethought him in his declining days of writing his autobiography as an incentive to industry, and a lesson to young men in the art of conquering difficulties, and levelling the rough places of life. When the resolve was formed he was groaning under a variety of diseases, and the sands were running rapidly down in the hour-glass of

Time. How far would Death allow him to proceed? He commenced his task, however, dictating the work slowly but heroically, his sentences being punctuated, we may say, with commas of pain, and full stops of agony. He implored his medical men to secure him six months more of existence, if possible, and told them he would willingly submit to the most torturing treatment if that would enable him to complete his book. The doctors, however, were helpless; the Dark King was inexorable, and poor Holcroft was marched off to the tomb before his record had reached the sixteenth year of his existence, leaving the most important part of his career wholly unchronicled.

CHAPTER XII.

THE AUTHOR'S WORKSHOP.

ASSUMING, however, that the aspirant has become an accepted author, let us follow him into his workshop, and glance at him whilst engaged in the pains and pleasures of composition.

Some writers sit down to their desks in a very unprepared frame. Sterne pretended that it was his practice to throw off the first sentence as best he could, and then to trust to chance for the second. Not the way certainly by which many lasting works of merit have been produced! With a somewhat larger range, but from a very different cause, William Hazlitt, it was said, when commencing his labours, could never see more than two or three sentences ahead.

There have, of course, been careless and hasty writers who have nevertheless won for themselves great names in literature. Henry Fielding's plays were generally composed at a gallop. Leaving the tavern late at night, he would write a scene or two on scraps of paper in which tobacco might have been wrapt, and present them next morning to the actors for committal. He was forced by necessity, as Lady Mary Wortley smartly remarked, 'to publish without correction, and throw many productions into the world, which he would have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been got without money, or money without scribbling.' The consequence was, that piece after piece

was condemned, the verdict being aided, even in those vicious days, by the flagrant indelicacies in which the dramatist thought it his duty, or, what is much more likely, found it his pleasure, to indulge. At first the author frankly confessed that his precipitate ways justified the hisses of the public; but repeated failures led him to conclude that he was the victim of a conspiracy set on foot by certain young gentlemen of the town, who made it their special sport to ruin plays in general, and notably those of Henry Fielding in particular. When, however, we learn that an audience sat patiently through nearly three acts of the Universal Gallant, charitably expecting that the comedy would improve as the plot advanced, we must suppose that the explosion of dissatisfaction which finally ensued was due to its intrinsic demerits, rather than to the malice of a cabal.

Beckford's Vathek was thrown off, according to his own statement, at a single sitting, which, however, lasted three days and three nights. If so, this was certainly a great feat, especially when we remember that the book was penned by an Englishman in French. But it seems to have drained him pretty well for the future, for, though he was only twenty-two when he reeled off this feverish production, he never favoured mankind with anything of note during the remainder of his eccentric existence.

Very different was the course which Jean Paul Richter pursued. Fertile as his fancy might be, and well filled as his brain undoubtedly was, the first step this great writer took before he commenced any work, was to stitch a quantity of paper into a book, and jot down all the principal features in the proposed production. There was the outline of the whole composition, with sketches of the leading scenes and characters to be represented; minutes of the thoughts to be embodied; and huge

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