well-fed authors may be daily encountered in "the Row," and no writer of any repute perambulates the town, at least within a rood of Bond-street, in a thread-bare coat. In short, there is a general opinion that literature has of late become a lucrative employment; that God has mollified the hearts of booksellers-"hearts," which in bygone times had "become like that of Leviathan, firm as a stone, yea hard as a piece of nether mill-stone."

It is commonly imagined, that because it has become the fashion for people of rank to write books, there are no poor authors, no "patient merit" unrewarded in the metropolis-no unfortunate men of genius condemned to bear "the whips and scorns of the time," to hawk about their intellectual wares from publisher to publisher, till they are tempted, like poor Collins, to consign them to the flames; to dance attendance on some bashaw of "the trade," who rubs his soft hands, while he is sifting, not the merit of the performance, but the politics and connections of the author; and when he has duly ascertained that he is dealing with a man of the principles which every author who is a gentleman is supposed to profess, he then may be open to an offer for the work, and perhaps in as many weeks as days have been promised,— (and if the author is very poor and modest man,) in as many months-the manuscript may be examined, and in all probability very civilly declined by one whose promises may have proved the bitter bread of disappointment, and who never may have known what it is to feel that sickness of the heart which arises from hope deferred. Or perhaps the poor author may try his fate elsewhere, and his heart may die away within him, while he is kept waiting in an ante-room for the customary period of solitary confinement, that is sufficient to subdue the

ardent expectations of an author, before he is admitted to the presence of" the great invisible." But when at length his form is revealed to the author's eye, emerging from a pile of fashionable publications, to be frozen to death by inches by the cold civility of his smile, to be asked in "bated breath and bondsman key," for the nature of the influence that is to push the book, and in default of an aristocratic name, and a fashionable acquaintance, to be bowed like a mandarin to the outer door, is what he has to expect, and to be assured all the time that the work is a very good work in its way, but that authors who would be read, must have titles as well as their books, and that nothing short of a baronetcy will go down in a title-page.

If it be imagined there are no authors now-a-days, pining as in former times, in want and wretchedness, because their destitution is not so much obtruded on the public as it formerly was wont to be, little is the condition of a vast portion of the literary men of London known. Because shame may not allow them to parade their poverty before the eyes of their fellow-men in Regent street or Hyde Park, because their seedy garments and attenuated forms are not to be seen in public places, forsooth they exist not!-alas! they are to be found elsewhere, and their familiar companions are still but too frequently

Pallentes morbi, luctus, curæque laborque

Et metus, et malesuada fames, et turpis egestas
Terribiles visu formæ.-

But it would be absurd, as well as unjust, to attribute the misfortunes of literary men to the conduct of those whose business it is to cater for the literary taste

of the public. If authors have to complain, it is of the system on which the book trade is carried on, and not of the individuals who are employed in it: generally speaking, it must be acknowledged, men more liberal and more honourable are not to be met with.

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It cannot be denied that literary men are too often desirous to cover their own imprudence by taxing the world with neglecting merit, by railing at fortune for the blind distribution of her gifts. Many of the English poets," says Goethe, "after spending their early years in folly and licentiousness, have afterwards thought themselves entitled to deplore the vanities of human life. It is unreasonable of those who have wholly devoted themselves to the acquisition of fame, and not of fortune, to expect the advantages that are solely in the latter's gift. Porson, in his embarrassment, thought it a hard case, that with all his Greek, he could not command a hundred pounds; and Burns, in his letters, whines about his poverty, as if he had expected, by the cultivation of poetry, to have amassed a fortune.

The most sensible observations we have ever seen on this subject are those of a lady, whose reputation deservedly ranks high in the literary world, and such is their merit, that we may be permitted to end this subject with their insertion.

"The poet complains of his poverty when he sees a rich booby wallowing in wealth, forgetting such wealth is acquired or retained by such paltry arts as he disdains to practise; if he refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase? We should consider this world as a great mart of commerce, where wealth, ease, fame, and knowledge, are exposed to our view. Our industry and labour are so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the

best advantage. Examine, choose, or reject the wares, but stand to your own judgment, and do not like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another, which you did not purchase. If you would be rich, you must put your heart against the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain and household truths. You must keep on in one beaten track, without turning to the right hand or the left. 'But I cannot submit to drudgery like this-I feel a spirit above it.' 'Tis well to be above it then, only do not repine that you are not rich.

"Is knowledge the pearl of price? you see that too may be purchased by steady application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. But,' says the man of letters,' is it not a hardship that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto on his coach, shall raise a fortune, and make a figure, while I have little more than the common necessaries of life?'

"Was it in order to raise a fortune you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight lamp? You have then mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry. What reward have I then for all my labours?' What reward!-A large comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices, able to interpret the works of man and God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior intelligence. Good heavens! and what reward can you ask beside ?

"If a mean dirty fellow should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation, is it a reproach upon the eco

nomy of Providence? Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for it, and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines you in show and equipage? Lift your head with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, 'I have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought them; it is because I possess something better. I have chosen my lot; I am content and satisfied."