roy the other, or that the two must become fused and harmonized into
a single existence. Get your hat, mount my groom's horse, and come with
me to London; we will converse by the way. Look you, I believe you and
I agree in this,--that the first object of every noble spirit is
independence. It is towards this independence that I alone presume to
assist you, and this is a service which the proudest man can receive
without a blush."

Leonard lifted his eyes towards Harley's, and those eyes swam with
grateful tears; but his heart was too full to answer. "I am not one of
those," said Harley, when they were on the road, "who think that because
a young man writes poetry he is fit for nothing else, and that he must
be a poet or a pauper. I have said that in you there seems to me to be
two men,--the man of the Actual world, the man of the Ideal. To each of
these men I can offer a separate career. The first is perhaps the more
tempting. It is the interest of the State to draw into its service all
the talent and industry it can obtain; and under his native State every
citizen of a free country should be proud to take service. I have a
friend who is a minister, and who is known to encourage talent,--Audley
Egerton. I have but to say to him, 'There is a young man who will repay
the government whatever the government bestows on him;' and you will
rise to-morrow independent in means, and with fair occasions to attain
to fortune and distinction. This is one offer,--what say you to it?"

Leonard thought bitterly of his interview with Audley Egerton, and the
minister's proffered crown-piece. He shook his head, and replied,

"Oh, my Lord, how have I deserved such kindness? Do with me what you
will; but if I have the option, I would rather follow my own calling.
This is not the ambition that inflames me."

"Hear, then, the other offer. I have a friend with whom I am less
intimate than Egerton, and who has nothing in his gift to bestow. I
speak of a man of letters,--Henry Norreys,--of whom you have doubtless
heard, who, I should say, conceived an interest in you when he observed
you reading at the bookstall. I have often heard him say that literature
as a profession is misunderstood, and that rightly followed, with the
same pains and the same prudence which are brought to bear on other
professions, a competence at least can be always ultimately obtained.
But the way may be long and tedious, and it leads to no power but over
thought; it r