im. Nature puts her shoulder to his wheel. He takes the winds, the
clouds, the sunbeams, the rolling stars into partnership, and, asking no
dividend, they let him retain the entire profits. As a rule, the lives
of men of letters do not flow on in this successful way. In their case
there is always either defect in the soil or defect in the husbandry.
Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely on a lost
field. In literary biography there is always an element of tragedy, and
the love we bear the dead is mingled with pity. Of course the life of a
man of letters is more perilous than the life of a farmer; more perilous
than almost any other kind of life which it is given a human being to
conduct. It is more difficult to obtain the mastery over spiritual ways
and means than over material ones, and he must command _both_. Properly
to conduct his life he must not only take large crops off his fields, he
must also leave in his fields the capacity of producing large crops. It
is easy to drive in your chariot two horses of one breed; not so easy
when the one is of terrestrial stock, the other of celestial; in every
respect different--in colour, temper, and pace.

At the outset of his career, the man of letters is confronted by the fact
that he must live. The obtaining of a livelihood is preliminary to
everything else. Poets and cobblers are placed on the same level so far.
If the writer can barter MSS. for sufficient coin, he may proceed to
develop himself; if he cannot so barter it, there is a speedy end of
himself, and of his development also. Literature has become a
profession; but it is in several respects different from the professions
by which other human beings earn their bread. The man of letters, unlike
the clergyman, the physician, or the lawyer, has to undergo no special
preliminary training for his work, and while engaged in it, unlike the
professional persons named, he has no accredited status. Of course, to
earn any success, he must start with as much special knowledge, with as
much dexterity in his craft, as your ordinary physician; but then he is
not recognised till once he is successful. When a man takes a
physician's degree, he has done something; when a man betakes himself to
literary pursuits, he has done nothing--till once he is lucky enough to
make his mark. There is no special preliminary training for men of
letters, and as a consequence, their ranks are recruited from the vagran