be his own motive, path, and guide, his own priest, king, and law. The
world may be his footstool, and may be his slough of despond, but is
never his final end. His aims are transcendental, his realm is art, his
interests ideal, his life divine, his destiny immortal. All the old
theories of saintship are revived in him. He is in the world, but not of
it. Shadows of infinitude are his realities. He sees only the starry
universe, and the radiant depths of the soul. Martyrdom may desolate,
but cannot terrify him. If he be a genius, if his soul crave only his
idea, and his body fare unconsciously well on bread and water, then his
lot is happy, and fortune can present no ills which will not shrink
before his burning eye. But if he be less than this, he is lost, the
sport of devouring elements. As he fights fate on the border of ruin, so
much the more should he be animated by courage, ambition, pride,
purpose, and faith. To him literature is a high adventure, and
impossible as a profession. A profession is an instituted department of
action, resting upon universal and constant needs, and paying regular
dividends. But the fine arts must in their nature be lawless.
Appointments cannot be made for them any more than for the
thunder-storms which sweep the sky. They die when they cease to be wild.
Literary life, at its best, is a desperate play, but it is with guineas,
and not with coppers, to all who truly play it. Its elements would not
be finer, were they the golden and potent stars of alchemistic and
astrological dreams.

Such was genius, and such was literature, in the representation of their
first great lawgiver. But the world has changed. The sad story of the
calamities of authors need not be repeated. We live in the age of
authors triumphant. By swiftly succeeding and countless publications
they occupy the eye of the world, and achieve happiness before their
death. The stratagems of literature mark no longer a struggle between
genius and the bailiffs. What was once a desperate venture is now a
lucrative business. What was once a martyrdom is now its own reward.
What once had saintly unearthliness is now a powerful motor among
worldly interests. What was once the fatality of genius is now the
aspiration of fools. The people have turned to reading, and have become
a more liberal patron than even the Athenian State, monastic order, or
noble lord. No longer does the literary class wander about the streets,
gingerbread in its