twelvemonth were more than two thousand pounds. Nothing wonderful, of
course, bearing in mind what some men are making by their pen; but very
good for a writer who does not address the baser throng. Two thousand
pounds in a year! I gazed at him with wonder and admiration.

I have known very few prosperous men of letters; N--- represents for me
the best and brightest side of literary success. Say what one will after
a lifetime of disillusion, the author who earns largely by honest and
capable work is among the few enviable mortals. Think of N---'s
existence. No other man could do what he is doing, and he does it with
ease. Two, or at most three, hours' work a day--and that by no means
every day--suffices to him. Like all who write, he has his unfruitful
times, his mental worries, his disappointments, but these bear no
proportion to the hours of happy and effective labour. Every time I see
him he looks in better health, for of late years he has taken much more
exercise, and he is often travelling. He is happy in his wife and
children; the thought of all the comforts and pleasures he is able to
give them must be a constant joy to him; were he to die, his family is
safe from want. He has friends and acquaintances as many as he desires;
congenial folk gather at his table; he is welcome in pleasant houses near
and far; his praise is upon the lips of all whose praise is worth having.
With all this, he has the good sense to avoid manifest dangers; he has
not abandoned his privacy, and he seems to be in no danger of being
spoilt by good fortune. His work is more to him than a means of earning
money; he talks about a book he has in hand almost as freshly and keenly
as in the old days, when his annual income was barely a couple of
hundred. I note, too, that his leisure is not swamped with the
publications of the day; he reads as many old books as new, and keeps
many of his early enthusiasms.