little poverty; but such considerations should not move us in the
choice of that which is to be the business and justification of so
great a portion of our lives; and like the missionary, the patriot,
or the philosopher, we should all choose that poor and brave career
in which we can do the most and best for mankind. Now Nature,
faithfully followed, proves herself a careful mother. A lad, for
some liking to the jingle of words, betakes himself to letters for
his life; by-and-by, when he learns more gravity, he finds that he
has chosen better than he knew; that if he earns little, he is
earning it amply; that if he receives a small wage, he is in a
position to do considerable services; that it is in his power, in
some small measure, to protect the oppressed and to defend the
truth. So kindly is the world arranged, such great profit may
arise from a small degree of human reliance on oneself, and such,
in particular, is the happy star of this trade of writing, that it
should combine pleasure and profit to both parties, and be at once
agreeable, like fiddling, and useful, like good preaching.

This is to speak of literature at its highest; and with the four
great elders who are still spared to our respect and admiration,
with Carlyle, Ruskin, Browning, and Tennyson before us, it would be
cowardly to consider it at first in any lesser aspect. But while
we cannot follow these athletes, while we may none of us, perhaps,
be very vigorous, very original, or very wise, I still contend
that, in the humblest sort of literary work, we have it in our
power either to do great harm or great good. We may seek merely to
please; we may seek, having no higher gift, merely to gratify the
idle nine days' curiosity of our contemporaries; or we may essay,
however feebly, to instruct. In each of these we shall have to
deal with that remarkable art of words which, because it is the