writing on one side of the paper only,—I
will look at it again, and see how it
promises."

A not uncommon answer is, that that sort of
thing is a great deal too much trouble. It
would seem that it really is intended to
pick up money in the streets—for essayists of
this class mostly expect to be handsomely
paid. Voltaire might well call correcting
other people's manuscripts "washing dirty
linen."

This journal once returned to me an article
in type, with the suggestion that, as it touched
on two topics, it would be improved by being
cut in two, and giving each portion a more
developed treatment, so converting it into
a couple of distinct and homogeneous
treatises.

"Do they take so much pains with articles
as that!" exclaimed a friend of some attainments,
to whom I showed the slips.

"You see they do."

An article may be likened to a drawing. It
may be either a mere sketch, or a finished
picture. All the better if it can combine the
accuracy of the photograph with the spirit of
the study from nature; but the delineation of
something must be there. The subject is the
plain canvas on which the artist traces the
outlines of his conception. The work grows.
He brings out certain important features, while
he throws others into the shade, or, perhaps, on
second thoughts, suppresses them utterly! He
avoids false perspective and inharmonious
colouring. He puts everything in its proper
place, and displays it in its proper light.
When he is satisfied that it represents what
he means, he passes over the whole the varnish
of correct and polished style; and then it
goes to the exhibition, to be rejected by
the hanging committee, or to throw the
pictures beside it into the shade. This simile
is chiefly applicable to narrative or descriptive
papers.

We shall not be much further from the truth
in comparing the writing of an argumentative
or logical paper, to the construction of a
machine intended to perform some work. When
the whole is put together, we try it privately,
find out where it hitches, lengthen this lever,
tighten that screw, add a wheel here, extract a
cog there, until we fully grind out our desired
conclusion. With a little oil or anti-friction
grease, the machinery is then fit for public
service.

After a literary aspirant has taken every
pains, and done all in his power to ensure
success, let him not be discouraged by a first
rebuff. C'est le premier pas qui coûte. He
may find favour a second time; and so the second
or third attempt may be his premier pas.
Industry and perseverance have an effectual
influence in literature, as well as in every other
career of life. Most periodicals have their
special character, which may render some given
article (quite meritorious in itself) perfectly
unsuitable for their acceptance. The first paper
I sent to this journal was declined; the second
published. With the exception of the Quarterly
Review (with which topics were agreed
upon before they were undertaken), I have not,
I think, written for any journal which has not
published something which some other journal
had declined. One editor's poison may be
another editor's meat. Two journals have, on
second thoughts, published papers which they
had themselves declined.

Then, again, there is the question of room.
A certain number of pages, of a given type, can
contain only a given quantity of matter. You
cannot put a bushel of wheat, however first-rate
in quality, into a peck measure. The
super-abundant quantity must remain outside. It can
wait, you say, till the next measuring occurs;
but how will you like the indefinite delay?
And if the supply continue, what is to be
done? Moreover, an editor must seize passing
events by the forelock. An article, well-timed
to day, may have lost all its interest
this day month. And thus a discussion of
present occurrences may push aside a really
superior essay possessing merely pure literary
merits.

It is impossible to quite lose sight of the
mercantile aspects of literature—of periodical
literature especially. It must either pay, or
must cease to exist. It is art; and its object
is to instruct and elevate: but its agents
and instruments must live. Even if a volunteer
army of amateur contributors were forthcoming,
paper-makers, printers, and publishers
cannot afford to amuse and enlighten the
nation gratis. The periodical must sell; that
is, it must contain taking and attractive
matter which the reading public will gladly
purchase for copper or silver coin of the
realm.

There is a class of beings of whose existence
certain literary candidates do not seem to be
aware. Still they are men of like feelings with
ourselves, similarly constituted in all their
limbs and organs. They have eyes like ours,
only somewhat sharper, and fingers like ours,
only quicker and nimbler. They have heads
that can ache, when overworked, and tempers
that can fret, when overtried. I mean
compositors and printers' readers. A writer should
surely have some thought of them; for it is
solely through their mechanical agency that his
lucubrations are given to the world. A writer,
sitting at an open window in the country, may
be indifferent as to the quality of his ink;
knowing what he has written, he can read
it, be it of the palest grey. But remembering
that it has to be put in type by persons
working in smoke-darkened cities, or
often by gaslight, he will surely save all
unnecessary strain of their eyesight, by employing
no liquid that is not decidedly legibly
black.

Of handwriting, it is more difficult to speak;
it is a matter, often, of inveterate habit. Its
defects are less easily corrected, being intimately
connected with the penman's individuality.