There are, it is true, at present no great prizes in literature such as are offered by the learned professions, but there are quite as many small ones—­competences; while, on the other hand, it is not so much of a lottery.  It is not necessary to marry an attorney’s daughter, or a bishop’s, to get on in it.  The calling, as it is termed (I know not why, for it is often heavy enough), of ‘light literature’ is in such contempt, through ignorance on the one hand, and arrogance on the other, that one is almost afraid in such a connection to speak of merit; yet merit, or, at all events, aptitude with diligence, is certain of success in it.  A great deal has been said about editors being blind to the worth of unknown authors; but if so, they must be also blind (and this I have never heard said of them) to their own interests.  It would be just as reasonable to accuse a recruiting sergeant of passing by the stout six-feet fellows who wish to enlist with him, and for each of whom—­directly or indirectly—­he receives head-money.  It is possible, of course, that one particular sergeant may be drunken, or careless of his own interests, but in that case the literary recruit has only to apply next door.  The opportunities for action in the field of literature are now so very numerous that it is impossible that any able volunteer should be long shut out of it; and I have observed that the complaints about want of employment come almost solely from those unfit for service.  Nay, in the ranks of the literaryarmy there are very many who should have been excluded.  Few, if any, are there through favour; but the fact is, the work to be done is so extensive and so varied, that there is not a sufficiency of good candidates to do it.  And of what is called ‘skilled labour’ among them there is scarcely any.

The question ‘What can you do?’ put by an editor to an aspirant, generally astonishes him very much.  The aspirant is ready to do anything, he says, which the other will please to suggest.  ’But what is your line in literature?  What can you do best—­not tragedies in blank verse, I hope?’ Perhaps the aspirant here hangs his head; he has written tragedies.  In which case there is good hope for him, because it shows a natural bent.  But he generally replies that he has written nothing as yet except that essay on the genius of Cicero (at which the editor has already shaken his head), and that defence of Mary Queen of Scots.  Or perhaps he has written some translations of Horace, which he is surprised to find not a novelty; or some considerations upon the value of a feudal system.  At four-and-twenty, in short, he is but an overgrown schoolboy.  He has been taught, indeed, to acquire knowledge of a certain sort, but not the habit of acquiring; he has been taught to observe nothing; he is ignorant upon all the subjects that interest his fellow-creatures, and in his new ambition is like one who endeavours to attract an audience without having anything to tell them.  He knows