To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and greatest man of your acquaintance.  Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself.

You confess that you are somewhat unpractical:  you expect others—­hard-worked journalists who never met you—­to tell you what to read, how to form your style, and how ‘to get into the magazines.’  You are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man.  That is a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and particularly the novelists, are excellent business men.  Indeed, the history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been masters of words have also been masters of things—­masters of the facts of life for which those words stand.  Many writers have mismanaged their affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity.  Leigh Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table.  Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer.  Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able to make a living—­though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan to let another hard-worked man support one’s wife and children.  On the other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not everything:  for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally ‘impossible’ as Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals.

In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with writing.  In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an unworked field—­be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place but plain England!)—­are the chief factors.  For that more lasting success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words.  Can you honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these great gifts are yours?  Judging from your letter—­but Heaven forbid that I should be unkind!  For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling?  Do you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet—­not to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other planets?  Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as yet defective!  Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited neglect—­Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute.