The mere sight of N-, to say nothing of his talk, did me good.  If appearances can ever be trusted, there are few men who get more enjoyment out of life.  His hardships were never excessive; they did not affect his health or touch his spirits; probably he is in every way a better man for having—­as he says—­“gone through the mill.”  His recollection of the time when he had to work hard for a five-pound note, and was not always sure of getting it, obviously lends gusto to his present state of ease.  I persuaded him to talk about his successes, and to give me a glimpse of their meaning in solid cash.  Last Midsummer day, his receipts for the 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.

He is one of the men I heartily like.  That he greatly cares for me I do not suppose, but this has nothing to do with the matter; enough that he likes my society well enough to make a special journey down into Devon.  I represent to him, of course, the days gone by, and for their sake he will always feel an interest in me.  Being ten years my junior, he must naturally regard me as an old buffer; I notice,