“Every man is born free and independent; or, if he is not, he ought to be. E pluribus unum. He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil; for the soil, without him, is nothing worth.  He came from the soil; he lives on the soil; and he must return to the soil. De gustibus, non est disputandum. So much for man in his natural state, breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives.  But this is a very limited view of the question.  Man is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. Vox populi, vox Dei. Having acquired, he wills to acquire.  Acquisition suggests acquisition.  Conquest promotes conquest.  And, speaking of conquests, the greatest of all conquests is that which a man obtains over himself—­provided always that he does obtain it.  This secured, he may consider himself up to anything. Arma virumque cano. Owning the soil by right of possession; owning himself by right of conquest; and, being about to establish a form of government conformable to his own views of right and wrong; let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and make his own selection of subordinate officers. Mus cucurrit plenum sed.”

This, by way of illustration.  The Jay style sounds the best:  the dollar-a-page style pays the best.  But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature, simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side.  If an author receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion.  For the same thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in many words.

No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more space is needed for some than for others.  An essay is not necessarily too long because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer’s ever-present temptation to disregard this demand.

The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his inches instead of his intellect.

Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in a reader’s regard, independently of the quality of the contributions.  If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the North American Review, he would temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he might throw his sentences together.  But, theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on their intrinsic merits.  And it is out of the question that a system which offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing—­to wit, prolixity—­should not deteriorate the character of such writing.