939 a share of honesty, application, and versatility | their jokes 'quips,' but the work is so hard which might make it politic, merely as a that they might just as well be called 'cranks.' matter of business, to treat him civilly. The On the whole, my tastes and habits were about only person, however, who was really insolent, as unfavourable for making way in journalism was a man who had written chiefly on "love" as could possibly be supposed. The necessity and "brotherhood." I am not writing down a of keeping a conscience and obstinately keepcynical fib, but the simple truth. He certainly ing it under a glass case too-was a far more annoyed me, and I thought to myself, "One serious matter. of these days I will serve you out." I have, of course, never served him out; the only effect of his rudeness has been that I have been able to speak of him with cheerful frankness. There was some fun in situations of this kind; and I used to enjoy the feeling, that while perhaps some one to whom I had a letter was snubbing me, or at least treating me de haut en bas, he was behaving thus to a stranger who would be able to his dying day to describe every look of the superior being's eyes, every line of his face, every word he said, the buttons on his coat, how high the gas was, and what tune the organ-grinder was playing in the next street while the little scene came off. It so happened, however, that immediately on starting with my pen in a professional way, I got a character for writing good critical papers. The very first critical essay I ever wrote was quoted, and noticed in high quarters; and it was passed round that I had a quick scent in literary matters. But the way in which this worked was very amusing. Everybody went about to flood me with reviewing work. It was quite natural, but rather wide of the mark. When a man who possesses a pretty good critical scent takes up a book that is either by goodness or badness suggestive, there are "three courses" open to him. He may characterize it in a few sentences; but half-adozen lines, even if they are bright and exhaustive in their way, are not a review-are not, in fact, what is wanted of a journalist. Or he may make it a topic, and produce an article as long as a small book. This, again, however good, is not what is wanted of a journalist. The third course, to write a column or two about a book that has no particular life in it, is the arduous one. And arduous indeed it is. After a time I was told by an old friend of a gentleman who, he thought, might help me. Him I hunted up, by a circuitous route, though I knew neither his name, his qualifications, nor his address. He is a man of genius and of good-nature, and through him I got really useful introductions. From this time there were no external difficulties in my way. But conscientious scruples, and personal habits of my own remained to constitute real and very serious obstacles. I was not what There was another difficulty which stood in Mr. Carlyle, describing the literary amanu- my way as a journalist. There is a class of ensis who helped him in his Cromwell labours, article for which there is always a demand. calls "hardy." The manner in which the or- I mean the kind of article which teaches one dinary journalist knocks about was always a half of the world how the other half lives. I wonder to me. I could neither stand gas, nor hope literary beginners who may read these tobacco, nor pottering about, nor hunting lines will take notice of that. For this kind people up in the intervals of literary labour, of writing I had some qualifications-quicknor what those who know me have (too) often ness of eye, a tenacious memory of detail, and heard me call "jaw." I mean the kind of de-a lively sense of fun; but then I could not bate which goes on at discussion societies, and knock about and come up to time. A day in among even intelligent men when public topics Spitalfields would make me ill. There was a arise after dinner. It is half sincere; it is case in which, under unusually favourable conwanting in the nicety of distinction which love ditions, I had to refuse a task of this kind. of truth demands; it is full of push, and loud- The kind and discerning friend who proposed ness, personal vanity, and the zest of combat: it I met by exposing my own unfitness in the so it seemed to me that no one could have matter of knocking about, and I said, "Mr. much of it without loss, not only of self-re-So-and-so is your man; he will do it better spect, but also of fineness of perception and clearness of conscience. As unpleasant in another way was what we may perhaps call the clever "club" talk of literary men. Here you find men trying apparently which can say the smartest thing-to quote a mot of a living writer of admirable vers de société, "they call than I shall in many respects." My friend spaces of meditation, such as would come | ply with those which demand some sacrifice of down by main force upon my pen-may make truthfulness, self-respect, and clearness of consure of earning money by literature. The practical upshot of most of the foregoing memoranda is this: It so happened that I usually got into print when I desired it: that my very first article "professionally" written was printed in good company; and that I had few difficulties outside of my own personal peculiarities. But how was this? Just thus (shade of Artemus Ward!): I had for years made the working literature of the day a study; knew the things that tended to exclude a man's writing from magazines and newspapers, and the special points that I had to guard against. Is there anything wrong in suggesting that not one in a thousand of the class called "literary aspirants" has ever made the working literature of the hour a systematic study? The articles, like the books, of the class called literary aspirants are usually rejected, even when they have merit, upon what may be termed points of literary form. This paragraph is good, and that is good, and this other is really fine; but the whole thing wants licking into shape. Thus, an editor or reviewer of experience and vision can almost certainly tell amateur work at a glance. See some interesting remarks by Mr. Herman Merivale in a recent "Junius" paper in the Cornhill upon the ease with which literary work is recognized as that of a practised pen. We are sometimes told and thousands of "aspirants" think with bitterness-that the distinction between the amateur and the practised writer is idle, because everybody is an amateur to begin with. But I have shown that this is not true. In spite of long practice in the use of the pen, I made working literature a deliberate study, and others have done the same; that is, they have not relied on mere aptitude. "Look," says the writer of a formless novel, "look at Jane Eyre!'" Well, by all means look at "Jane Eyre;" you can hardly look at a more instructive case. Currer Bell did not succeed as an amateur; she had been a hard student of the conditions of success, and she attended to them so far as her knowledge went, and so far as she desired to use them. Of literary ambition proper she had none, nor-if I may speak of myself in the same sentence-have I. But whatever one's motive or impulse may be in writing, he must pay some attention to matters of literary form, and he must comply with such of them as have a just and natural foundation. He is, in fact, as much bound to comply with these as he is bound not to com science. Paradoxical as some may think it, the chief hindrance to honest literary success is literary vainglory to begin with. This involves splash, false fire, chaotic "out-lay" (to use a surveyor's phrase) of the work, and foolish and exaggerated ideas of the "success" within reach. There was a one-volume novel published a year or two ago, in which a young journalist, whose suit had been rejected by a young lady's "'aughty" mother, and who is under a cloud for a time, makes money at a rate which must have set every journalist in England laughing, and then suddenly blazes out in the society of dukes and cabinet ministers because he has written a crushing exposure in a daily paper of the probable working of "clause 5" of a certain bill. This particular book was a very innocent one, and no more vainglorious than Currer Bell's notions of the Duke of Wellington. In that specimen sheet of her handwriting given by Mrs. Gaskell in the memoir, she shows us the duke at the war-office, putting on his hat at five minutes to four, telling the clerks that they might go, and scattering "largess" among the clerks with a liberal hand as he takes his leave for the day. Sancta simplicitas! we cry; and there is an end. But every writing man knows that "aspirants," as a class, are eaten up with vainglory. They want distinction and the run of the pleasures of a “literary" life as they apprehend them. They have visions of the tenth thousand, and flaming reviews, and gorgeous society. I see with infinite amusement the ideas some people have of the sort of life I lead. They think-they almost tell me so in words-that I have always got my pocket full of orders for the theatre; that I can button-hole anybody I please; that I go to the queen's garden-parties; that I sit with a halo round my head in gilded saloons, saying, or hearing said, brilliant mots; that I drink champagne with actresses behind the scenes; and that, if they offend me, I shall at once put them in Punch or the Times. I have also been told-almost point-blank in some cases-that it was only my jealousy and desire to "keep others down" that prevented my procuring immediate admission into periodicals for articles submitted to me by A. or B., which were perhaps of the silliest and most despicable quality. I have had this said or hinted to my face, or behind my back, about articles that were utterly unprintable, at times when my own papers had been waiting months three, six, or eight months-for insertion in places where I had what is called "interest." People who have-who are capable of having -notions of this kind I would certainly do my best to keep out of literature; not, however, from "jealousy," but because they are morally unfit for it. Beauteous as blest, O Naiad, thou must be! Of form and hue, of silence and of sound, Into thy cell of sleep? The water parts This opens the way for a word or two which Lucid as air around, thy head it lies If anybody thinks there is too much of what is called "egotism" in these notes, I disagree with him. It is a pity I have not had the moral courage to be more "egotistic" still, and I wish other people would set me the example. This is a world in which you cannot wear your heart upon your sleeve; but it is for a base and disgusting reason-namely, that there are so many daws and other unclean birds about. It was not my intention to append my signature, but the editor did it, and his judgment in such a matter is better than mine. MATTHEW BROWNE. LOUGHRIG TARN. Thou guardian Naiad of this little lake, Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell, In steadfast smiles of more essential light, Not undelightful to the quiet breast To her seem lovely as the western sky Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, This is the solitude that reason loves! 9 Devoutly blending in his happy soul side, Rejoicing in its clustering cottages, Appears to me a paradise preserved From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreathi Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to heaven, Thy sanctity Time yet hath reverenced; and I deeply feel O gentlest lake! from all unhallow'd things This is a holy faith, and full of cheer JOHN WILSON. "BUY A BROOM?" [Thomas Aird, born at Bowden, Roxburghshire, 28th August, 1802. He early distinguished himself as a poet, and his collected poetical works reached the fourth edition in 1863. The Devil's Dream on Mount Aksbeck was one of his most popular productions; but his realistic painting of the varying aspects of nature are quite as powerful, although not so startling. As a tale-writer he also won high reputation in the days of Scott, Wilson, and Galt. Many of his compositions first appeared in Blackwood. He was some time editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and he was subse quently appointed editor of the Dumfries Herald, which post he held for about twenty-four years. He retired from active labour a few years ago to enjoy his wellearned leisure. Of his prose works the chief are-Th Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village, a volume of tales and sketches, and a biography of D. M. Moir, pre fixed to an edition of the latter's poems. The following tale, on its first appearance in Blackwood's Magazine, became exceedingly popular, and dramatic versions of it were produced in London and Edinburgh. It now forms one of Mr. Aird's delightful series of Sketches and Tales.] CHAPTER I. One beautiful afternooon, about the beginning of the barley and wheat harvest, young Frederick Hume arose from his desk, where, for several hours, he had been plodding at his studies, and, to unbend himself a little, went to his window, which commanded a view of the neighbouring village of Holydean. A stillness almost like that of the Sabbath reigned over the hamlet, for the busy season had called the youngsters forth to the field, the sunburned sickleman and his fair partner. Boys and girls were away to glean: and none were left but a few young children who were playing quietly on the green; two or three ancient grandame who sat spinning at their doors in the rich sunlight; and here and there a happy young mother, exempted by the duties of nurse from the harvest toils. A single frail octogenarian, who, in hobbling to the almost deserted smithy, had paused, with the curiosity of age, to look long beneath his upraised arm after the stranger horseman, who was just going out of sight at the extremity of the village, completed the picture of still and quiet life which our student was now contemplating. After raising the window, and setting open the door to win inte his little apartment the liquid coolness which was nestling among the green fibrous leaves around the casement, he had resumed his station and was again looking towards the village. when, hearing a light foot approach the door of his study, he turned round, and a young female stranger was before him. On seeing him she paused at the threshold, made a sort of reverence, and seemed willing to retire. From her dark complexion, her peculiar dress, especially the head-gear, which consisted merely of a spotted handkerchief wound round her black locks, Hume guessed at once that she was a foreigner; and he was confirmed in this supposition when, on his advancing and asking, "What do you wish, my good girl?" she held forward a light broom, and said, in the quick short pronunciation of a foreigner, "Buy a broom?"-"Pray what is the use of it, my good lass?" said Frederick, in that mood in which a man, conscious that he has finished a dry lesson to some purpose, is very ready to indulge in a little badinage and light banter. "For beard-shaving," answered the girl quiz zically, and stroking his chin once or twice with her broom, as if with a shaving-brush. It might be she was conscious that he was not exactly the person to buy her broom: or perhaps she assumed this light mood for a moment, and gave way to the frank and natural feeling of youth, which by a fine free-masonry knows and answers to youth, despite of differences in language and manners,-despite of everything. Most literally an argumentum ad hominem, to make me buy," said the scholar; "so what is the price, fair stranger?" "No, no," said the girl, in quick reaction from her playful mood, whilst a tear started in her dark lustrous eye, "but they bid me come: they say you are a doctor: and if you will be kind and follow me to my poor brother, you shall have many brooms." On inquiring distinctly what the girl meant, our student was given to understand, that her only brother, who had come with her as a harper to this country, had fallen sick at a gentleman's house about a mile off, and that she, on learning Mr. Frederick Hume was the only person within many miles who could pretend to medical skill, had come herself to take him to her poor Antonio. After learning farther the symptoms of the lad's illness, the young surgeon took his lancets and some simple medicine, and readily followed the girl, who led the way to a neat villa, which, as Frederick had heard, was the residence of an Italian gentleman of the name of Romelli. He had been an officer in the French service, and had come to this country with other prisoners; but instead of returning home on an exchange being made, he chose to continue in Scotland with his only daughter, who had come over to him from Italy, and who, Frederick had heard, was a young lady of surpassing beauty. Fol lowing his conductress to Romelli's house, Hume was shown into a room, where, reclining upon a sofa, was a boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, the features of whose pale face instantly testified him to be brother to the maid with the broom. He was ministered to by a young and most beautiful damsel, Signora Romelli herself, the daughter of the house, who seemed to be watching him with the softest care. At the head of the sofa stood the harp of the wandering boy. "I presumed, sir," said the lovely hostess, turning to Hume, "to hint that perhaps you might easily be found, and that certainly you would be very willing to take a little trouble in such a case as this. The affectionate sister has not been long in bringing you." "If the cause of humanity may be enforced by such kind and beautiful advocacy," returned Frederick, bowing, "the poor skill which you have thus honoured, young lady, is doubly bound, if necessary, to be most attentive in this instance. What is the matter with you, my little fellow?" continued he, advancing to the patient. "Nothing," was the boy's answer: and immediately he rose up and went to the window, from which he gazed, heedless of every one in the apartment. "I am afraid the boy is still very unwell," said Signora Romelli; "only look how pale he is, sir." Hume first looked to the boy's sister, to assure himself what was the natural healthy hue of these swarthy strangers; then turning to the boy himself, he could not but observe how much the dead yellow of his face differed from the life-bloom which glowed in her dark brown cheek. His eye at the same time burned with arrowy tips of restless lustre, such as are kindled by hectic fever. He resisted, however, all advances on the part of our surgeon to inquire farther into his state of health, impatiently declaring that he was now quite well; then resuming his harp, and taking his sister by the hand, he seemed in haste to be gone. My father is not at home," said the young lady of the house to Hume; "nevertheless they must abide here all night, for I can easily see that boy is unable to travel farther this evening: and besides they are of my own native country. Use your prerogative, sir, and don't let him go." 66 In spite of the surgeon's persuasions, however, and heedless of Signora Romelli and his sister, who joined in the remonstrance against his departure, the boy would be gone, even though at the same time he declared there was no place elsewhere where he wished particularly to be. "He is a capricious boy, to reject your excellent kindness, Miss Romelli," said |