The profession of letters has been lately debated in the public prints; and it has been debated, to putthe matter mildly, from a point of view that was calculated to surprise high-minded men, and bring ageneral contempt on books and reading. Some time ago, in particular, a lively, pleasant, popularwriter [47b] devoted an essay, lively and pleasant like himself, to a very encouraging view of theprofession. We may be glad that his experience is so cheering, and we may hope that all others, whodeserve it, shall be as handsomely rewarded; but I do not think we need be at all glad to have thisquestion, so important to the public and ourselves, debated solely on the ground of money. Thesalary in any business under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the first, question. That you shouldcontinue to exist is a matter for your own consideration; but that your business should be firsthonest, and second useful, are points in which honour and morality are concerned. If the writer towhom I refer succeeds in persuading a number of young persons to adopt this way of life with aneye set singly on the livelihood, we must expect them in their works to follow profit only, and wemust expect in consequence, if he will pardon me the epithets, a slovenly, base, untrue, and emptyliterature. Of that writer himself I am not speaking: he is diligent, clean, and pleasing; we all owehim periods of entertainment, and he has achieved an amiable popularity which he has adequatelydeserved. But the truth is, he does not, or did not when he first embraced it, regard his professionfrom this purely mercenary side. He went into it, I shall venture to say, if not with any noble design, at least in the ardour of a first love; and he enjoyed its practice long before he paused to calculate thewage. The other day an author was complimented on a piece of work, good in itself andexceptionally good for him, and replied, in terms unworthy of a commercial traveller that as thebook was not briskly selling he did not give a copper farthing for its merit. It must not be supposedthat the person to whom this answer was addressed received it as a profession of faith; he knew, onthe other hand, that it was only a whiff of irritation; just as we know, when a respectable writer talksof literature as a way of life, like shoemaking, but not so useful, that he is only debating one aspectof a question, and is still clearly conscious of a dozen others more important in themselves and morecentral to the matter in hand. But while those who treat literature in this penny-wise and virtuefoolish spirit are themselves truly in possession of a better light, it does not follow that the treatmentis decent or improving, whether for themselves or others. To treat all subjects in the highest, themost honourable, and the pluckiest spirit, consistent with the fact, is the first duty of a writer. If hebe well paid, as I am glad to hear he is, this duty becomes the more urgent, the neglect of it the moredisgraceful. And perhaps there is no subject on which a man should speak so gravely as thatindustry, whatever it may be, which is the occupation or delight of his life; which is his tool to earnor serve with; and which, if it be unworthy, stamps himself as a mere incubus of dumb and greedybowels on the shoulders of labouring humanity