is the calm and the solemnity of the grave; and we forget the ordeal through which they have passed to the temple. But look at any existing literary life—and we will speak only of the most successful—and who shall say that the loftiest head is not covered with dust and ashes? The first work is eminently successful, and the Eros of success has ever its Anteros of envy. Every unfortunate candidate thinks that the more fortunate stand between him and the sunshine of public favour. Then, how many are there who know no path to notoriety so easy as that which by attacking the already appreciated makes their very reputation a means, as well as a motive, for its injury. Then comes the struggle: this one is to be conciliated, the other intimidated; flattery becomes matter of exchange, and vanity self-defence; praise grows worthless in proportion as we know whence and wherefore it is given, and censure more bitter from the utter meanness of the censor. Again, the personal tone taken is revolting to a degree, the absurd and the malicious are blended, and some kind friend is always at hand to repeat. What must this be to all, and still more to one whose refined and reserved habits are so utterly at variance with the personality, the curiosity,
