good the supply of right thought for mankind. And on such as have the power is laid the requirement to exert it. Thoughts force themselves upon the mind, at times, which will not suffer concealment. And let him who hears it be "not disobedient unto the heavenly" mandate, but be faithful to the high trust imposed upon him. "Where much has been given, much will be required;" and not only the possessor of ten talents, but also he who has but one, will not be held guiltless, if he dig in the earth and bury it. Whatsoever of truth thou hast caught, O student, in thy communings with thy Maker or his creations, whatever experience thou hast derived from thy intercourse with mankind, whatever of goodness, or of beauty, thou hast discovered in the world, do thou publish all these, for the benefit of thy fellow-men. And if thy heart is merry, and thine eye is quick to catch the sunny views of life, Ó sing thy cheering song and tell the tale of mirth to enliven the spirits of the weary multitude. But, leaving it proven or granted that literature does exert an important influence on the world, and that it behooves every one who has a thought beyond the common range to transcribe it for the use of others,-considering this acknowledged, it would still be a question of some interest to examine, What benefits shall the author derive from thus laboring for the good of others? What are the rewards of authorship? Duty must be followed for its own sake, but mortal energies need encouragement from the hope of recompense. "I am willing to work hard," says the laborer, "if I may but receive some acknowledgment of my labors." Why, it may be said, the author has but adopted one of the numerous ways of acquiring a livelihood, and if he succeed in gaining a competence, what more can he expect? Now, as, in the first part of this essay, I have not endeavored to show that authorship should, or may be, followed as a profession, but that he who has the gift should give publication to his best thoughts whatever be his calling, so I shall not attempt now to consider whether writing may or may not realize sufficient pecuniary reward to make it a means of gaining a living. To be adopted as a pursuit, it must, of course, be able to support him who adopts it. It has sometimes been thought unable to do this. A writer in the "Museum," however, endeavors to vindicate authors from the charge of poverty, by showing that this, when it exists, results either from their having mistaken their vocation, or from prodigality that would have ruined them under any circumstances. But whether the majority of writers have enriched themselves, or have lived in garrets, it is not my purpose to consider. Even if authorship be chosen as a profession, it is to be supposed that he who chooses it will have some higher end in view than the mere acquisition of wealth. To be sure, it must doubtless be no small pleasure to the youthful author to receive the first hard dollars which his writings have earned him. But if he engage in his duties with the right spirit, a comfortable maintenance or even wealth will not satisfy him. His profession needs peculiar rewards as it has peculiar discouragements. The farmer's labors are always attended with direct and obvious results. Every hour witnesses a certain number of furrows turned, or a certain amount of seed sown. It is not so with the author. His labor is not only internal and unperceived, but is also often unattended by any visible product. Many a weary hour measures off his toiling, unmarked by a single satisfactory result. Many an uninspired moment must he rack his brains for the thoughts which will not come. Nor is this all. "If when 'twere done, 'twere well done," it would not be so bad. But to the author, perhaps more than to any other, comes a train of petty annoyances when his work is finished. By being dwelt upon it has grown vapid and tedious. Dissatisfaction and uncertainty creep over him. He is doubtful if he may not have been expressing truisms or untruths. And then, when it is fairly out into the world, come the harsh probings of the critic, and the consequent despondency or indignation. What are the rewards which shall offset these trials? And here, if I were to speak of the desired.rather than 34* the attained, I should be forced to mention fame. Who can say how many hearts are, at this moment, throbbing in unison at the thought, and quickening at the sound, of fame. O rich reward, to have our names become as household words, and the plaudits of our genius echoed across the waters from the shores of another hemisphere! What a mighty agency is this controlling love for the applause of others! The soul, conscious of its powers and its exalted destiny, struggles to realize its lofty position here on earth, and would rather burst its bonds than live among its fellow-souls, "unhonored and unknown." "Nature cares not, Although her loveliness should ne'er be seen Unless his fellows can behold his deeds, He cares not to be great." Too often, doubtless, has this desire become an insane passion for notoriety,-notoriety at whatever price, and in whatever direction. But the desire of the writer to become known of men is to a certain degree, unob jectionable. It is right enough to wish to have our merits acknowledged, and even a good man will be glad to extend his influence by increasing his publicity. The assent and encouragement of the intelligent world is a great inducement to manly effort. A man who is eager to impart instruction, or give pleasure, will properly desire to do this for the greatest possible number. He will not shrink from attracting attention, but if called upon to meet the gaze of the world will try to do it manfully. But when glory has become the ruling passion of the soul, and the writer in his study has an ear-drum ever stretched for the applauses of the multitude, when his cry is "O, fame! fame! fame! next grandest word to God!" then has he lost the meaning of his high vocation, the truth will suffer violence at his hands, and it will be far better for him to find the object of his passion unmoved, “like the sphinx, staring right on with calm, eternal eyes," than that his burning wishes should be granted him. To be faithful to his trust, the author must make all love of show or applause succumb to the one purpose of being true to his best thoughts-of expressing them in their naturalness and purity. Says Longfellow, "It were better, therefore, that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them or within them for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame-namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself." Though fame is not to be coveted, still it is not to be avoided, either present or posthumus. To have our names survive us is a high responsibility, but it is not to be dreaded nor shunned. It will be a joy to a christian soul, to be the medium of truth to others, or the exemplar of a true life. Let us conclude, then, that fame, or the applause of many, is not to be set up by the author as an anticipated reward, but that he may look for a recompense in the pleasure of influencing the minds of others. There is a pleasure in "making our minds the minds of other men." There is a delight in knowing that, "a small drop of ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." It is a joy to feel that when some great or good thought has been whispered into our souls, or when an old truth has presented itself in a new and more persuasive form, we may multiply the pleasure or the benefit derived therefrom, to every soul within our reach. Says a writer, "To come into contact with other minds, even though for limited periods to move them by a silent influence-to coöperate in the construction of character to mould the habits of thought-to promote the dominion of truth and virtue to exercise a spell over those we have never seen and never can see-in other climes-at the extremity of the globe, and when the hand that wrote is still forever, is surely a most wonderful and even awful prerogative." And a high commission certainly it is. Happy the author who has given utterance only to his pure and noble thoughts, who has given only the better part of his nature as an example to the world, and "dying, left no line he wished to blot." But woe to those, blind guides, who having power to think and set their thoughts before the minds of others, do prostitute their natural capacities to the service of sin, and exert an unholy influence upon the minds and hearts of their fellow-creatures. They sow tares instead of that good seed which would bring forth, "some thirty, some sixty, and some an hundred fold." Methinks of such, the great Teacher would exclaim, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, they have their reward." Again, the author finds a pleasure in his employment itself. A writer, whom I have once before quoted, speaks of the "pleasure of composition, as perhaps, after all, the greatest of the author's rewards; just as, in so many other cases, happiness is found, not in the object we professedly seek, but in the efforts we make to obtain it, and in the energetic employment of our faculties." It is true, I have previously spoken of the dissatisfaction and discouragements of the employment, but of course these are not constant nor predominant. There must be something to buoy up the mind in its labors. First comes the conception of the work, just dawning on the mind, its outlines indistinct and its details undetected in the distance, beautiful and enticing in its wholeness. This is the beau ideal which is to lure him on to the accomplishment. And then, when the subject has become a nucleus in the mind, and thoughts are hovering round and drawn towards it, it is a pleasure, less unmixed though it may be, to exert his power to adapt them all, and to perceive the parts assuming their proper places, and shaping themselves into symmetry and beauty. The author has the joy of expressing what he feels in the way he likes to express it. And that this is no mean joy we have the tes timony of Coleridge. He says, "I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings, and I consider myself as amply repaid without either: poetry has been to me its own 'exceeding great reward."" That is a delicate delight of the writer's, after tracing a thought through the avenues of the mind, to secure it long enough to have it daguerreotyped to see it expressed in the best and only way, and definitely comprehensible to other intellects than the one where it was born. "Oft a fine thought would flush his face divine, |