former excessive animosity, and he shortly afterwards received from his Lordship a letter, proposing two questions for his consideration; namely, whether literature would gain by the active encouragement of government, and if so, in what way such encouragement could be most advantageously given? Southey, in his reply, observes that co-operative labour seemed necessary for large works, and that some national institution would enlist sharp-shooting pamphleteers in the cause of order, but it is doubtful whether with our present manners and modes of thinking any such organization is practicable; and if practicable, whether it would be productive of any essential benefit. "With regard to prizes," he writes, "methinks they are better left to schools and colleges. Honours are worth something to scientific men, because they are conferred on such in other countries, while at home there are precedents for them in Newton and Davy, and the physicains and surgeons have them. In my judgment, men of letters are better without them, unless they are rich enough to bequeath to their family a good estate with the bloody hand, and sufficiently men of the world to think such distinctions appropriate. For myself, if we had a Guelphic Order, I should choose to remain a Ghibelline."
To these sentiments we heartily subscribe, and strongly protest against the view put forward by a witty contemporary novelist, who contends, that a book-maker ought to be knighted, because his wife would like to be called "My Lady." Authorship has been regarded as a profession, it is daily degenerating into a trade; it ought to be neither. Let worldly honours be granted for actions they may not incongruously embellish. To literary men, as such, they are absurd and out of place.
But few of Southey's works proved lucrative. Their tardy sale stands in remarkable contrast with the rapidity
