But if you do enter,the condition is well kn:"Talk;who can talk best here?His shall be the mouth of gold,and the purse of gold;and with my [Gr.]mitra (once the head-dress of unfortunate females,I am told)shall his sacred temples be begirt."Ingenuous souls,unless forced to it,do much shudder at the threshold of both these careers,and a few desperately turn back into the wilderness rather,to front a very rude fortune,and be devoured by wild beasts as is likeliest.But as to Parliament,again,and its eligibility if attainable,there is yet question anywhere;the ingenuous soul,if possessed of money-capital egh,is predestined by the parental and all manner of monitors to that career of talk;and accepts it with alacrity and clearness of heart,doubtful only whether he shall be able to make a speech.Courage,my brave young fellow.If you can climb a soaped pole of any kind,you will certainly be able to make a speech.All mortals have a tongue;and carry on some jumble,if of thought,yet of stuff which they could talk.The weakest of animals has got a cry in it,and can give voice before dying.If you are tough egh,bent upon it desperately egh,I engage you shall make a speech;--but whether that will be the way to Heaven for you,I do engage.
These,then,are our two careers for genius:mute Industrialism,which can seldom become very human,but remains beaverish mainly:and the three Professions named learned,--that is to say,able to talk.For the heroic or higher kinds of human intellect,in the silent state,there is the smallest inquiry anywhere;apparently a thing wanted in this country at present.What the supply may be,I can inform M'Croudy;but the market-demand,he may himself see,is nil .These are our three professions that require human intellect in part or whole,able to do with mere beaverish;and such a part does the gift of talk play in one and all of them.Whatsoever is beaverish seems to go forth in the shape of talk.To such length is human intellect wasted or suppressed in this world!
If the young aspirant is rich egh for Parliament,and is deterred by the basilisks or otherwise from entering on Law or Church,and can altogether reduce his human intellect to the beaverish condition,or satisfy himself with the prospect of ****** money,--what becomes of him in such case,which is naturally the case of very many,and ever of more?In such case there remains but one outlet for him,and ably egh that too is a talking one:the outlet of Literature,of trying to write Books.Since,owing to preliminary basilisks,want of cash,or superiority to cash,he can mount aloft by eloquent talking,let him try it by dexterous eloquent writing.Here happily,having three fingers,and capital to buy a quire of paper,he can try it to all lengths and in spite of all mortals:in this career there is happily public impediment that can turn him back;hing but private starvation--which is itself a finis or kind of goal--can pretend to hinder a British man from prosecuting Literature to the very utmost,and wringing the final secret from her:"A talent is in thee;talent is in thee."To the British subject who fancies genius may be lodged in him,this liberty remains;and truly it is,if well computed,almost the only one he has.
A crowded portal this of Literature,accordingly!The haven of expatriated spiritualisms,and alas also of expatriated vanities and prurient imbecilities:here do the windy aspirations,foiled activities,foolish ambitions,and frustrate human energies reduced to the vocable condition,fly as to the one refuge left;and the Republic of Letters increases in population at a faster rate than even the Republic of America.The strangest regiment in her Majesty's service,this of the Soldiers of Literature:--would your Lordship much like to march through Coventry with them?The immortal gods are there (quite irrecognizable under these disguises),and also the lowest broken valets;--an extremely miscellaneous regiment.In fact the regiment,superficially viewed,looks like an immeasurable motley flood of discharged play-actors,funambulists,false prophets,drunken ballad-singers;and marches as a regiment,but as a boundless canaille,--without drill,uniform,captaincy or billet;with huge over-proportion of drummers;you would say,a regiment gone wholly to the drum,with hardly a good musket to be seen in it,--more a canaille than a regiment.Canaille of all the loud-sounding levities,and general winings of Chaos,marching through the world in a most omis manner;proclaiming,audibly if you have ears:"Twelfth hour of the Night;ancient graves yawning;pale clammy Puseyisms screeching in their winding-sheets;owls busy in the City regions;many goblins abroad!Awake ye living;dream more;arise to judgment!
Chaos and Gehenna are broken loose;the Devil with his Bedlams must be flung in chains again,and the Last of the Days is about to dawn!"Such is Literature to the reflective soul at this moment.