stared her in the face. That agreement was very widely drawn. It bound
her to offer all literary work of any sort, that might come from her pen
during the next five years, to Messrs. Meeson at the fixed rate of seven
per cent, on the published price. Obviously, as it seemed to her, though
perhaps erroneously, this clause might be stretched to include even a
newspaper article, and she knew the malignant nature of Mr. Meeson well
enough to be quite certain that, if possible, that would be done. It was
true she might manage to make a bare living out of her work, even at the
beggarly pay of seven per cent, but Augusta was a person of spirit, and
determined that she would rather starve than that Meeson should again
make huge profits out of her labour. This avenue being closed to her, she
turned her mind elsewhere; but, look where she might, the prospect was
equally dark.

Augusta's remarkable literary success had not been of much practical
advantage to her, for in this country literary success does not mean so
much as it does in some others. As a matter of fact, indeed, the average
Briton has, at heart, a considerable contempt, if not for literature, at
least for those who produce it. Literature, in his mind, is connected
with the idea of garrets and extreme poverty; and, therefore, having the
national respect for money, he in secret, if not in public, despises it.
A tree is known by its fruit, says he. Let a man succeed at the Bar, and
he makes thousands upon thousands a year, and is promoted to the highest
offices in the State. Let a man succeed in art, and he will be paid one
or two thousand pounds apiece for his most "pot-boilery" portraits. But
your literary men--why, with a few fortunate exceptions, the best of them
barely make a living. What can literature be worth, if a man can't make a
fortune out of it? So argues the Briton--no doubt with some of his sound
common sense. Not that he has no respect for genius. All men bow to true
genius, even when they fear and envy it. But he thinks a good deal more