contempt insupportable." Mr. Payne, the author of "Home, Sweet Home,"
had no home, and was inspired to the writing of his immortal song by a
walk through the streets one slushy night, and hearing music and
laughter inside a comfortable dwelling. The world-renowned Sheridan
said: "Mrs. Sheridan and I were often obliged to keep writing for our
daily shoulder of mutton; otherwise we should have had no dinner."
Mitford, while he was writing his most celebrated book, lived in the
fields, making his bed of grass and nettles, while two-pennyworth of
bread and cheese with an onion was his daily food. I know of no more
refreshing reading than the books of William Hazlitt. I take down from
my shelf one of his many volumes, and I know not when to stop reading.
So fresh and yet so old! But through all the volumes there comes a
melancholy, accounted for by the fact that he had an awful struggle for
bread. On his dying couch he had a friend write for him the following
letter to Francis Jeffrey:--

"Dear Sir,--I am at the last gasp. Please send me a hundred
pounds.--Yours truly,

"WILLIAM HAZLITT."

The money arrived the day after his death. Poor fellow! I wish he had
during his lifetime some of the tens of thousands of dollars that have
since been paid in purchase of his books. He said on one occasion to a
friend: "I have carried a volcano in my bosom up and down Paternoster
Row for a good two hours and a half. Can you lend me a shilling? I have
been without food these two days." My readers, to-day the struggle of a
good many literary people goes on. To be editor of a newspaper as I have
been, and see the number of unavailable manuscripts that come in, crying
out for five dollars, or anything to appease hunger and pay rent and get