But if we can forgive the publisher for succumbing to the business spirit of the age, we cannot as readily acquiesce in the huckstering spirit that has crept over literature. The "battle of the books" has become one of account-books, and the literary columns of the newspapers bristle with pecuniary paragraphs. Even the "chatter about Shelley" was better than the contemporary gossip about the takings of authors, for the most part vastly exaggerated. A paragraph which must have inflated him with pride led to a friend of mine being haled up before the Income Tax Commissioners. "How long have you been an author?" he was asked in addition. "Six years," he replied. "And you have only paid income tax for five!" was the horrified exclamation. Here is the nemesis of all this foolish fuss about _L. S. D._ The British mind now supposes authorship to be a trade, like any other. You go into it, and you at once begin to make a regular income; and, once successful, you go on steadily earning large sums, automatically. The thing works itself. You are never ill or uninspired; you are never to let your mind lie fallow, never to travel and gather new inspiration, never to shut up shop and loaf. You simply go on making so much a year--for do not the papers say so? And that you should cherish the immoral sentiments contained in the following stanzas, as at least two authors of my acquaintance do, is simply incredible to the envious Philistine. THE AUTHOR TO THE SYNDICATOR. Thou lord, of bloated syndicates, Thou master of the mint, Who payest at the highest rates And takest without stint, Go back, go back to wild New York, Go back across the sea; Go, corners make in beans and pork, No corners make in me. For thou art 'cute and thou art smart, No dead flies hang on thee; Thou carest not one jot for Art, But only _L. S. D._ Go 'back, go back, etc. Thy aims are low, thy profits high; Thy mind is only bent, Whatever live, whatever die, To scoop in cent per cent. Go back, go back, etc. To thee the greatest authors are Those who most greatly sell; But he whose soul is as a Star-- Why, he may go to H-ll! Go back, go back to wild New York, Go back across the sea; Go, corners make in beans and pork, No corners make in me.