magazine,--such a
man as Stanley, for example,--should take the only line by which he
can attain distinction. But that a man before whom the two paths of
literature and politics lie open, and who might hope for eminence
in either, should choose politics, and quit literature, seems to me
madness. On the one side is health, leisure, peace of mind, the search
after truth, and all the enjoyments of friendship and conversation.
On the other side is almost certain ruin to the constitution, constant
labour, constant anxiety. Every friendship which a man may have, becomes
precarious as soon as he engages in politics. As to abuse, men soon
become callous to it, but the discipline which makes them callous is
very severe. And for what is it that a man who might, if he chose, rise
and lie down at his own hour, engage in any study, enjoy any amusement,
and visit any place, consents to make himself as much a prisoner as
if he were within the rules of the Fleet; to be tethered during eleven
months of the year within the circle of half a mile round Charing Cross;
to sit, or stand, night after night for ten or twelve hours, inhaling a
noisome atmosphere, and listening to harangues of which nine-tenths are
far below the level of a leading article in a newspaper? For what is
it that he submits, day after day, to see the morning break over the
Thames, and then totters home, with bursting temples, to his bed? Is
it for fame? Who would compare the fame of Charles Townshend to that of
Hume, that of Lord North to that of Gibbon, that of Lord Chatham to that
of Johnson? Who can look back on the life of Burke and not regret that
the years which he passed in ruining his health and temper by political
exertions were not passed in the composition of some great and durable
work? Who can read the letters to Atticus, and not feel that Cicero
would have been an infinitely happier and better man, and a not less
celebrated man, if he had left us fewer speeches, and more Academic
Questions and Tusculan Disputations; if he had passed the time which he
spent in brawling with Vatinius and Clodius in producing a history
of Rome superior even to that of Livy? But these, as I said, are
meditations in a quiet garden, situated far beyond the contagious
influence of English action. What I might feel if I again saw Downing
Street and Palace Yard is another question. I tell you sincerely my
present feelings.

I have cast up my reading account, and brought it to the