But these coloured beads, these Manchester goods! are you then--you,
heiress of all the ages--still at heart only as some poor savage
maiden but little removed above the monkeys that share the primeval
forest with her? Will you sell your gold to the first trader that
brings you THIS barter? These things, child, will only dazzle your
eyes for a few days. Do you think the Burlington Arcade is the gate
of Heaven?"
Ah, yes, I too could talk like that--I, writer of books, to the
young lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a literary career
leading to fame and fortune. "And do you think, lad, that by that
road you will reach Happiness sooner than by another? Do you think
interviews with yourself in penny weeklies will bring you any
satisfaction after the first halfdozen? Do you think the gushing
female who has read all your books, and who wonders what it must
feel like to be so clever, will be welcome to you the tenth time you
meet her? Do you think press cuttings will always consist of
wondering admiration of your genius, of paragraphs about your
charming personal appearance under the heading, 'Our Celebrities'?
Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary criticisms, of the spiteful
paragraphs, of the everlasting fear of slipping a few inches down
the greasy pole called 'popular taste,' to which you are condemned
to cling for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill,
struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, for the
woman who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; work,
think, and play, that will bring you happiness.
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