Ernest particularly admired the book he was desired to condemn, and
feeling how hopeless it was for him to do anything like justice to the
books submitted to him, returned them to the editor.
At last one paper did actually take a dozen or so of articles from
him, and gave him cash down a couple of guineas apiece for them, but
having done this it expired within a fortnight after the last of
Ernest's articles had appeared. It certainly looked very much as if
the other editors knew their business in declining to have anything to
do with my unlucky godson.
I was not sorry that he failed with periodical literature, for
writing for reviews or newspapers is bad training for one who may
aspire to write works of more permanent interest. A young writer
should have more time for reflection than he can get as a
contributor to the daily or even weekly press. Ernest himself,
however, was chagrined at finding how unmarketable he was. "Why," he
said to me, "if I was a well-bred horse, or sheep, or a pure-bred
pigeon, or lop-eared rabbit I should be more salable. If I was even
a cathedral in a colonial town people would give me something, but
as it is they do not want me"; and now that he was well and rested
he wanted to set up a shop again, but this, of course, I would not
hear of.
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