cy in
another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able
to make a living--though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan
to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the
other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not
everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and
yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as
Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals.

In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with
writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an
unworked field--be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place
but plain England!)--are the chief factors. For that more lasting
success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as
imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you
honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these
great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter--but Heaven forbid that
I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do
you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet--not
to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other
planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as
yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound,
and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited
neglect--Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute.

Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that
it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And,
for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers,
we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends.
As Whitman would say--because you are not Editor of _The Times_, do you
give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never
entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat
in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you
whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly
five-shilling pieces.

A POET IN THE CITY

'In the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.'

I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically)
only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of
drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which