ve, moving with
the times! One feels that the modern Temple of Love must be a sort of
Swan and Edgar's; the god himself a kind of celestial shop-walker; while
his mother, Venus, no doubt superintends the costume department. Quite
an Olympian Whiteley, this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing,
for, at the back of the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather
fat heart at the end of a string.

You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping child.
You would say to her--"Awake from such dreams. The contents of a
pawnbroker's store-room will not bring you happiness. Dream of love
if you will; that is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. 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. Shun this roaring
gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the 'World of art and
letters.' Let its clowns and its contortionists fight among themselves
for the plaudits and the halfpence of the mob. Let it be