sted in
dingy anterooms (and of all anterooms those of editors appear to me to be
the dreariest), he got a _bona fide_ offer of employment from one of the
first class weekly papers through an introduction I was able to get for
him from one who had powerful influence with the paper in question. The
editor sent him a dozen long books upon varied and difficult subjects,
and told him to review them in a single article within a week. In one
book there was an editorial note to the effect that the writer was to be
condemned. 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
saleable. 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.

"What care I," said he to me one day, "about being what they call a
gentleman?" And his manner was almost fierce.

"What has being a gentleman ever done for me except make me less able to
prey and more easy to be preyed upon? It has changed the manner of my
being swindled, that is all. But for your kindness to me I should be
penniless. Thank heaven I have placed my children where I have."

I begged him to keep quiet a little longer and not talk about taking a
shop.

"Will being a gentleman," he said, "bring me money at the last, and will
anything bring me as much peace at the last as money will? They say that
those who ha