ng than the
colour of his hair, and that he must write as he does or not at all.

With the public generally he is not a favourite. He is admitted to have
talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind,
and no matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest.
His first book was a success for reasons which I have already explained,
but none of his others have been more than creditable failures. He is
one of those unfortunate men, each one of whose books is sneered at by
literary critics as soon as it comes out, but becomes "excellent reading"
as soon as it has been followed by a later work which may in its turn be
condemned.

He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him over
and over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing
I can say to him which makes him angry with me.

"What can it matter to me," he says, "whether people read my books or
not? It may matter to them--but I have too much money to want more, and
if the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by. I do not
know nor greatly care whether they are good or not. What opinion can any
sane man form about his own work? Some people must write stupid books
just as there must be junior ops and third class poll men. Why should I
complain of being among the mediocrities? If a man is not absolutely
below mediocrity let him be thankful--besides, the books will have to
stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better."

I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. "Mr Pontifex," he
said, "is a _homo unius libri_, but it doesn't do to tell him so."

I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in
Ernest's literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure
was all the more hopeless for the fact of his having once made a _coup_.
"He is in a very solitary position, Mr Overton," continued the publisher.
"He has formed no alliances, and has made enemies not only of the
religious world but of the literary and scientific brotherhood as well.
This will not do nowadays. If a man wishes to get on he must belong to a
set, and Mr Pontifex belongs to no set--not even to a club."

I replied, "Mr Pontifex is the exact likeness of Othello, but with a
difference--he hates not wisely but too well. He would dislike the
literary and scientific swells if he were to come to know them and they
him; there is no natural solidarity betwee