I was never so startled in my life. It was a dread revelation of dissatisfaction and ennui, that might lead no one knew whither. "_Cui bono?_" I said. "Is there any pleasure on this earth comparable to the pleasure of acquiring knowledge? Is there any satisfaction equal to the continuous pursuit of ideas--always coming up to them, and passing them in the insatiable thirst and pursuit? Now, I see clearly that my tastes are not your tastes, and I was wrong in forcing the studies of the classics upon you. But take up philosophy, arrange a _horarium_ for the evenings--so much time for reading, so much for thinking, so much for writing--" "Ah! there you've struck it," he broke in. "If I could only write, I should always have an incentive, and a strong incentive for reading and studying what I read." "And why don't you write?" I repeated. "Paper is cheap; pens and ink don't cost much--" "Write for what, and for whom?" he cried. "Write for the magazines," I said. "Write brisk, crisp, lively articles for our reviews and periodicals; get paid for them; and then the ineffable pleasure of seeing your own work in print!" "And what if they were rejected contumeliously?" "Impossible," I replied; "there is room and to spare for good writers. Why, we are always crying out about the barrenness of our literature!" He had gone over to a portfolio, and had taken out a few rolls of manuscript, to each of which a letter was tagged. He handed them to me without a word. It needed only a glance to see that if the editors had used up all the polite words of the language, nevertheless, "Rejected!" was written in capital letters on every page. I knew well what it meant to a proud, sensitive spirit; and although it was only the usual probation for literary novices, it might have a different effect from successful training in the case of a thoughtful if irritable mind. I pretended to read carefully the two essays, the three short stories, and the half-dozen poems that had come back to the author's hands without proofs, whilst I was rapidly turning over in my mind what I should say or do; for the recollection of my own experience at his age led me to believe that this was a critical moment for him. Happy the stupid souls that can gaze, without the constant fretting of thought, into the fire for hours together! Happy we, who, going down the decline of life, have the brake put on by a merciful Providence, and the wheels move slowly, and day blends with night, and night dawns to day, almost imperceptibly! But thrice unhappy they in whose souls the mills of thought whirl round and round without ceasing the wheelstones that grind together, if the grist is not between! How often to dreaming poet and idealist has the eternal fretting of the wheels become intolerable, and then--