"You speak of work;" he went on--"Now the nature of work I cannot exactly express, because it is a divine thing and is judged by a divine standard. One must consider in all work two things; first, the object for which it is undertaken, and secondly the way in which it is performed. All work should have a high and unselfish intent,--without this, it perishes and is not considered work at all,--not at least by the eternal judges invisible. If it _is_ work, truly and nobly done in every sense of the word, it carries with it its own reward, and the laurels descend from heaven shaped ready for wearing,--no earthly power can bestow them. I cannot give you _that_ fame,--but I have secured you a very fair imitation of it." I was obliged to acquiesce, though more or less morosely,--whereat I saw that he was somewhat amused. Unwilling to incur his contempt I said no more concerning the subject that was the nearest to my heart, and wore out many sleepless hours at night in trying to write a new book,--something novel and daring, such as should force the public to credit me with a little loftier _status_ than that obtained by the possession of a huge banking account. But the creative faculty seemed dead in me,--I was crushed by a sense of impotence and failure; vague ideas were in my brain that would not lend themselves to expression in words,--and such a diseased love of hypercriticism controlled me, that after a miserably nervous analysis of every page I wrote, I tore it up as soon as it was written, thus reducing myself to a state of mind that was almost unbearable.