I saw, too, that he handled
it in a loving sort of way; the tenderness he would have bestowed on a
wife and children had to find a channel somewhere, and what more natural
than that he should look fondly on the volume which held the thoughts
that had rolled themselves smooth and round in his mind like pebbles on a
beach, the dreams which, under cover of the simple artifices such as all
writers use, told the little world of readers his secret hopes and
aspirations, the fancies which had pleased him and which he could not
bear to let die without trying to please others with them? I have a
great sympathy with authors, most of all with unsuccessful ones. If one
had a dozen lives or so, it would all be very well, but to have only a
single ticket in the great lottery, and have that drawn a blank, is a
rather sad sort of thing. So I was pleased to see the affectionate kind
of pride with which the Master handled his book; it was a success, in its
way, and he looked on it with a cheerful sense that he had a right to be
proud of it. The Master opened the volume, and, putting on his large
round glasses, began reading, as authors love to read that love their
books.
--The only good reason for believing in the stability of the moral order
of things is to be found in the tolerable steadiness of human averages.
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