"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which
have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe)
for the pure love of writing them."

"Oh!" said the Tinker.

"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea
of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and
marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts
untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow
creed or popular prejudice."

"Ah?" said the Tinker.

"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success,
for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to
please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of
mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and
leaves him in the mire."

"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"

"No," said I.

"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us--how then?"

"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."

"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners
of his eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"