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"They say me: Thou shinest a light to mankind * With thy lore as the night which the Moon doth uplight! I answer, "A truce to your jests and your gibes; * Without luck what is learning? a poor-devil wight!
Theories are for the poor-devil outcast, for him who stands outside the confectioner's shop of life without a penny in his pocket, while the radiant purchasers pass in and out through the doors, for him who watches with wistful eyes this and that sugared marvel taken out of the window by mysterious hands, to bless some happy customer inside.
I once kept high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, and vapid, and genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested by my landlady and thrown into prison; where a course of catch-clubs, eight-penny ale, and poor-devil company, manured my mind and brought it back to itself again."
A few more such audiences and the money will be in sight! And let me add, I am done with literary women henceforth literature herself shall be my sole mistress. I am more than ever convinced that the profession of letters is the only one fit for a man of brain. There is little money in it, of course, but I'd rather be a poor-devil author earning a bare living than a king.
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