Page:OptimismBlood.djvu/103

glorious heart. The souls that dwell in cities are cramped by the walls that surround them; but the eye of the sailor sees, beyond the round bulge of the globe, the ports of foreign nations. His soul expands with the expanse of sea and sky, and the world is his home—he lives on it, and not in it.

Mark the young aspirant for literary fame. Fresh in the world he knows but little of, he sees fame's temple in the hazy sky, dreamy and beautiful,—and he must enter. Glowing words and fiery fancies, or romantic melancholy and piratical gloom, he pours out for the edification of those of his own experience. Though he succeed, his success is despised by maturer years. But oftener he will fail, and fail by rule. We cannot write a book until we have lived a book. Good books are not often specially written for the market. They are incidental; and their merit is often unintentional. There are books of the day, and men who know how to write them, and who know just how much they are worth. Verily the men have their reward. They sit with their publisher, and smoke in his easy chair, and commend him when he assures a new comer with a manuscript under his arm "that it is not always the best book that sells best." They will consult the publisher as to what subject they shall treat next year; talk of the "coming man," the "model" work; conjecture what style of writing shall be next in luck; smile at the success of ingenious puffing, and dub the generous public a vile pack of asses. Verily, they have their reward, and they will understand our meaning.