'
'I do not wonder at it; he printed only two hundred and fifty; he
gave away five-and-twenty, and I am sure nearly two hundred were sold
as wastepaper.'
'He is a friend of yours?'
'He was a friend; he is dead; he was an usher in a private school,
although you might have supposed, from the title selected, that he
was a clerk. I told him it was useless to publish, and his
publishers told him the same thing.'
'I should have thought that some notice would have been taken of him;
he is so evidently worth it.'
'Yes, but although he was original and reflective, he had no
particular talent. His excellence lay in criticism and observation,
often profound, on what came to him every day, and he was valueless
in the literary market. A talent of some kind is necessary to genius
if it is to be heard. So he died utterly unrecognised, save by one
or two personal friends who loved him dearly. He was peculiar in the
depth and intimacy of his friendships. Few men understand the
meaning of the word friendship. They consort with certain companions
and perhaps very earnestly admire them, because they possess
intellectual gifts, but of friendship, such as we two, Morris and I
(for that was his real name) understood it, they know nothing.'
'Do you believe, that the good does not necessarily survive?'
'Yes and no; I believe that power every moment, so far as our eyes
can follow it, is utterly lost.
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