"You are an author, sir," repeated Leonard. "Well, and what is the report of your calling? Yonder column props an urn. The column is tall, and the urn is graceful. But it looks out of place by the roadside: what say you?"
_Mr. Burley._--"It would look better in the churchyard."
_Leonard._--"So I was thinking. And you are an author!"
_Mr. Burley._--"Ah, I said you had a quick sense of allegory. And so you think an author looks better in a churchyard, when you see him but as a muffled urn under the moonshine, than standing beneath the gas-lamp, in a white hat, and with a red tip to his nose. Abstractedly, you are right. But, with your leave, the author would rather be where he is. Let us walk on." The two men felt an interest in each other, and they walked some yards in silence.
"To return to the urn," said Mr. Burley, "you think of fame and churchyards. Natural enough, before illusion dies; but I think of the moment, of existence--and I laugh at fame. Fame, sir--not worth a glass of cold without! And as for a glass of warm, with sugar--and five shillings in one's pocket to spend as one pleases--what is there in Westminster Abbey to compare with it?"
"Talk on, sir--I should like to hear you talk. Let me listen and hold my tongue." Leonard pulled his hat over his brows, and gave up his moody, questioning, turbulent mind to his new acquaintance.
And John Burley talked on. A dangerous and a fascinating talk it was--the talk of a great intellect fallen. A serpent trailing its length on the ground, and showing bright, shifting, glorious hues as it grovelled. A serpent, yet without the serpent's guile. If John Burley deceived and tempted, he meant it not--he crawled and glittered alike honestly. No dove could be more simple.
Laughing at fame, he yet dwelt with an elegant enthusiasm on the joy of composition. "What do I care what men without are to say and think of the words that gush forth on my page?" cried he. "If you think of the public, of urns, and laurels, while you write, you are no genius; you are not fit to be an author. I write because it rejoices me, because it is my nature. Written, I care no more what becomes of it than the lark for the effect that the song has on the peasant it wakes to the plough. The poet, like the lark, sings 'from his watch-tower in the skies.' Is this true?"
