t" they could earn their own livelihood in
a variety of ways. Almost every man has some two or three or more
accomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support;
and remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever
been hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous
dislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional,
who, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own
performance.

Augustus Bramleigh was certainly not a conceited or a vain man, and yet
he had often, in his palmy days, imagined how easy it would be for him
to provide for his own support; he was something of a musician, he sang
pleasingly, he drew a little, he knew something of three or four modern
languages, he had that sort of smattering acquaintance with questions
of religion, politics, and literature which the world calls being
"well-informed;" and yet nothing short of grave Necessity revealed to
him that, towards the object of securing a livelihood, a cobbler in his
bulk was out and out his master.

The world has no need of the man of small acquirements, and would rather
have its shoes mended by the veriest botch of a professional than by the
cleverest amateur that ever studied a Greek sandal.

"Is it not strange, Nelly, that Brydges and Bowes won't take those songs
of mine?" said he, one morning, as the post brought him several letters.
"They say they are very pretty, and the accompaniments full of taste,
but so evidently wanting in originality--such palpable imitations of
Gordigiani and Mariani--they would meet no success. I ask you, Nelly, am
I the man to pilfer from any one? Is it likely I would trade on another
man's intellect?"

"That you certainly are not, Gusty! but remember who it is that utters
this criticism. The man who has no other test of goodness but a ready
sale, and he sees in this case little hope of such."

"Rankin, too, refuses my 'Ghost Story;' he calls it too German, whatever
that may mean."

"It means simply that he wants to say something, and is not very clear
what it ought to be. And your water-color sketch,--the 'Street in
Bruges'?"

"Worst of all," cried he, interrupting. "Dinetti, with whom I have
squandered hundreds for prints and drawings, sends it back with these
words in red chalk on the back: 'No distance; no transparency; general
muddiness--a bad imitation of Prout's worst manner.'"

"How unmannerly, how coarse!"

"Yes;