," I said. "Have you not the whole ocean of
human knowledge to dip into?"

"Ah! _cui bono?_" he replied.

"_Cui bono?_ from you! I never thought I'd hear that fatal word again.
_Cui bono?_ from you! _Cui bono?_ from you!"

I was never so startled in my life. It was a dread revelation of
dissatisfaction and ennui, that might lead no one knew whither.

"_Cui bono?_" I said. "Is there any pleasure on this earth comparable to
the pleasure of acquiring knowledge? Is there any satisfaction equal to
the continuous pursuit of ideas--always coming up to them, and passing
them in the insatiable thirst and pursuit? Now, I see clearly that my
tastes are not your tastes, and I was wrong in forcing the studies of
the classics upon you. But take up philosophy, arrange a _horarium_ for
the evenings--so much time for reading, so much for thinking, so much
for writing--"

"Ah! there you've struck it," he broke in. "If I could only write, I
should always have an incentive, and a strong incentive for reading and
studying what I read."

"And why don't you write?" I repeated. "Paper is cheap; pens and ink
don't cost much--"

"Write for what, and for whom?" he cried.

"Write for the magazines," I said. "Write brisk, crisp, lively articles
for our reviews and periodicals; get paid for them; and then the
ineffable pleasure of seeing your own work in print!"

"And what if they were rejected contumeliously?"

"Impossible," I replied; "there is room and to spare for good writers.
Why, we are always crying out about the barrenness of our literature!"

He had gone over to a portfolio, and had taken out a few rolls of
manuscript, to each of which a letter was tagged. He handed them to me
without a word. It needed only a glance to see that if the editors had
used up all the polite words of the language, nevertheless, "Rejected!"
was written in capital letters on every page. I knew well what it meant
to a proud, sensitive spirit; and although it was only the usual
probation for literary novices, it might have a different effect from
successful training in the case of a thoughtful if irritable mind. I
pretended to read carefully the two essays, the three short stories, and
the half-dozen poems that had come back to the author's hands without
proofs, whilst I was rapidly turning over in my mind what I should say
or do; for the recollection of my own experience at his age led me to
believe that this was a critical moment for him. Happy the st