he had no name--no repute, therefore had her drawings been equal to the
finest ever produced they would not have been accepted. Until the
accident of reputation arises genius is of no avail.

Except an author, or an artist, or a musician, who on earth would
attempt to win success by merit? That alone proves how correct the world
is in its estimation of them; they must indeed be poor confiding fools.
Succeed by merit!

Does the butcher, or the baker, or the ironmonger, or the
tallow-chandler rely on personal merit, or purely personal ability for
making a business? They rely on a little capital, credit, and much push.
The solicitor is first an articled clerk, and works next as a
subordinate, his "footing" costs hundreds of pounds, and years of hard
labour. The doctor has to "walk the hospitals," and, if he can, he buys
a practice. They do not rely on merit.

The three fools--the author, the artist, and the musician--put certain
lines on a sheet of paper and expect the world to at once admire their
clever ideas.

In the end--but how far is it to the end!--it is true that genius is
certain of recognition; the steed by then has grown used to starvation,
waiting for the grass to grow. Look about you: Are the prosperous men of
business men of merit? are they all clever? are they geniuses? They do
not exactly seem to be so.

Nothing so hard as to succeed by merit; no path so full of
disappointments; nothing so incredibly impossible.

I would infinitely rather be a tallow-chandler, with a good steady
income and no thought, than an author; at the first opportunity I mean
to go into the tallow business.

Until the accident of reputation chanced to come to her, Amaryllis might
work and work, and hope and sigh, and sit benumbed in her garret, and
watch her father, Shakespeare Iden, clearing the furrows in the rain,
under his sack.

She had not even a diploma--a diploma, or a certificate, a South
Kensington certificate! Fancy, without even a certificate! Misguided
child!

What a hideous collection of frumpery they have got there at the Museum,
as many acres as Iden's farm, shot over with all the rubbish of the
"periods." What a mockery of true art feeling it is! They have not even
a single statue in the place. They would shrivel up in horror at a nude
model. _They_ teach art--miserable sham, their wretched art culminates
in a Christmas card.

Amaryllis had not even been through the South Kensington "grind," and
dared to