"People are too anxious to make a stir in the world," continued her father, "the doctrine of to-day is that it is disgraceful to be unknown. The souls of modern men need all their wings to enable them to fly as quickly as their fellows, and they have none left wherewith to cover their faces and their feet."
"But, father, it is natural for men to long for fame."
"Natural, doubtless, my child, but not spiritual. Why will not men be content to love Christ and live contentedly as failures, remembering that—humanly speaking—His religion is a failure in the world to-day?"
"Still people have to make a living," argued Joanna the practical, "and if they can do it better by writing books than in any other way, I do not see why they shouldn't."
"If making a living be all we think of, we had better have been cows or horses," said Mr. Seaton, "in the present day, money and amusement are the only things people really care about, and poor things they are wherewith to satisfy immortal souls. But a writer is in a measure a preacher, and takes responsibilities upon himself towards others which he is bound to fulfil."
"Yes, father dear, I see what you mean."
"Every writer is an evangelist of some sort. Homer preached the gospel of war, and Virgil taught the ancients the blessedness of a peasant's lot; Horace pointed out the inherent meanness of human nature, and in Milton's hands we may say of the epic, as of the sonnet, that 'the thing became a trumpet' to proclaim the religious tenets of the Puritans. And I would rather that my son had followed in the steps of Virgil or of Milton than of Homer or Horace."
And then Mr. Seaton went on to expound to his daughter the messages and the methods of the ancient schools of poetry, and let Paul and his doings alone.
Not long after this, Paul Seaton came home for a short visit; but his holiday did not prove a success. His family carefully refrained from saying anything derogatory of Shams and Shadows; but Paul was so much afraid of their doing so that he was on the defensive all the time, and consequently decidedly disagreeable. Moreover, he was still very unhappy, and unhappiness does not tend to social charm. He appreciated his parents' forbearance about Shams and Shadows more than they had any idea of; but, as yet, he was too sore and too deeply wounded to be able to say pleasant things to anybody; therefore he unjustly got the credit of not feeling them. Altogether life was passing but roughly for Paul at that particular time.
Just before he went back to town, Edgar said to him: "You won't be vexed with me, will you, old fellow, if I speak to you as a friend about matters which do not concern me?"