“Say an author at once,” suggested Ralston.
“No. I’m honest, if I’m anything,—which is doubtful. A man of letters, I say, can be useful in a family. Suppose, for instance, that Jack invented an electric street-dog, or—”
“What?” enquired Ralston, with a show of interest. “An electric what?”
“I was only thinking of something new,” said Miner, thoughtfully.
“I thought you said, an electric street-dog—”
“I did—yes. Something of that sort, just for illustration. I believe they had one at Chicago, with an india-rubber puppy,—at least, if they didn’t, they ought to have had it,—but anything of the kind would do—self-drying champagne—anything! Suppose that Jack invented something useful like that, I could write it up in the papers, and get up advertisements for it, and help the family to get rich.”
“Is that the sort of literature you cultivate?” asked Bright.
“Oh, no! Much more flowery—quite like the flowers of the field in some ways, for it cometh up—to the editor’s office—in the morning, and in the evening, if not sooner, it is cut down—by the editor—dried up, and withered, or otherwise disposed of, so that it cannot be said to reach the general public.”
“Not very paying, I should think.”
“Well—not to me. But of course, if there were not so much of it offered to the magazines and papers, there wouldn’t be so many people employed by them to read and reject articles. So somebody gets a living out of it. I console myself with the certainty that my efforts help to keep at least one man in every office from starvation. I spoke to cousin Robert about it and he seemed rather pleased by the idea, and said that he would mention it to his brother, old Mr. Alexander, who’s a philanthropist—”