"The folk as will read your book—after it is written."
"Ah! to be sure," said I, somewhat taken aback; "I had forgotten them."
"Forgotten them?" repeated the Tinker, staring.
"Forgotten that people might went to read it—after it is written."
"But," said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, "books are written for people to read, aren't they?"
"Not always," said I.
Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.
"Many of the world's greatest books, those masterpieces which have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the pure love of writing them."
"Oh!" said the Tinker.
"Yes," said I, warming to my theme, "and with little or no idea of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice."