"Ah?" said the Tinker.
"Many a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the mire."
"Poor cove!" said the Tinker. "Young man, you smile, I think?"
"No," said I.
"Well, supposing a writer never had no gen'us—how then?"
"Why then," said I, "he should never dare to write at all."
"Young fellow," said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes, "are you sure you are a gen'us then?"
Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient reason that I found nothing to say.
"Lord love you!" said he at last, seeing me thus "hipped"—"don't be downhearted—don't be dashed afore you begin; we can't all be gen'uses—it aren't to be expected, but some on us is a good deal better than most and that's something arter all. As for your book, wot you have to do is to give 'em a little blood now and then with plenty of love and you can't go far wrong!"
Now whether the Tinker's theory for the writing of a good novel be right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book that lies before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was a something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and, because I came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of love.