you murmur an apology to your neighbour, whip out your pocket-book, and jot down a few rough notes.  “Hero choked peach-stone eve marriage Lady Honoria.  Pchtree planted by jltd frst love.  Ironyofthings.  Tragic.”  Next morning you extract your notebook from its white waistcoat, and prepare to develop your theme (if legible) a little more fully.  Possibly it does not seem so brilliant in the cold light of morning as it did after that fourth glass of Bollinger.  If this be so, you can then make another note—­say, for a short article on “Disillusionment.”  One way or another a notebook and a pencil will keep you well supplied with material.

If I do not follow Butler’s advice myself, it is not because I get no brilliant inspirations away from my inkpot, nor because, having had the inspirations, I am capable of retaining them until I get back to my inkpot again, but simply because I should never have the notebook and the pencil in the right pockets.  But though I do not imitate him, I can admire his wisdom, even while making fun of it.  Yet I am sure it was unwise of him to take the public into his confidence.  The public prefers to think that an author does not require these earthly aids to composition.  It will never quite reconcile itself to the fact that an author is following a profession—­ a profession by means of which he pays the rent and settles the weekly bills.  No doubt the public wants its favourite writers to go on living, but not in the sordid way that its barrister and banker friends live.  It would prefer to feel that manna dropped on them from Heaven, and that the ravens erected them a residence; but, having regretfully to reject this theory, it likes to keep up the pretence that the thousand pounds that an author received for his last story came as something of a surprise to him—­being, in fact, really more of a coincidence than a reward.

The truth is that a layman will never take an author quite seriously.  He regards authorship, not as a profession, but as something between au inspiration and a hobby.  In as far as it is an inspiration, it is a gift from Heaven, and ought, therefore, to be shared with the rest of the world; in as far as it is a hobby, it is something which should be done not too expertly, but in a casual, amateur, haphazard fashion.  For this reason a layman will never hesitate to ask of an author a free contribution for some local publication, on such slender grounds as that he and the author were educated at the same school or had both met Robinson.  But the same man would be horrified at the idea of asking a Harley Street surgeon (perhaps even more closely connected with him) to remove his adenoids for nothing.  To ask for this (he would feel) would be almost as bad as to ask a gift of ten guineas (or whatever the fee is), whereas to ask a writer for an article is like asking a friend to decant your port for you—­a delicate compliment to his particular talent.  But in truth the matter is otherwise; and it is the