Page:Diary of a Pilgrimage (1891).pdf/257

 raise his boyish hands to Heaven, and thank God for this great promised gift of noble usefulness, and pray that he might ever prove worthy of the trust; and, in the joy of his coming work, the little frets of life floated like drift-wood on a deepening river; and as he grew, the voices spoke to him ever more plainly, until he saw his work before him clearly, as a traveller on the hill-top sees the pathway through the vale.

"And so the years passed, and he became a man, and his labour lay ready to his hand.

"And then a foul demon came and tempted him—the demon that has killed many a better man before, that will kill many a great man yet—the demon of worldly success. And the demon whispered evil words into his ear, and, God forgive him!—he listened.

"Of what good to you, think you, will it be, your writing mighty truths and noble thoughts? What will the world pay for them? What has ever been the reward of the earth's greatest teachers and poets—the men who have given their lives to the best service of mankind—but neglect and scorn and poverty? Look around! what are the wages of the few earnest workers of to-day but a pauper's pittance, compared with the wealth that is showered down on those who jig to the tune that the crowd shouts for? Aye, the true singers are honoured when they are dead—those that are remembered; and the thoughts from their brains once fallen, whether they themselves are remembered or not, stir, with ever-widening circles to all time, the waters of human life. But of what use is that to themselves, who starved? You have talent, genius. Riches, luxury, power can be yours—soft beds and dainty foods. You can be great in the greatness that the world can see, famous with the fame your own ears