It is so easy to write just what you see," he
concluded, apologetically.
The sub-editor handed him his ten guineas.
"When will you bring me some more work?"
"Whenever you like," Burton replied promptly. "What about?"
The sub-editor shook his head.
"You had better choose your own subjects."
"Covent Garden at half-past three?" Burton suggested, a little
diffidently. "I can't describe it properly. I can only just put down
what I see going on there, but it might be interesting."
"Covent Garden will do very well indeed," the sub-editor told him. "You
needn't bother about the description. Just do as you say; put
down--what you see."
Burton put down just what he saw as he moved about the city, for ten
days following, and without a word of criticism the sub-editor paid him
ten guineas a time and encouraged him to come again. Burton, however,
decided upon a few days' rest. Not that the work was any trouble to
him; on the contrary it was all too ridiculously easy. It seemed to him
the most amazing thing that a description in plain words of what any one
might stand and look at, should be called literature. And yet some
times, in his more thoughtful moments, he dimly understood. He
remembered that between him and the multitudes of his fellow-creatures
there was a difference.
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