In other Markets
the cry of those who stand at the stalls is 'Buy, buy, buy!' In this
Market it is the buyers who cry out continually, 'Bring out more wares
to sell.' Only to think of this Market, and of the thousands of
gentlewomen outside, fills the heart with sadness.
For outside, there is quite another kind of Market. Here there are
long lines of stalls behind which stand the gentlewomen eagerly
offering their wares. Alas! here is Art in every shape, but it is not
the art which we can buy. Here are painting and drawing; here are
coloured photographs, painted china, art embroideries, and fine work.
Here are offered original songs and original music. Here are standing
long lines of those who want to teach, and are most melancholy because
they have no degree or diploma, and know nothing. Here are standing
those who wait to be hired, and who will do anything in which 'general
intelligence' will show the way; lastly, there is a whole quarter at
least a quarter--of the Market filled with stalls covered with
manuscripts, and there are thousands of women offering these
manuscripts. The publishers and the editors walk slowly along before
the stalls and receive the manuscripts, which they look at and then
lay down, though their writers weep and wail and wring their hands.
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