[The Committee appointed by the Federal Government to advise regarding the disbursement of the £500 a year, voted for the encouragement of Australian literary men, has recommended that some of it be spent on families of authors who have died poor.]

He was a literary genius, and he knew it; but in all the cold, cruel world his wife was the only other person who recognized his claims to fame and immortality.

For years he had struggled on, writing novels that were never published and composing verses that were rarely accepted and more rarely paid for.

His wife encouraged him always, fostering his ambition as a true wife should, sharing his beleif that some day - some day the dull world would recognize the extent of his genius.

But at length poverty - sordid, inevitable starvation - stared them in the face. Worldly, commercial publishers had been pleaded with in vain; gross, inartistic editors had been approached without success. It was the end.

"Iam beaten," he admitted hopelessly. "Perhaps, after I am dead my work will be recognized; but for the present I am a failure. And you - you who have stood by me and shared my poverty, must now starve with me. I must see you want for food, while I stand by hopeless, impotent. There is no hope - none. The last chance is gone. We have no resources."

Gently she laid her hand upon his thin shoulder, and looked him bravely in the eyes, her own shining with love and admiration.

"Yes, George," she murmured; "there is one last chance. You are a literary man - an author. No one can deny that! Dear, couldn't you just manage to die?"

"D."
The Gadfly, 30 October 1907, p1521