r; never got us a letter of encouragement nor a
stroke of work. I had to begin journalism at the very bottom and
entirely unassisted, narrowly escaping canvassing for advertisements,
for I had by this time thrown up my scholastic position, and had gone
forth into the world penniless and without even a "character," branded
as an Atheist (because I did not worship the Lord who presided over our
committee) and a Revolutionary (because I refused to break the law of
the land).

[Illustration: MR. ZANGWILL AT WORK.]

I should stop here if I were certain I had written the required article.
But as _The Premier and the Painter_ was not entirely _my_ first book, I
may perhaps be expected to say something of my third first book, and the
first to which I put my name--_The Bachelors' Club_. Years of literary
apathy succeeded the failure of _The Premier and the Painter_. All I did
was to publish a few serious poems (which, I hope, will survive _Time_),
a couple of pseudonymous stories signed "The Baroness Von S." (!), and a
long philosophical essay upon religion, and to lend a hand in the
writing of a few playlets. Becoming convinced of the irresponsible
mendacity of the dramatic profession, I gave up the stage, too, vowing
never to write except on commission, and sank entirely into the slough
of journalism (glad enough to get there), _inter alia_ editing a comic
paper (not _Grimaldi_, but _Ariel_) with a heavy heart. At last the long
apathy wore off, and I resolved to cultivate literature again in my
scraps of time. It is a mere accident that I wrote a pair of "funny"
books, or put serious criticism of contemporary manners into a shape not
understood in a country where only the dull are profound and only the
ponderous are earnest. _The Bachelors' Club_ was the result of a
whimsical remark made by my dear friend, Eder of Bartholomew's, with
whom I was then sharing rooms in Bernard Street, and who helped me
greatly with it, and its publication was equally accidental. One spring
day, in the year of grace 1891, having lived unsuccessfully for a score
of years and seven upon this absurd planet, I crossed Fleet Street and
stepped into what is called "success." It was like this. Mr. J. T.
Grein, now of the Independent Theatre, meditated a little monthly called
_The Playgoers' Review_, and he asked me to do an article for the first
number, on the strength of some speeches I had made at the Playgoers'
Club. When I got the proof it was marke