optimistic mood about this period. All things
were going well with me. A story of mine had been accepted. I forget for
the moment the name of the journal: it is dead now. Most of the papers
in which my early efforts appeared are dead. My contributions might
be likened to their swan songs. Proofs had been sent me, which I had
corrected and returned. But proofs are not facts. This had happened to
me once before, and I had been lifted to the skies only to fall the more
heavily. The paper had collapsed before my story had appeared. (Ah, why
had they delayed? It might have saved them!) This time I remembered the
proverb, and kept my own counsel, slipping out early each morning on the
day of publication to buy the paper, to scan eagerly its columns. For
weeks I suffered hope deferred. But at last, one bright winter's day in
January, walking down the Harrow Road, I found myself standing still,
suddenly stunned, before a bill outside a small news-vendor's shop. It
was the first time I had seen my real name in print: "The Witch of Moel
Sarbod: a legend of Mona, by Paul Kelver." (For this I had even risked
discovery by the Lady 'Ortensia.) My legs trembling under me, I entered
the shop. A ruffianly-looking man in dirty shirt-sleeves, who appeared
astonished that any one should want a copy, found one at length on
the floor underneath the counter. With it in my pocket, I retraced my
footsteps as in a dream. On a seat in Paddington Green I sat down and
read it. The hundred best books! I have waded through them all; they
have never charmed me as charmed me that one short story in that now
forgotten journal. Need I add it was a sad and sentimental composition.
Once upon a time there lived a mighty King; one--but with the names I
will not bore you; they are somewhat unpronounceable. Their selection
had cost me many hours of study in the British Museum reading-rooms,
surrounded by lexicons of the Welsh language, gazetteers, translations
from the early Celtic poets--with footnotes. He loved and was beloved by
a beautiful Princess, whose name, being translated, was Purity. One
day the King, hunting, lost his way, and being weary, lay down and fell
asleep. And by chance the spot whereon he lay was near to a place which
by infinite pains, with the aid of a magnifying glass, I had discovered
upon the map, and which means in English the Cave of the Waters, where
dwelt a wicked Sorceress, who, while he slept, cast her spells upon him,
so that he