nd for some new scheme. At first it
seemed that he had hit upon a promising subject; he began to plot out
chapters and scribble hints for the curious story that had entered his
mind, arranging his circumstances and noting the effects to be produced
with all the enthusiasm of the artist. But after the first breath the
aspect of the work changed; page after page was tossed aside as hopeless,
the beautiful sentences he had dreamed of refused to be written, and his
puppets remained stiff and wooden, devoid of life or motion. Then all the
old despairs came back, the agonies of the artificer who strives and
perseveres in vain; the scheme that seemed of amorous fire turned to cold
hard ice in his hands. He let the pen drop from his fingers, and wondered
how he could have ever dreamed of writing books. Again, the thought
occurred that he might do something if he could only get away, and join
the sad procession in the murmuring London streets, far from the shadow
of those awful hills. But it was quite impossible; the relative who had
once promised assistance was appealed to, and wrote expressing his regret
that Lucian had turned out a "loafer," wasting his time in scribbling,
instead of trying to earn his living. Lucian felt rather hurt at this
letter, but the parson only grinned grimly as usual. He was thinking of
how he signed a check many years before, in the days of his prosperity,
and the check was payable to this didactic relative, then in but a poor
way, and of a thankful turn of mind.

The old rejected manuscript had almost passed out of his recollection. It
was recalled oddly enough. He was looking over the _Reader_, and enjoying
the admirable literary criticisms, some three months after the return of
his book, when his eye was attracted by a quoted passage in one of the
notices. The thought and style both wakened memory, the cadences were
familiar and beloved. He read through the review from the beginning; it
was a very favorable one, and pronounced the volume an immense advance on
Mr. Ritson's previous work. "Here, undoubtedly, the author has discovered
a vein of pure metal," the reviewer added, "and we predict that he will
go far." Lucian had not yet reached his father's stage, he was unable to
grin in the manner of that irreverent parson. The passage selected for
high praise was taken almost word for word from the manuscript now
resting in his room, the work that had not reached the high standard of
Messrs Beit & Co.