ckeray turn in his grave.' There were
several witnesses about, and the Portsmouth bench are severe upon
assaults, so my friend escaped unscathed. Then first I realised that
British criticism had fallen into a shocking state of decay, though when
some one has a pat on the back for you you understand that, after all,
there are some very smart people upon the literary Press.

[Illustration: 'MRS. THURSTON'S LITTLE BOY WANTS TO SEE YOU, DOCTOR']

And so at last it was brought home to me that a man may put the very
best that is in him into magazine work for years and years and reap no
benefit from it, save, of course, the inherent benefits of literary
practice. So I wrote another of my first books and sent it off to the
publishers. Alas for the dreadful thing that happened! The publishers
never received it, the Post Office sent countless blue forms to say
that they knew nothing about it, and from that day to this no word has
ever been heard of it. Of course it was the best thing I ever wrote. Who
ever lost a manuscript that wasn't? But I must in all honesty confess
that my shock at its disappearance would be as nothing to my horror if
it were suddenly to appear again--in print. If one or two other of my
earlier efforts had also been lost in the post, my conscience would have
been the lighter. This one was called 'The Narrative of John Smith,' and
it was of a personal-social-political complexion. Had it appeared I
should have probably awakened to find myself infamous, for it steered,
as I remember it, perilously near to the libellous. However, it was
safely lost, and that was the end of another of my first books.

Then I started upon an exceedingly sensational novel, which interested
me extremely at the time, though I have never heard that it had the same
effect upon anyone else afterwards. I may urge in extenuation of all
shortcomings that it was written in the intervals of a busy though
ill-paying practice. And a man must try that and combine it with
literary work before he quite knows what it means. How often have I
rejoiced to find a clear morning before me, and settled down to my task,
or rather, dashed ferociously at it, as knowing how precious were those
hours of quiet! Then to me enter my housekeeper, with tidings of dismay.
'Mrs. Thurston's little boy wants to see you, doctor.' 'Show him in,'
say I, striving to fix my scene in my mind that I may splice it when
this trouble is over. 'Well, my boy?' 'Please, doctor, m