ys, while writing--whatever might be
the subject of my story--I have been influenced by an undercurrent of
effort and desire to direct the minds and affections of my readers
towards the higher life.

'_THE PREMIER AND THE PAINTER_'

BY I. ZANGWILL

As it is scarcely two years since my name (which, I hear, is a _nom de
plume_) appeared in print on the cover of a book, I may be suspected of
professional humour when I say I do not really know which was my first
book. Yet such is the fact. My literary career has been so queer that I
find it not easy to write my autobibliography.

'What is a pound?' asked Sir Robert Peel in an interrogative mood futile
as Pilate's. 'What is a book?' I ask, and the dictionary answers with
its usual dogmatic air, 'A collection of sheets of paper, or similar
material, blank, written, or printed, bound together.' At this rate my
first book would be that romance of school life in two volumes, which,
written in a couple of exercise books, circulated gratuitously in the
schoolroom, and pleased our youthful imaginations with teacher-baiting
tricks we had not the pluck to carry out in the actual. I shall always
remember this story because, after making the tour of the class, it was
returned to me with thanks and a new first page from which all my graces
of style had evaporated. Indignant inquiry discovered the criminal--he
admitted he had lost the page, and had rewritten it from memory. He
pleaded that it was better written (which in one sense was true), and
that none of the facts had been omitted.

This ill-treated tale was 'published' when I was ten, but an old
schoolfellow recently wrote to me reminding me of an earlier novel
written in an old account-book. Of this I have no recollection, but, as
he says he wrote it day by day at my dictation, I suppose he ought to
know. I am glad to find I had so early achieved the distinction of
keeping an amanuensis.

The dignity of print I achieved not much later, contributing verses and
virtuous essays to various juvenile organs. But it was not till I was
eighteen that I achieved a printed first book. The story of this first
book is peculiar; and, to tell it in approved story form, I must request
the reader to come back two years with me.

[Illustration: LOOKING FOR TOOLE]

One fine day, when I was sixteen, I was wandering about the Ramsgate
sands looking for Toole. I did not really expect to see him, and I had
no reason to believe he was in