ht me back to nature, the
nature that had created those who were the fathers of us all, and,
bringing me back, they taught me, as they strive to teach all, that the
real and deeper life is everywhere, even in a city, if we will but look
for it with unsealed eyes and minds set free from the tedious
trivialities of this debauched modern life.

[Illustration: (_From a photograph by Thos. Fall, Baker Street_)

signed:

Yours very truly,

D. Christie Murray]

'_A LIFE'S ATONEMENT_'

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY

[Illustration: I HANDED HIM TWO CHAPTERS]

[Illustration: SENT ALL MY PEOPLE INTO A COAL-MINE]

I began my first book more years ago than I care to count, and,
naturally enough, it took poetic form, if not poetic substance. In its
original shape it was called 'Marsh Hall,' and ran into four cantos. On
the eve of my twenty-first birthday I sent the MS. to Messrs. Macmillan,
who, very wisely, as I have since come to believe, counselled me not to
publish it. I say this in full sincerity, though I remember some of the
youthful bombast not altogether without affection. Here and there I can
recall a passage which still seems respectable. I wrote reams of verse
in those days, but when I came into the rough and tumble of journalistic
life I was too occupied to court the Muses any longer, and found myself
condemned to a life of prose. I was acting as special correspondent for
the _Birmingham Morning News_ in the year '73--I think it was '73,
though it might have been a year later--and at that time Mr. Edmund
Yates was lecturing in America, and a novel of his, the last he ever
wrote, was running through our columns. Whether the genial 'Atlas,' who
at that time had not taken the burden of _The World_ upon his shoulders,
found his associations too numerous and heavy, I can only guess, but he
closed the story with an unexpected suddenness, and the editor, who had
supposed himself to have a month or two in hand in which to make
arrangements for his next serial, was confronted with the _finis_ of Mr.
Yates's work, and was compelled to start a new novel at a week's
notice. In this extremity he turned to me. 'I think, young 'un,' he
said, 'that you ought to be able to write a novel.' I shared his faith,
and had, indeed, already begun a story which I had christened 'Grace
Forbeach.' I handed him two chapters, which he read at once, and, in
high feather, sent to the printer. It never bade fair to be a mighty
work, but a