t this singular
request, as I hadn't the slightest idea I could do anything at all in
the way of fiction. Still, like a good journalist, I never refuse an
order of any sort; so I sat down at once and wrote a tale about a mummy
on the ghastliest and most approved Christmas number pattern. Strange to
say, Mr. Chatto again printed it, and, what was still more remarkable,
asked for more of the same description. From that time forth, I went on
producing short stories for _Belgravia_; but I hardly took them
seriously, being immersed at the time in biological study. I looked upon
my own pretensions in the way of fiction as an amiable fad of my kind
friend Chatto; and not to prejudice any little scientific reputation I
might happen to have earned, I published them all under the carefully
veiled pseudonym of 'J. Arbuthnot Wilson.'

I would probably never have gone any further on my downward path had it
not been for the accidental intervention of another believer in my
powers as a story-writer. I had sent to _Belgravia_ a little tale about
a Chinaman, entitled 'Mr. Chung,' and written perhaps rather more
seriously and carefully than my previous efforts. This happened to
attract the attention of Mr. James Payn, who had then just succeeded to
the editorship of the _Cornhill_. I had been a constant contributor to
the _Cornhill_ under Leslie Stephen's management, and by a singular
coincidence I received almost at the same time two letters from Mr.
Payn, one of them addressed to me in my own name, and regretting that he
would probably be unable to insert my scientific papers in his magazine
in future; the other, sent through Chatto & Windus to the imaginary J.
Arbuthnot Wilson, and asking for a short story somewhat in the style of
my 'admirable Mr. Chung.'

[Illustration]

Encouraged by the discovery that so good a judge of fiction thought well
of my humble efforts at story-writing, I sat down at once and produced
two pieces for the _Cornhill_. One was 'The Reverend John Creedy'--a
tale of a black parson who reverted to savagery--which has perhaps
attracted more attention than any other of my short stories. The other,
which I myself immensely prefer, was 'The Curate of Churnside.' Both
were so well noticed that I began to think seriously of fiction as an
alternative subject. In the course of the next year I wrote several more
sketches of the same sort, which were published, either anonymously or
still under the pseudonym, in the _C