this, for I am
convinced that it may be of serious injury to my works. An author with
a genteel figure will always be more read than one who is corpulent.
All his etherealness departs. Some young ladies may have fancied me an
elegant young man, like Lytton Bulwer, full of fun and humour,
concealing all my profound knowledge under the mask of levity, and have
therefore read my books with as much delight as has been afforded by
Pelham. But the truth must be told. I am a grave, heavy man, with my
finger continually laid along my temple, seldom speaking unless spoken
to--and when ladies talk, I never open my mouth; the consequence is,
that sometimes, when there is a succession of company, I do not speak
for a week. Moreover, I am married, with five small children; and now
all I look forward to, and all I covet, is to live in peace, and die in
my bed.

I wonder why I did not commence authorship before! How true it is that
a man never knows what he can do until he tries! The fact is, I never
thought that I could make a novel; and I was thirty years old before I
stumbled on the fact. What a pity!

Writing a book reminds me very much of making a passage across the
Atlantic. At one moment, when the ideas flow, you have the wind aft,
and away you scud, with a flowing sheet, and a rapidity which delights
you: at other times, when your spirit flags, and you gnaw your pen (I
have lately used iron pens, for I'm a devil of a crib-biter), it is like
unto a foul wind, tack and tack, requiring a long time to get on a short
distance. But still you do go, although but slowly; and in both cases
we must take the foul wind with the fair. If a ship were to furl her
sails until the wind again was favourable, her voyage would be
protracted to an indefinite time; and, if an author were to wait until
he again felt in a humour, it would take a life to write a novel.

Whenever the wind is foul, which it now most certainly is, for I am
writing any thing but "Newton Forster," and which will account for this
rambling, stupid chapter, made up of odds and ends, strung together like
what we call "skewer pieces" on board of a man-of-war; when the wind is
foul, as I said before, I have, however, a way of going a-head, by
getting up the steam which I am now about to resort to--and the fuel is
brandy. All on this side of the world are asleep, except gamblers,
house breakers, the new police, and authors. My wife is in the arms of
Morpheus--an a