ook which succeeds let
them remember the many that fail, I do not say deservedly or otherwise,
and wholesomely abstain or if they venture, at least let them do so
at their own peril. As for those who have already written novels, this
warning is not addressed, of course, to them. Let them take their wares
to market; let them apply to Bacon and Bungay, and all the publishers
in the Row, or the metropolis, and may they be happy in their ventures.
This world is so wide, and the tastes of mankind happily so various,
that there is always a chance for every man, and he may win the prize by
his genius or by his good fortune. But what is the chance of success or
failure; of obtaining popularity, or of holding it when achieved? One
man goes over the ice, which bears him, and a score who follow flounder
in. In fine, Mr. Pendennis's was an exceptional case, and applies to
himself only and I assert solemnly, and will to the last maintain, that
it is one thing to write a novel, and another to get money for it.

By merit, then, or good fortune, or the skilful playing off of Bungay
against Bacon which Warrington performed (and which an amateur novelist
is quite welcome to try upon any two publishers in the trade), Pen's
novel was actually sold for a certain sum of money to one of the two
eminent patrons of letters whom we have introduced to our readers. The
sum was so considerable that Pen thought of opening an account at a
banker's, or of keeping a cab and horse, or of descending into the first
floor of Lamb Court into newly furnished apartments, or of migrating to
the fashionable end of the town.

Major Pendennis advised the latter move strongly; he opened his eyes
with wonder when he heard of the good luck that had befallen Pen;
and which the latter, as soon as it occurred, hastened eagerly to
communicate to his uncle. The Major was almost angry that Pen should
have earned so much money. "Who the doose reads this kind of thing?" he
thought to himself when he heard of the bargain which Pen had made. "I
never read your novels and rubbish. Except Paul de Kock, who certainly
makes me laugh, I don't think I've looked into a book of the sort these
thirty years. Gad! Pen's a lucky fellow. I should think he might write
one of these in a month now,--say a month,--that's twelve in a year.
Dammy, he may go on spinning this nonsense for the next four to five
years, and make a fortune. In the meantime I should wish him to live
properly, take re