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Chapter ix. Authorship.—Budding Shoots from Early Taste.

"Determine your future course, boys, and steadfastly pursue it!"

Such were the words once addressed by a self-instructed genius to his three sons, who subsequently became distinguished characters in their respective professions. Here, as in hundreds of cases in the world, the young men had the advantage of mating their own choice. But there are other cases, in which there is no choice in the matter—cases in which youths are compelled to take what they can get. Such happened to be my case. It is, no doubt, the exception, not the rule, where a youth has no inclination or preference of his own in the allotment of his future occupation. It may be fortunate for those who have the privilege of making their own selection. Those who are not so favored have no alternative but that of doing the best they can for themselves. In some cases—as in those instanced in the preceding chapter—the want of assistance is not a bar to advancement in any way in the world that may be selected by young persons in their aspirations to fame or fortune.

I was now eighteen years of age, had been little more than two years in my first situation, and was in the receipt of a salary of one hundred pounds a year. Still I was not page 122satisfied. While satisfied with, the pay, I was not satisfied with the occupation from which the pay was derived. My interest was in the warehouse, but my heart was no longer there. I saw professions that I liked, or thought I should like, better. But unlike those of my fellow class-men in learning, who forsook all emolument and commercial prospect for the attainment of one object, I had not the courage to risk what I had in hand for the uncertainty of obtaining what I desired. In my case, there would have been a greater sacrifice with a smaller prospect of gain, for my salary was greater, and my proficiency in learning less than came to the share of those who changed their occupations. Faith in the old adage—"a bird in hand is worth two in the bush"—induced me, for a time, to retain the contributor to present wants. Nevertheless, I heard other birds whose songs were more in harmony with the mind of the listener, than the never varying monetary strain to be heard in the march of commerce.

From a very early age—eight or nine years old—I had evinced a love for scribbling, or composing, in metrical form, a certain number of lines or verses, commonly called (by young people) poetry. This was my "hobby." In the common acceptation of the word a "hobby" refers to an expensive and—apart from the pleasure it may afford the indulger—to an almost useless kind of taste or pastime. But hobbies and hobbyists are not all of the same character. "While some hobbies involve an extravagant outlay of time and money, others have an opposite tendency. Some of the greatest men that ever lived have had their "hobbies"—hobbies by which they acquired their greatness. Watt, Stephenson, Shakspeare, Burns, and hundreds of others, when obscure and penniless boys, indulged in hobbies which lead to fame and fortune—while inferior or page 123less gifted minds have, by the cultivation of their natural tastes, benefitted the world and themselves in a proportinate degree. A hobby is the natural offspring of the mind, and typifies the character of the mould in which it is formed, or the quality of the soil from which it emanates. It is part and parcel of its parent's being. Should that being be an intellectual and scientific one, the hobby will relate to science, and receive its culture from the intellect. Every hobby has its prototype in the parent mind. My hobby was that of authorship. I wished to become an author.

Become an author? "Never think of becoming an author." This piece of advice is often tendered by one young friend to another. In my early scribbling days, it was a gratuity of which I frequently became the recipient. But kind friends by whom such advice is given are apt to estimate the value of what they give, without considering the impossibility of its adoption by those who are already what they are advised not to become, A youth either is or is not an author—or, at least, he either has, or has not the means within himself of establishing his claim to the title. In the infant mind—the author in embryo—the matter already exists, although it may never reach maturity. The germs of authorship are there, though they may never sprout. The ore is there, though the mine may never be worked. "The spirit may exist without the letter." Yet a man must not necessarily be a learned man to be an author. As was remarked in another chapter, education may perfect the shoot, but cannot plant the seed of genius. A mechanic, in the humblest walk of art, may display an inventive genius of the highest order, although he may neither have the means nor the education to perfect what he has invented. On the other hand, the most finished workman is not an author, if he only adds a finish to the design of page 124another. A man may be a classical scholar, but if he has never parented or given to the "world an original idea, he is not an author.

For certes then, so far as I am myself concerned in the matter, I have not, nor ever had, the least pretension to anything classical. How should I? When launched on the world to do for myself-—both with regard to mind and body—in the best way I could, reading and writing comprised the sum total of my scholastic attainments. Add to these the effects of a little dip into mathematics, with a few outward flourishes in composition—made during the evenings passed in a Literary Institution—and the addition will give the entire educational stock of a youth who wished to become an author. That I was already what I desired to become may presently be inferred by a brief reference to the work on which I was then engaged. As since that period, I have written fifteen or sixteen distinct works—some of which have passed through five editions—there will appear nothing like vanity in the statement that, not with standing the want of a finished education, I did become an author. So far, I attained the object of my desire. Whether anything was lost, or what was lost, in obtaining that desire, or whether it proved of its anticipated value to its owner when obtained, may appear in due course.

During the first two years of my commercial life, I found occasional leisure for the indulgence of my own particular "hobby." Like the lark, I was up early—not to sing, but to write songs; and, like the nightingale, I often tuned my compositions when other birds were taking their rest. Although I didn't write verses for the "million," I wrote them for a large number of my commercial companions. When a new song, an acrostic, or a page 125few verses to commemorate some special event, happened to be wanted, either by a friend or a friend's friend, mine was the hand to which was assigned the honor of composition. The pleasure I derived in thus contributing to the poetical wants of my companions was ever an ample return for the task of preparing the mental offering. Neither singer, reciter, nor hearer, ever derived more satisfaction in the illustration of my early compositions than was experienced by the humble individual by whom the words were composed:—

"Who's the author of that piece?"

"Frank Foster."

To a young writer's heart—at least, it was so to mine—the question admits the value of the work; the answer pays it.

This sort of self-gratification or heartfelt pride—so long as it does not resolve itself into absolute vanity or personal conceit—is, perhaps, undeserving censure, provided the object or "hobby," of which the spirit is proud, is not in itself a foolish one. It is an isolated, if not a barren heart, that is not proud of something in the world besides flesh and blood—whether the pride may consist in the knowledge and love of a flower garden, the laws of gravitation, or the study of the stars.

With those, however, who desire to turn their fancies to some practical account, praise itself soon ceases to afford satisfaction, unless accompanied by that substantial acknowledgement that places the value of the commendation beyond doubt. The presence of the one proves the worth of the other. And no enthusiast ever yet had a spirit sufficiently buoyant to support its owner entirely by the effervescent laudations of kindred spirits. Those who are willing to pay for what they approve in the way of enter-page 126tainment, are better qualified and more disposed to give impartial opinions on the quality of their fare, than those kind friends who are ever ready to approve, when approval is to be the extent of their award. By partial admirers, I had often been told that my songs and verses were "very pretty," but I now required extended proofs of their beauty. Although several of my poetical pieces had been published in the periodicals of the day, they had been sent to, and accepted by the editors as gratuitous and anonymous contributions. I now resolved to take the first step towards testing my capabilities, with a view of becoming a professional author. My stock of poetical pieces not being large enough to form a volume, I determined on making my first effort—for the public eye—in a prose sketch of "City Life"—more especially the life in which I was immediately engaged.

In order, if possible, to give a faithful coloring to the characters and scenes to be introduced in my first publication. I thought it desirable, in the first place, to obtain something more than a superficial knowledge of the various subjects to be introduced. I wanted to reach the foundation of certain social as well as commercial anomalies which were yet beyond my comprehension. In the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch—as in most large city establishments—the young men and youths had their evenings at their own disposal. From the close of business—six o'clock—till the close of the doors to the private dwelling—eleven o'clock—they had nothing but the dictates of their own inclinations to guide and govern them. About one-fourth of the number of youths in the house applied their leisure to the rational exercise of the body, the cultivation of the mind, and the improvement of an indifferent or neglected education. With the remaining page 127three-fourths, there was such a contrarity of tastes and habits, that I was anxious to learn whether the cause or causes for such diversity could be traced to any other source than the natural inclinations of the young men themselves. Before my opinions were committed to paper, I wanted to learn:—why some young men passed the majority of their evenings, their Sabbaths, and their leisure hours with their friends at home, while other young men seldom visited their friends, and rarely spent an evening, a Sabbath, or a leisure hour at home at all; why some did everything that was calculated to impart a bloom to the intelligence of youth and vigor to the years of manhood, while others did everything that had an opposite tendency; why some selected, for mental fare, books with which to elevate the mind and enrich the understanding, while others—if they read anything beyond a Sunday newspaper—were ever ready to dive with avidity into the fulsome romances of the Eugene Sue class, or the trashy productions of other of the black-feathered tribe, whose polluted quills are ever ready to pander to a vitiated taste; why, in fine, some young men were content with innocent recreation and rational entertainments, while others sought, and were only satisfied with pastimes and pleasures of an expensive or immoral character?

How was I to penetrate the mystery, so as to reach the cause of the contrary currents, and thereby discover whether there was any other cause to be assigned for the existence of such opposites—beyond the natural and varied tastes of the human mind? Through the instrumentality of my brother warehousemen, I sought and found opportunities for spending an occasional hour or two, or sometimes an evening, in the family circles of those parents whose sons—aye, and daughters too!—displayed, in the page 128selection of their pastimes, a contrast as striking as was over presented between virtue and vice.

No sooner had I made a number of friendly visits, than the veil of the mystery by which I had been surrounded was partially withdrawn. I saw certain lights that enabled me to unravel a few of the mystic threads of social life—lights by which I could trace a direct line to parental influence on youthful minds and actions. I saw that the follies of some young men, although not founded on parental example, were sometimes occasioned by the want of parental consideration. From my own requirements, no less than what I found to be required by other youths, I knew that young people needed occasional recreation and entertainment. And I soon found that where the head of a family was opposed to, or prevented innocent amusement, the vacancy was often supplied—either at home or abroad—by entertainments of an opposite tendency. In the middle, or commercial class of society, to which my attention was then directed, I found the cheerful aspect of some, and the gloomy aspect of other family circles, quite as remarkable as the opposite effects produced on the youthful branches of such families. A few brief sentences will give a rough outline of the leading features of one or two of the families I visited, and show, at the same time, how striking is the contrast caused by the comparison. Take family number one:—

After the usual labors of the day, when business and business thoughts had been closed for the night, here might be found Mr. and Mrs. Lamb, surrounded by their little ones—each anxious to contribute to the enjoyment and happiness of the rest, and one and all ready, by their united efforts, to cater for the entertainment of any friendly visitor or visitors that might happen to drop in during the evening.

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The family recreations combined the useful with the ornamental, the scientific with the humorous, the mental with the physical, the anecdotical with the musical. Here was something to please every taste, and nothing to offend any.

Are the visitors parents?—then a few words from Mr. Lamb on homœopathy, illustrated by the contents of a little medical chest, may indicate how some parents become practical conservators both of their own health and that of their children. Is it the summer season, and are the visitors partial to horticulture?—then Seymour, the senior lamb of the family, will exhibit, in his highly cultivated little garden and lawn, not only the result of skilful labor on the part of an amateur gardener, but also the way in which that gardener employs his leisure hours and improves his health at the same time. On the other hand, are the days short, the evenings long, and in-door rather than out-door recreations desirable?—then the highly finished drawings from the pencil of the accomplished Clara, the charming vocal and instrumental solos, duets, trios, and concerted pieces from other members of an agreeable and happy little band, with an occasional quadrille to vary the entertainment, all tend to make an attractive programme, with which to enliven the family circle and entertain any friends that may happen to drop in during a winter evening.

Mr. and Mrs. Lamb are not slaves to the conventional forms of fashionable society. They are not members of those would-be aristocrats who ape the manners of a higher circle, or display, in themselves or their children, an external and artificial grandeur at the cost of internal comfort or domestic wants. They never give large and expensive parties. They are not of those showy entertainers who, with every delicacy of the season, give sumptuous entertainments to other families—thereby involving the page 130necessity of keeping their own on "short commons" during the intervals. Discretion is the family steward, and prudence the hand by which the supplies are administered. And the pleasure each member finds in the social circle prevents a desire for seeking pleasure elsewhere.

Change the scene. Take family number two:—

By the fire-side, in an easy, or rather an uneasy chair, sits Mr. Bull—in an unenviable state of ill-humour, both with himself and everybody else. Mr. Bull has had—no novelty in the family—an unlucky day "on change." Nevertheless, the business of the day is, or ought to be, over, and Mrs. Bull and family are anxious for a little innocent recreation or social enjoyment.

"Papa, dear," says Miss Bull, "may we have a little music this evening?"

"No!"—replies Mr. Bull, in a clap of thunder—" not in a musical humor!"

"Well then, may Edward and Evelina rehearse their new charade, papa?"

"Flummery!—no!" (Here the unhappy man turns his attention to the subject in which he is more painfully concerned, and on which he soliloquizes). "Consols at ninety-one, and downward bent!—five hundred lost through not selling out to-day—fool!—fool!—fool!"

If the scene be changed to the family circle of a brother, who is a shopkeeper, the lamentation would run thus:—

"Ten pounds less taken in the shop to-day than yesterday;—we shall all go to the workhouse;—music indeed?—sell your piano and look out for a situation!"

Thus it is,—in such families the parents fail either to amuse their children, or to let them amuse themselves. Deprived of all entertainment at home—unless they delight in stern looks and solemn sentences—the young Bulls not page 131only seek entertainment where it is to be found, but often find that which ends in sorrow, if not in ultimate ruin and disgrace.

Having referred to the Lambs and Bulls of English society of the middle class, I may briefly allude to another family, which is perhaps as well, or better, known than either. Their relations may be found in every part of the United Kingdom.

This family is named "Stuffem." They are liberal entertainers both of themselves, their children, and their friends, and their entertainment is entirely of a social character. The Stuffems are for everlasting eating and drinking. They have a large number of friends—persons who are always found where there is plenty to eat and drink and nothing to pay. The Stuffems, in place of intellectual fare, entertain their friends with what is commonly called "a good blow out," and the visitors are generally those who can appreciate the entertainment.

In their out-door pleasure, the Stuffems never fail to illustrate the principal feature of their in-door amusement. Go where you will—by rail or by boat—you no sooner start on your journey than you find the attention of the Stuffems directed to a familiar basket, from which they draw their supplies during the remainder of the excursion. You may pass, and continue to pass, land and lake scenery of the most charming description; but the beauties of nature have no attraction for the Stuffems—while there is anything left in the basket.

Now, although eating and drinking are very desirable pastimes at the proper seasons and places, the vulgar display of such enjoyment is entirely confined to the class of persons alluded to. Their peculiarities are of English origin. So far as my experience goes, this outward show of "stuffing" page 132is not to be seen in any part of the continent. It is only to be found in the United Kingdom—more especially in that part of the kingdom known as England.

After a goodly number of evenings had been spent in gaining an insight into the "doings" of the various family circles to which I had been introduced, I ventured, with the notes I had taken on social life, together with the more voluminous ones entered on commercial matters, to prepare my first pamphlet for the press. Six weeks—or rather the leisure hours of six weeks thus employed—may be passed over during the five or six minutes with which my young reader may learn the leading features of an incident that might have proved fatal to my prospects in life. The business or sport on which the incident originated did subsequently prove fatal to the commercial hopes of the young gentleman by whom I was, for a time, led into danger. It affords a striking illustration of

The Danger of Associating with a Gambler.

My early tormentor, Robert Turnbull, whom I had punished, and whose punishment, for a while, caused me some uneasiness for the safety of my own situation, still held a position in the warehouse, or rather counting-house, of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. Strange to say, from the day on which Robert returned to his duties—after having recruited his health and worn out the marks of his chastisement—the hand by which his chastisement had been administered was held in the greatest esteem. On my part, however, the friendship was in no way solicited, and barely reciprocated. Robert's habits were not altogether in unison with the taste of him whom he now regarded as his friend. His family connexions, rather than his own habits, made his friendship endurable, if not desirable. At all page 133events, the position I held in the young gentleman's esteem was envied by many of the clerks and warehousemen in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. That house was a wealthy and extensive one, and Robert's uncle was a member of the firm. Mr. Branch had no child of his own, and—unless forfeited by glaring misconduct—there was every prospect of an early partnership for the nephew. Independent of this connection. Robert's parents were persons of position and property. They honored me with frequent invitations, and I was invariably received with kindness and consideration. The only thing that made those visits unpleasant to my (then) modest nature was an occasional reference to my particular tastes—as patterns by which the more gaily disposed inclinations of Robert might take a lesson. More valuable than Robert's friendship—there was something else which, probably, induced certain young gentleman, who had an eye to number one in the way of the world, to envy my acquaintance with the family. There was a lovely, accomplished, and only daughter—but not for me—who was subsequently married to a Baronet.

It is a wholesome piece of good old English advice that enjoins young people to seek companions above, rather than below, their own station in life. The injunction can have but one meaning—that is, that such companions should be In Every Way above those who desire their acquaintance. Can any consideration, especially a selfish one, justify a young man in accepting, as an intimate friend, one who disgraces a high position by low habits? In this particular case, the sequel will prove the best answer to the question.

Betting, smoking, and a disposition for anything in the way of gambling, were a few of the many extravagant propensities of Robert Turnbull. Beyond an occasional cigar, I had not, during an acquaintance of two years, been page 134tempted to join my companion in any of his expensive pleasures. Unless homeward bent, I seldom accompanied him in his rambles. But who can make a friend of folly, without making a foolish step? The connexion itself is a step in the wrong direction, but its continuance is sure to lead to something worse—a step that will be deeper and darker than the first. In his gambling speculations, Robert had one day had a piece of "good luck." Luck! I never hear that word without a feeling of shame and sorrow at the very sound. It is a fiction of an excited and deluded brain. There is no such thing as "luck." If there is—it is good luck only where a youth, in speculation, loses all he has, rather than wins what he desires, for he will be more likely to be turned from his folly by his losses than by his gains.

That which Robert designated "good luck," and which, for a brief season, I regarded as such, was the sum of one hundred pounds Sterling won by my companion in a lottery. There was at that time a well-known tavern in the city, at which a sort of "sweepstakes" or subscription lottery was organised and carried out—pertaining to every celebrated horse-race that occurred during the year. Each subscriber held a ticket, with the name of some horse entered for a particular race, and in the event of such horse being first, second, or third in the race, the ticket-holder would be entitled to a specified sum—subject to certain conditions and deductions hereafter named—according to the amount originally subscribed.

How many pounds, or scores of pounds, Robert had previously spent in these ventures, without any other result than the loss of the same, I am unable to say. One evening, however, when I was quietly seated in a little private room, and busily engaged composing my work for page 135the press, Robert Turnbull suddenly entered. For a time, I thought he had gone mad. He certainly was mad with excitement. After sending me and the chair on which I was seated flat on the floor, he at once committed my MSS.—the work of a fortnight—to the flames, and, brandishing the poker over his head, he exclaimed in delirious fits of joy and excitement:—

"Clear out of this! Take a lesson in something noble! Look at that! (Here he threw on the table a bank note for fifty pounds.) Play the fool no longer. There's a little of the superannuated essence of sport! Put that by for me. I can trust you. Why, Frank Foster, why stick to this scribbling hobby of yours? You're mad!"

"I am—if you have communicated the disease. In the name of fortune, Robert, what has possessed you?"

"That's it!" he replied, with a fit of laughter, as he became more subdued and seated himself at the table. "Fortune has possessed me, and I intend to invest you with a few of her charms. Won a hundred yesterday on the Derby. What dy'e think of that, Frank? There—there's a present for you! That's a ticket for the Oaks to morrow. If your horse should win you'll net a hundred pounds; should he come in second, you'll net fifty, and if he should only get in third, there'll be twenty-five for you. Talk about work! Who wants to be working here for a beggarly hundred a year, when he can win a hundred in a day? I was with a young fellow yesterday, who netted five hundred on a single race! And they tell me that Lord Tinsel won over ten thousand! That's my standard of good luck! At present, I have only had a small slice—a mere taste! But it's enough to give one a relish, Frank!"

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Here the sound of the supper-bell, by which we were summoned to our evening meal, suspended the conversation.

On the following day, I began to think that if Robert had not communicated to me a little of his madness, he had, at least, invested me with a share of his "good luck." Long before receiving the congratulations of my friend, who had gone to the races, I was informed that the ticket with which he made me a shareholder in the speculation, bore the name of a horse which had been placed third in the race; and that I should thus be entitled to the sum of twenty-five pounds! Such was the fact. The amount of a quarter's salary in return for a guinea ticket—that ticket a present, too!

On his return to town, Robert made me acquainted with the conditions on which the money was receivable. The conditions were as fellows:—The winner of the first prize (£100) to pay twenty pounds, the winner of the second prize (£50) ten pounds, and the winner of the third prize (£25) five pounds towards providing a "champagne supper" for the general body of subscribers. The prizes to be paid to the winners only on the night of the supper.

Although I would rather have taken my twenty-five pounds without the conditional supper, the love of money was sufficiently strong to induce my attendance at the feast. Rather than lose twenty pounds, I decided to take my seat at table with those whose company and habits I disliked. The supper was a sumptuous one, while the supply of champagne was far greater than the discretion of some of those who seldom partook of so costly a beverage. When the cloth had been removed, and the young gentlemen had retained their seats sufficiently long to show that wine in the human system—like water on a page 137mill—makes the tongue run, some person, either by accident or design, proposed cards. Whether I acceded to the proposition of "play" of my own free will, or through the persuasion of my friend Robert Turnbull, I am now (as on the morning after the game) unable to say. It only remains to add that the twenty pounds which I received at the supper table I lost the same evening, and in the same room, at the card table. I will not add to my own condemnation by recording my opinion of some of the winners at the card table that evening. While there, I was one of the party of players. If they were tainted, how could I be pure? But I never gambled after that night.

Not so with my companion, Robert Turnbull. His "good luck," as he called it, drew him deeper and deeper on that reckless current of speculation that leads its votaries either to ill-gotten gain and misery, or to utter ruin and despair. I tried to turn him from his folly. As my efforts were of no avail, I severed, once and for ever, that friendly tie which—on my part—ought never to have been formed. I still spoke to, but was not again seen walking or smoking with Robert Turnbull:

The close of Robert's commercial career was a sad one. The close of his earthly career was still more sad. Through a long run of what he called his "bad luck," he ultimately became involved in pecuniary obligations to certain members of the betting fraternity. In order to relieve his (temporary as he hoped) embarrassment, and tempt luck to flow again in the right direction, he made free with nearly six hundred pounds—monies belonging to the firm of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. And before his anticipated tide of fortune enabled him to replace the absent cash, the deficiency was discovered.

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A few months previous to this affair, a clerk in the same house had been transported for embezzlement. By his relationship with one of the firm, Robert was saved from the like disgrace. But a misfortune as great, or even greater, awaited him. His friends procured for him a situation in Sierra Leone. This might appear anything but a desirable place for a young man whose constitution had been already impaired by indulgence. But to Sierra Leone Robert was sent, and in Sierra Leone Robert died, from the effects of fever, a month after his arrival. For some time after his death, it was frequently remarked by the young men in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch, that "Robert was only saved from transportation to be sentenced to death," while others observed that "he was saved from one of the penalties to pay both."

Thus, at the age of twenty-one, ended the life of Robert Turnbull. Robert was what some young men called "a fool only to himself." His companions, on whom he wasted his time and money, called him so. Hangers-on, who flattered their dupe while they duped him, called him so—not only, in his absence, called him so, but thought they paid him a sort of compliment by the title.

Robert did, indeed, play the "fool to himself," by allowing others to play the fool with him. He had a generous but foolish disposition. The generosity of his heart was the bait that induced false friends to study and flatter the weak points of their victim. Playing the fool to oneself is an act that is often spoken of very lightly by thoughtless spectators. But it too often proves a serious part for the player. Playing the "fool to himself" was the first act in the sad yet truthful drama in which Robert Turnbull hurried his own life to a close at the age of twenty-one.

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One night of dissipation and excitement in a betting-room, and at a card table, proved enough for me—enough not only to destroy any existing taste for such sport, but to obviate the necessity for a repetition of a dose by which the nausea produced by the indulgence had been cured. The surfeit increased my taste for retirement, and for the harmless scribbling from which I had been withdrawn. Although Robert, in his uncontrollable joy, arising from that "good luck" which gave him his first prize and the key to his ruin, had committed my literary notes to the flames, I completed my little pamphlet in six weeks.

The book was published in Paternoster Row. Among a certain class of citizens—warehousemen—it caused a good deal of talk, and that talk made the work sell, and sell freely. The commercial and social evils mentioned, and the remedies suggested, might have aided, and, no doubt, did aid the sale of the pamphlet. The crudity of the composition was, certainly, not the cause of its success. But it was successful. This may be inferred from the simple fact that in less than twelve months four thousand copies of my little shilling book had been sold.

How shall I describe the sensations produced on my mind by my first literary success? For two reasons, I will attempt nothing of the sort. Those who have experienced the like sensations would alone comprehend them; and to the majority of my readers an attempted description might seem almost as extravagant as the joy occasioned by the first success of my late companion—the young gambler. If poor Robert Turnbull was driven mad by the speed of the horse that brought him his first prize, I was unconsciously taken a long way in the same direction by the success of my first book.

The question about my becoming a professional author page 140was now settled—of course in the affirmative. That which had ceased to be a question was succeeded by another question of still more importance:—"If a little book which had been written in six weeks had produced its author a net profit of eighty pounds, what amount ought to be realized by a big book, or the portions of a book, on which the same author had been engaged many years?" Though unable by any mathematical rule to determine the exact sum to be expected from the more important work of the two, my own imagination permitted me to anticipate a very large amount. Fortunately, in the early stages of my career, my movements were regulated by a certain degree of caution. After due consideration, prudence suggested the retention of my commercial situation till the issue of a second literary work had confirmed and enlarged the success caused by the publication of the first.

Poems!—poems!—poems! Collecting all I had composed, I granted my muse twelve months to make an addition to the number—confident in the belief that, at the end of the allotted period, I should be prepared to satisfy the public with a volume of poems that would make a man of the author!