had made many speeches. I had also written five
novels, and had hunted three times a week during each
of the winters. And how happy I was with it all!
I had suffered at Beverley, but I had suffered as
a part of the work which I was desirous of doing, and
I had gained my experience. I had suffered at
Washington with that wretched American Postmaster,
and with the mosquitoes, not having been able to escape
from that capital till July; but all that had added
to the activity of my life. I had often groaned
over those manuscripts; but I had read them, considering
it—perhaps foolishly—to be a
part of my duty as editor. And though in the quick
production of my novels I had always ringing in my
ears that terrible condemnation and scorn produced
by the great man in Paternoster Row, I was nevertheless
proud of having done so much. I always had a pen
in my hand. Whether crossing the seas, or fighting
with American officials, or tramping about the streets
of Beverley, I could do a little, and generally more
than a little. I had long since convinced myself
that in such work as mine the great secret consisted
in acknowledging myself to be bound to rules of labour
similar to those which an artisan or a mechanic is
forced to obey. A shoemaker when he has finished
one pair of shoes does not sit down and contemplate
his work in idle satisfaction. “There is
my pair of shoes finished at last! What a pair
of shoes it is!” The shoemaker who so indulged
himself would be without wages half his time.
It is the same with a professional writer of books.
An author may of course want time to study a new subject.
He will at any rate assure himself that there is some
such good reason why he should pause. He does
pause, and will be idle for a month or two while he
tells himself how beautiful is that last pair of shoes
which he has finished! Having thought much of
all this, and having made up my mind that I could
be really happy only when I was at work, I had now
quite accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon
as the first was out of my hands.
“The vicar of Bullhampton”—“Sir
Harry hotspur”—“An
editor’s tales”—“Caesar”
In 1869 I was called on to decide, in council with
my two boys and their mother, what should be their
destination in life. In June of that year the
elder, who was then twenty-three, was called to the
Bar; and as he had gone through the regular courses
of lecturing tuition and study, it might be supposed
that his course was already decided. But, just
as he was called, there seemed to be an opening for
him in another direction; and this, joined to the terrible
uncertainty of the Bar, the terror of which was not
in his case lessened by any peculiar forensic aptitudes,
induced us to sacrifice dignity in quest of success.
Mr.
Frederic Chapman, who was then the sole representative
