but such is by no means the case. I was waiting once, when I was
young at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher,
hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching a
three--volumed manuscript which I held in my hand. The eminent
publisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, but
sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business.

"A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman.

"Yes," I answered; "a novel."

"It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with a
thoughtful and judicious frown--"upon the name, sir, and the
subject;--daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English
life. Now, your historical novel, sir. is not worth the paper it's
written on."

I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as
unattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will make
the attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, and
would fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do not say that word
now it will never be said.

The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on its
intrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures. No one
will think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose than
Cumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire. What abstract objection
can there then be to the county Cork?

Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful part