in which I was always trembling while I remained in London. But
that did not suffice,--did not nearly suffice. I still felt that
there might be a career before me, if I could only bring myself to
begin the work. I do not think I much doubted my own intellectual
sufficiency for the writing of a readable novel. What I did doubt
was my own industry, and the chances of the market.

The vigour necessary to prosecute two professions at the same time
is not given to every one, and it was only lately that I had found
the vigour necessary for one. There must be early hours, and I
had not as yet learned to love early hours. I was still, indeed, a
young man; but hardly young enough to trust myself to find the power
to alter the habits of my life. And I had heard of the difficulties
of publishing,--a subject of which I shall have to say much should
I ever bring this memoir to a close. I had dealt already with
publishers on my mother's behalf, and knew that many a tyro who
could fill a manuscript lacked the power to put his matter before
the public;--and I knew, too, that when the matter was printed,
how little had then been done towards the winning of the battle!
I had already learned that many a book--many a good book--

"is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

But still the purpose was strong within me, and the first effort
was made after the following fashion. I was located at a little
town called Drumsna, or rather village, in the county Leitrim,
where the postmaster had come to some sorrow about his money; and
my friend John Merivale was staying with me for a day or two. As
we were taking a walk in that most uninteresting country, we turned