as to a plot, or spoken to any one of the work I have been doing.
My first manuscript I gave up to my mother, agreeing with her that
it would be as well that she should not look at it before she gave
it to a publisher. I knew that she did not give me credit for the
sort of cleverness necessary for such work. I could see in the
faces and hear in the voices of those of my friends who were around
me at the house in Cumberland,--my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law,
and, I think, my brother,--that they had not expected me to come
out as one of the family authors. There were three or four in the
field before me, and it seemed to be almost absurd that another
should wish to add himself to the number. My father had written
much,--those long ecclesiastical descriptions,--quite unsuccessfully.
My mother had become one of the popular authors of the day. My
brother had commenced, and had been fairly well paid for his work.
My sister, Mrs. Tilley, had also written a novel, which was at the
time in manuscript--which was published afterwards without her name,
and was called Chollerton. I could perceive that this attempt of
mine was felt to be an unfortunate aggravation of the disease.

My mother, however, did the best she could for me, and soon reported
that Mr. Newby, of Mortimer Street, was to publish the book. It
was to be printed at his expense, and he was to give me half the
profits. Half the profits! Many a young author expects much from such
an undertaking. I can, with truth, declare that I expected nothing.
And I got nothing. Nor did I expect fame, or even acknowledgment.
I was sure that the book would fail, and it did fail most absolutely.
I never heard of a person reading it in those days. If there was
any notice taken of it by any critic of the day, I did not see it.
I never asked any questions about it, or wrote a single letter on
the subject to the publisher. I have Mr. Newby's agreement with me,