energy of a man.

I manufactured a great variety of plots and skeletons of tales, and
kept them ready for use, leaving the filling up to the inspiration
of the moment; though I cannot remember ever to have told a tale
which did not vary considerably from my preconceived idea, and
acquire a novelty of aspect as often as I repeated it. Oddly enough,
my success was generally in proportion to the difference between the
conception and accomplishment. I provided two or more commencements
and catastrophes to many of the tales,--a happy expedient, suggested
by the double sets of sleeves and trimmings which diversified the
suits in Sir Piercy Shafton's wardrobe. But my best efforts had a
unity, a wholeness, and a separate character that did not admit of
this sort of mechanism.



THE VILLAGE THEATRE

About the first of September my fellow-traveller and myself arrived
at a country town, where a small company of actors, on their return
from a summer's campaign in the British Provinces, were giving a
series of dramatic exhibitions. A moderately sized hall of the
tavern had been converted into a theatre. The performances that
evening were, The Heir at Law, and No Song, no Supper, with the
recitation of Alexander's Feast between the play and farce. The
house was thin and dull. But the next day there appeared to be
brighter prospects, the playbills announcing at every corner, on the
town-pump, and--awful sacrilege!--on the very door of the meeting-
house, an Unprecedented Attraction! After setting forth the ordinary