Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It
seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my
earliest childhood, it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary
series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a
good friend to the paper-makers. Reams upon reams must have gone
to the making of 'Rathillet,' 'The Pentland Rising,' {18} 'The
King's Pardon' (otherwise 'Park Whitehead'), 'Edward Daven,' 'A
Country Dance,' and 'A Vendetta in the West'; and it is consolatory
to remember that these reams are now all ashes, and have been
received again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-
fated efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they
were desisted from; and even so they cover a long vista of years.
'Rathillet' was attempted before fifteen, 'The Vendetta' at twenty-
nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was
thirty-one. By that time, I had written little books and little
essays and short stories; and had got patted on the back and paid
for them--though not enough to live upon. I had quite a
reputation, I was the successful man; I passed my days in toil, the
futility of which would sometimes make my cheek to burn--that I
should spend a man's energy upon this business, and yet could not
earn a livelihood: and still there shone ahead of me an unattained
ideal: although I had attempted the thing with vigour not less
than ten or twelve times, I had not yet written a novel.
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