s before I was in
the vein for composition, and then, with a sudden dash, I began 'The
House of Elmore.' It was half finished when another strange incident
occurred. I received one morning a letter from Lascelles Wraxall
(afterwards Sir Lascelles Wraxall, Bart., as the reader may be probably
aware), informing me that he was one of the readers for Messrs. Hurst &
Blackett, and that it had been his duty some time ago to decide
unfavourably against a story which I had submitted to the notice of his
firm, but that he had intended to write to me a private note urging me
to adopt literature as a profession. His principal object in writing at
that time was to suggest my trying the fortunes of the novel, which he
had already read, with Messrs. Routledge, and he kindly added a letter
of introduction to that firm in the Broadway--an introduction which, by
the way, never came to anything.

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM]

Poor Lascelles Wraxall, clever writer and editor, press-man and literary
adviser, real Bohemian and true friend--indeed, everybody's friend but
his own--I look back at him with feelings of deep gratitude. He was a
rolling stone, and when I met him for the first time in my life, years
afterwards, he had left Marlborough Street for the Crimea; he had been
given a commission in the Turkish Contingent at Kertch; he had come back
anathematising the Service, and 'chock full' of grievances against the
Government, and he became once more editor and sub-editor, and
publisher's hack even, until he stepped into his baronetcy--an empty
title, for he had sold the reversion of the estates for a mere song long
ago--and became special correspondent in Austria for the _Daily
Telegraph_. And in Vienna he died, young in years still--not forty, I
think--closing a life that only wanted one turn more of 'application,' I
have often thought, to have achieved very great distinction. There are
still a few writing men about who remember Lascelles Wraxall, but they
are 'the boys of the old brigade.'

[Illustration: AT FORTY]

It was to Lascelles Wraxall I sent, when finished, 'The House of
Elmore,' as the reader may very easily guess. Wraxall had stepped so
much out of his groove--for the busy literary man that he was--to take
me by the hand, and point the way along 'the perilous road;' he had
given me so many kind words, that I wrote my hardest to complete my new
story before I should fade from his recollection. The book was finished