with Major Henty, the famous writer of books for boys, and
poor brilliant young Evelyn Jerrold. Forbes greeted me boisterously,
and, springing from his seat, clapped me upon the back. He took me
to his friends and introduced me with words that put me to the blush.
"Here," said he, "is a man who writes English, and here is the only man
who ever beat me on my own ground." "No," I answered, "it was my ground,
Mr Forbes, and I should not have beaten you if you had spoken the
language of the natives." I never had a better or more generous friend
than Forbes.

The _World_ Journal, founded by Edmund Yates, was just then entering
into its first dawn of success. Forbes had been asked to write a
series of articles for it on a subject which, as he confessed, had no
particular charm for him. He handed it over to me and that gave me my
first chance in the higher journalism of London. But I am running
far ahead now and there is much to tell before my narrative arrives
legitimately at this point.

The _Birmingham Morning News_ was a financial failure from the first,
and towards the end of its second year its proprietors determined to
reconstruct it. How or by whom they were advised I never knew, but a
person who had no acquaintance either with finance or with journalism
was entrusted with the command and Dawson threw up his post in dudgeon.
I had fully intended to resign with him, but I had no time given me in
which to do it, and in the space of a few weeks after the arrival of the
newcomer, I was free to seek my fortune in London. By the good offices
of the late Charles Williams, war correspondent on the staff of the
_Morning Advertiser_, I was introduced to Colonel Richards, the editor
of that journal, and did actually secure a berth as gallery reporter,
but I was suddenly called back to the country by a grave domestic
trouble, no less than the illness of my wife, which terminated fatally
eight or nine weeks g 97 Recollections later. When I returned to London
my place was filled and for a while the outlook was extremely desolate.
My funds were very limited to begin with, and in spite of all the care
I could exercise they dwindled at an appalling rate. I abode in a shabby
little back bedroom in a lodging off the Gray's Inn Road and sat at my
table wrapped in an ulster to prevent myself from freezing, whilst
I wrote, and sent broadcast prose and verse, essays, short stories,
journalistic trifles of every kind. All were ignored or ret