engaged, but in my case, fate ordered otherwise,
I have told the tale elsewhere, but it will bear re-telling. I was
drifting about Fleet Street, mournfully conscious of the extent to which
my appearance had deteriorated, of the unblacked boots and the yellow
linen, and the general air of being unkempt and unwashed, when I found
myself standing in front of the window of a filter-maker's shop, close
by old Temple Bar. In this window were displayed a number of glass
domes, under each of which a little jet of water tossed about a cork
ball. The ball would soar sometimes to the roof of the dome and would
then topple over, sometimes to be caught midway upon the jet and
sometimes to fall to the bottom, but always to be kept drenched and
dancing in a melancholy futile way. I was comparing it with myself when
a hand was clapped upon my shoulder and a jolly voice accosted me. The
speaker was John Lovell, the president of the Press Association, which
had its offices in Wine Office Court hard by. He could not have failed
to be aware of my condition, but he gave no sign of having observed it
and asked me if I could spare the time to earn a couple of guineas,
by writing "a good, sea-salt, tarry British article about Christopher
Columbus." Time pressed, he told me, and he was too busy to undertake
the article himself. If I would accompany him to the office, he would
supply me with the necessary materials and would pay money down for the
work. On to the office I went with him, with a sudden bright confidence
that here at last the lane of ill-luck had found a turning. I was
ushered into a little private room, and writing materials were set
before me. In a couple of hours I sent in my copy, and there came back
to me at once a pill-box, on the lid of which was inscribed in a very
delicate handwriting, "The prescription to be taken immediately." The
box being opened was found to contain two sovereigns and two shillings,
wrapped in cotton wool, and I went away to break a fast which was then
entering on its fifth day. My next proceeding, after having somewhat
refurbished myself, was to go back to the dingy old hole in Bouverie
Street and to write an article on "Impecunious Life in London."

During the brief run of the _Illustrated Midlands News_, to which I
had been a frequent contributor of verse, the late Richard Gowing, then
editor of the _School Board Chronicle_, had officiated as Mr Joseph
Hatton's assistant editor. He had just acquired