al quires of
foolscap, a box of quill pens, and a sixpenny bottle of ink, and having
given my housekeeper injunctions to deny me to all visitors, I proceeded
to look round for a suitable subject.

I was looking round for some weeks. At the end of that time I found that
I had by constant nibbling devoured a large number of the quills, and
had spread the ink out to such advantage, what with blots, spills, and
abortive commencements, that there appeared to be some everywhere except
in the bottle. As to the story itself, however, the facility of my youth
had deserted me completely, and my mind remained a complete blank; nor
could I, do what I would, excite my sterile imagination to conjure up a
single incident or character.

In this strait I determined to devote my leisure to running rapidly
through the works of the leading English novelists, from Daniel Defoe
to the present day, in the hope of stimulating my latent ideas and of
getting a good grasp of the general tendency of literature. For some
time past I had avoided opening any work of fiction because one of the
greatest faults of my youth had been that I invariably and unconsciously
mimicked the style of the last author whom I had happened to read.
Now, however, I made up my mind to seek safety in a multitude, and by
consulting ALL the English classics to avoid?? the danger of imitating
any one too closely. I had just accomplished the task of reading through
the majority of the standard novels at the time when my narrative
commences.

It was, then, about twenty minutes to ten on the night of the fourth of
June, eighteen hundred and eighty-six, that, after disposing of a
pint of beer and a Welsh rarebit for my supper, I seated myself in
my arm-chair, cocked my feet upon a stool, and lit my pipe, as was my
custom. Both my pulse and my temperature were, as far as I know, normal
at the time. I would give the state of the barometer, but that
unlucky instrument had experienced an unprecedented fall of forty-two
inches--from a nail to the ground--and was not in a reliable condition.
We live in a scientific age, and I flatter myself that I move with the
times.

Whilst in that comfortable lethargic condition which accompanies both
digestion and poisoning by nicotine, I suddenly became aware of the
extraordinary fact that my little drawing-room had elongated into a
great salon, and that my humble table had increased in proportion. Round
this colossal mahogany were seated a