The last letter of the packet has no other date than May 7. From internal evidence, however, it must have been written in the year 1873.

"I have just had a great disappointment. After keeping the manuscript of my novel more than two months, Mr. —— has written to decline it. It really does seem like Sisyphus—just as one has rolled the stone close to the top of the hill, down it goes again, and all one's work has to be done over again. For some time after I began literary work I did not care in the least about a failure, because I had a perpetual spring of hope that the next would be more fortunate. But now, after eight years of almost continual failure, it is very hard indeed to make a fresh effort, because there is no hope to sustain one's expectations. Still, although I have lost hope entirely, I am more than ever determined to succeed, and shall never cease trying till I do.

"It seems so singular to me that, although publishers constantly decline my works, yet if by any chance something that I have written gets into print, everybody immediately admires it, so that it does not seem that there is any want of ability. You remember those letters in the Times? They were declined by one editor of a much less important paper. The moment they were published everyone admired them, and even the most adverse critics allowed that the style and literary execution was good. I could show you a dozen clippings from adverse newspapers to that effect. This is the reflection that supports me under so many disappointments, because it seems to say that it is through no fault of mine. Thinking over this very deeply lately, and passing over in review the facts and experience I have obtained during the last eight years, I have come to the conclusion that it is no use for me to waste further time in waiting for the decisions of publishers, but that I ought to set to work and publish on my own account. What, then, shall I publish? A novel costs some £60 or £80 at least. This I cannot possibly afford; I have no friends who can afford it. I can borrow, it is true, but that seems like putting a noose round your own neck for some one else to hang you with. But then many authors have made a name and even large sums of money by publishing very small books...."

He goes on to show in his sanguine way how a little book is bound to bring in a great profit.

He then adds:

"... Having tried, therefore, every other plan for succeeding, I have at last determined to try this. Do you not think I am right? It is only risking a few pounds—not like £60 or £80. The first little book I have selected to issue is a compendium of reporting experience for the use of learners. It is almost finished—all but binding—and the first copy issued you shall see. It will be published by J. Snow and Co., 2, Ivy Lane.

"Then with regard to Swindon. I have so enlarged my account of it, and so enlarged the account of the Goddard family, that I have determined to publish the work in two parts. First to issue the Goddard part, by which means I shall not risk so much money, and shall see how the thing takes. Besides, I know that the Goddards would prefer it done in that way. I estimate the cost of the first part at about £10; and as the manuscript has been completed and lying idle for nearly three months, I should like to get it out at once, but I do not like to give the order until I have the cash to meet the bill.

"You have no idea of the wretched feeling produced by incessant disappointment, and the long, long months of weary waiting for decisions without the least hope...."

CHAPTER IV.

GLEAMS OF LIGHT.

With the year 1871 the early struggles of the young writer came to an end. He had now secured his position, such as it was, on the local press. As there are no further suggestions of parental opposition, we may suppose that this had now ceased. Parental opposition generally gives way when the lad shows that by following his own path he can maintain himself. This Richard could now do. He continued, however, to live at Coate, partly, no doubt, for economy, and partly for convenience. His old friends point out the short cut across the fields by which he was accustomed to walk from Coate to the office of the paper. Local enthusiasm, however, is proverbially feeble in the case of the native prophet. This grows up in the after-years. The income which a young reporter on a small country paper can make is very modest, and the position is not one which commands the highest respect. Yet many young fellows are satisfied and happy in such a position, because, though they are still at the bottom of the ladder, their foot is planted on the rung, and their hands are on the sides. Being rich, therefore, in hope, he took the step which naturally follows success—he became engaged. His fiancée was a daughter of the late Mr. Andrew Baden, at that time occupying Dayhouse Farm, adjacent to Coate. For the present there could be no thought of marrying, but they would wait till their hopes were partly realized, and the golden shower should begin. Now there were two instead of one looking for the splendid triumph of the future. A first instalment of success came the following year, in November, 1872—a real, indisputable success—a thing that brought money and more work, and yet more work; a thing which, in the hands of a practical man, would have brought work enough to last a lifetime. To Jefferies it was better than this, because it presently led him—the wanderer in the labyrinth of fruitless effort—to the line in which he was to make his reputation, and to find his true success. Is there anything in the world more truly delightful than the first success in the career you have chosen and ardently desire to adorn? If one desires to become an authority on any subject, to read your own paper in a great magazine; if one desires to become a journalist, to have the columns of a great paper opened to you; if one wishes to be a great novelist, to read the reviews of your first work, and to be assured that you are on the right track—nothing in the world surely can equal that blissful moment.