At two
o'clock the next morning I found myself--God help
me!--masquerading, as it were, in my own long-lost character of a
hard-writing young man, with the old familiar cup of strong tea
by my side, and the old familiar wet towel tied round my head.
My review of the progress I had made, when I looked back at my
pages of manuscript, yielded all the encouragement I wanted to
drive me on. It is only just, however, to add to the record of
this first day's attempt, that the literary labor which it
involved was by no means of the most trying kind. The great
strain on the intellect--the strain of invention--was spared me
by my having real characters and events ready to my hand. If I
had been called on to create, I should, in all probability, have
suffered severely by contrast with the very worst of those
unfortunate novelists whom Jessie had so rashly and so
thoughtlessly condemned. It is not wonderful that the public
should rarely know how to estimate the vast service which is done
to them by the production of a good book, seeing that they are,
for the most part, utterly ignorant of the immense difficulty of
writing even a bad one.
The next day was fine, to my great relief; and our visitor, while
we were at work, enjoyed her customary scamper on the pony, and
her customary rambles afterward in the neighborhood of the house.
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