to that halcyon time when we first entered
upon authorship; when the mere act of
writing was in itself pleasant, when the
sight of a proof-sheet was calculated to fill
one with infinite delight, when one glowed
with delight at praise, or writhed in agony
under attack. In after life, when the novelty
has entirely worn off, when the Pegasus
which ambled, and kicked, and pranced,
has settled down into the serviceable hack
of ordinary use, often obliged, like other
hacks, to go through his work and to put
forth his paces at inopportune times and
seasons, it seems impossible to believe that
this freshness of feeling, this extraordinary
enthusiasm, can ever have existed; unless,
perchance, you see the reflex of yourself in
some one else who is beginning to pursue
the sunny verdant end of that path which
with you at present has worn down into a
very commonplace beaten track, and then
you perceive that the illusion was not
specially your own, but is common to all
who are in that happy glorious season of
youth.

Walter Joyce was thoroughly happy.
He had pleasant rooms in Staples Inn—a
quiet, quaint, old-world place, where the
houses, with their overhanging eaves and
gabled roofs and mullioned windows recal
memories of Continental cities and college
"quads," and yet are only just shut off
from the never-ceasing bustle and riot of
Holborn. The furniture of these rooms was
not very new, and there was not very much
of it; but the sitting-room boasted not
merely of two big easy chairs, but of several
rows of bookshelves, which had been well
filled, by Jack Byrne's generosity, with
books which the old man had himself
selected; and in the bedroom there was a
bed and a bath, which, in Joyce's opinion,
satisfied all reasonable expectations. Here,
in the morning, he read or wrote; for he
was extending his connexion with literature,
and found a ready market for his
writings in several of the more thoughtful
periodicals of the day. In the afternoon
he would go down to the Comet office, and
take part in the daily conference of the
principal members of the staff. There
present would be Mr. Warren, the
proprietor of the paper, who did not
understand much about journalism, as, indeed,
could scarcely be expected of him, seeing
that the whole of his previous life had been
taken up in attending to the export
provision trade, in which he had made his
fortune, but who was a capital man of
business, looked after the financial affairs
of the concern, and limited his interference
with the conduct of the paper in listening
to what others had to say. There would
be Mr. Saltwell, who devoted himself to
foreign politics, who was a wonderful
linguist and a skilful theological controversialist,
and who, in his tight drab trousers,
cut-away coat, and bird's-eye cravat, looked
like a racing-trainer or a tout; Mr. Gowan,
a Scotchman, a veteran journalist of
enormous experience, who, as he used to say,
had had scores of papers "killed under
him;" Mr. Forrest, a slashing writer, but
always in extremes, and who was always
put on to any subject which it was required
should be highly lauded or shamefully
abused—it did not matter much to Mr.
Forrest, who was a man of the world; and
Mr. Ledingham, a man of great learning
but very ponderous in style and recondite
in subject, whose articles were described
by Mr. Skimmer as being "like roast pig,
very nice occasionally, but not to be
indulged in often with impunity," were also
usual attendants at the conference, which
was presided over by the recognised editor
of the Comet, Terence O'Connor.

Mr. O'Connor was the type of a class of
journalists which yet exists, indeed, but is
not nearly so numerous as it was a few
years ago. Your newspaper editor of
today dines with the duke and looks in at
the countess's reception; his own reporter
includes him amongst the distinguished
company which he, the reporter,
"observes" at select reunions; he rides in the
Park, and drives down to his office from
the House of Commons, where he has been
the centre of an admiring circle of
members, in his brougham. Shades of the
great men of bygone days—of White and
Berry, of Kew and Captain Shandon—
think of that! Terence O'Connor was of
the old school. He had made journalism
his profession since he left Trinity, and had
only won his position by hard labour and
untiring perseverance, had written in and
edited various provincial newspapers, had
served his time as sub and hack on the
London press, and had eventually risen to
the editorial chair which he filled so
admirably. A man of vast learning, with the
simplicity of a child, of keen common-sense
tempered with great amicability, an
admirable writer, an ardent politician, wielding
great power with never-failing
impartiality, Terence O'Connor passed his life in
a world in which he was exceptionally
influential, and to which he was comparatively
unknown. His neighbours at Clapham