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resolution to think of other things and bury myself in the novels
of M. de Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one
morning to the unfinished tale; and behold! it flowed from me like
small talk; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and again
at a rate of a chapter a day, I finished Treasure Island. It had
to be transcribed almost exactly; my wife was ill; the schoolboy
remained alone of the faithful; and John Addington Symonds (to whom
I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked on me askance.
He was at that time very eager I should write on the characters of
Theophrastus: so far out may be the judgments of the wisest men.
But Symonds (to be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for
sympathy on a boy's story. He was large-minded; 'a full man,' if
there was one; but the very name of my enterprise would suggest to
him only capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well!
he was not far wrong.
Treasure Island--it was Mr. Henderson who deleted the first title,
The Sea Cook--appeared duly in the story paper, where it figured in
the ignoble midst, without woodcuts, and attracted not the least
attention. I did not care. I liked the tale myself, for much the
same reason as my father liked the beginning: it was my kind of
picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver, also; and to
this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What
was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark; I had
finished a tale, and written 'The End' upon my manuscript, as I had
not done since 'The Pentland Rising,' when I was a boy of sixteen
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