I compiled the “Chronicles of Newgate,” reviewed books for the “Review,” and occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher’s philosophy.  But the “Review” did not prove a successful speculation, and with its decease its corps of writers broke up.  I was paid, not in cash, but in bills, one payable at twelve, the other at eighteen months after date.  It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account.  At last I found a person willing to cash them at a discount of only thirty per cent.

By the month of October I had accomplished about two-thirds of the compilation of the Newgate lives, and had also made some progress with the German translation.  But about this time I had begun to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection would be of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what had I to offer another publisher?  I returned to my labour, finished the German translation, got paid in the usual style, and left that employer.

III.—­The Spirit of Stonehenge

One morning I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to a single half-crown, and throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind.  By a most singular chance I again came across my friend Petulengro in a fair into which I happened to wander when walking by the side of the river beyond London.  My gipsy friend was seated with several men, carousing beside a small cask.  He sprang up, greeting me cordially, and we chatted in Romany as we walked about together.  Questioning me closely, he soon discovered that by that time I had only eighteen pence in my pocket.

Said Jasper:  “I, too, have been in the big city; but I have not been writing books.  I have fought in the ring.  I have fifty pounds in my pocket, and I have much more in the world.  Brother, there is considerable difference between us.”  But he could not prevail on me to accept or to borrow money, for I said that if I could not earn, I would starve.  “Come and stay with us,” said he.  “Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill.  We shall all be glad of your company, especially myself and my wife, Pakomovna.”

I declined the kind invitation and walked on.  Returning to the great city, I suddenly found myself outside the shop of a publisher to whom I had vainly applied some time before, in the hope of selling some of my writings.  As I looked listlessly at the window, I observed a paper affixed to the glass, on which was written in a fair round hand, “A Novel or Tale is much wanted.”  I at once resolved to go to work to produce what was thus solicited.  But what should the tale be about?  After cogitating at my lodging, with bread and water before me, I concluded that I would write an entirely fictitious narrative called “The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller.”  This Joseph Sell was an imaginary personage who had come into my head.