I had before written about him to two or three literary friends in London; and now I felt bound to see what could be done in opening a way for him.  He had obtained the insertion of a tale in a magazine, for which he had one guinea in payment.  This raised his spirits, and gave him a hope of independence; for it was a parting of the clouds, and there was no saying how much sunlight might be let down.  He was willing to apply himself to any drudgery; but his care to undertake nothing that he was not sure of doing well was very striking.  He might have obtained good work as classical proof-corrector; but he feared, that, though his classical attainments were good, his training had not qualified him for the necessary accuracy.  He had some employment of the sort, if I remember right, which defrayed a portion of his small expenses.  His expenses were indeed small.  He told me all his little gains and his weekly outlay; and I was really afraid that he did not allow himself sufficient food.  Yet he knew that there was a little money in my hands, when he wanted it.  His letters became now very gay in spirits.  He keenly relished the society into which he was invited; and, on the other hand, everybody liked him.  It was amusing to me, in my sick room, three hundred miles off, to hear of the impression he made, with his innocence, his fresh delight in his new life, his candor, his modesty, and his bright cleverness,—­and then, again, to learn how diligently he had set about learning what I, his correspondent, was really like.  In his dreams he had seen me very aged,—­he thought upwards of eighty; and he had never doubted of the fact being so.  In one letter he told me, that, finding a brother of mine was then in London, he was going that afternoon to a public meeting to see him, in order to have some idea of my aspect.  A mutual friend told me afterwards that Patrick had come away quite bewildered and disappointed.  He had expected to see in my brother a gray-haired ancient; whereas he found a man under forty.  I really believe he was disturbed that his dreams had misled him.  Yet I never observed any other sign of superstition in him.

At last the happy day came when he had a literary task worthy of him,—­a sort of test of his capacity for reviewing.  One of the friends to whom I had introduced him was then sub-editor of the “Athenaeum,”—­a weekly periodical of higher reputation at that time than now.  Patrick was commissioned to review a book of some weight and consequence,—­Sir Robert Kane’s “Industrial Resources of Ireland,”—­and he did it so well that the conductors hoped to give him a good deal of employment.  What they gave him would have led to more; and thus he really was justified in his exultation at having come to London.  I remember, that, in the midst of his joy, he startled me by some light mention of his having spit blood, after catching cold,—­a thing which had happened before in Ireland.  In answer to my inquiries, my friends told me that he certainly looked very delicate, but made light of it.  It happened, unfortunately, that he was obliged just then to change his lodging.  He increased his cold by going about in bad weather to look for another.  He found one, however, and settled himself, in hope of doing great things there.