scenes floated promiscuously through my head, but, when one came to my pen-point, it was a farrago of nonsense, incoherent, yet confusedly intense.
Then the slightest message from the outside world led me astray, like a rambling butterfly.
What to say first, and how to say it, was as disturbing as a pathless forest would be to a man who had never stirred from Whitechapel.
My thoughts massed themselves into a huge organ like that at the Crystal Palace, from which a master-hand could evoke Handel's Messiah, or Wagner's Walkure, but which to me would only give deep discords.
The days went by, and I feared I should have to relegate my book to the uncertain future.
At last I started on the Forest chapter, the writing of which relieved me of the acuter feeling.
Then I began the March from Yambuya ; and, presently, I warmed to the work, flung off page after page, and never halted until I had reached The Albert.
The stronger emotions being thus relieved, I essayed the beginning, and