Much to my regret, he took a very high-handed course with my review, and of all the twelve pages of carefully written foolscap (not to mention that I copied it three times) he only availed himself of twelve lines. The analytic part he remorselessly cut out, and the advice to the Clapham Macreadies, and most of the adverse criticism. In fact, all you would have gathered from the few commonplace paragraphs that finally appeared was this: that the Clapham Macreadies had produced _Diplomacy_, in the interests of a Cottage Hospital somewhere, and that they had given a painstaking and capable performance before a distinguished and enthusiastic audience. The usual finish and style inseparable from a Clapham Macready production was apparent, the ladies’ band excelled itself, and the Club was to be congratulated on adding another wreath to its laurels. Of course, I had said all these things, but not in this bald and silly way. In fact, I was a good deal annoyed, and asked Brightwin rather bitterly what Mr. Bulger supposed I had hired a suit of dress clothes for, and gone down to Clap-ham, and racked my brain for twelve hours on Sunday, and so on; but he assured me that Mr. Bulger had been tremendously taken by my review and considered that I was a born critic and had really been far too conscientious in the matter. It was my first glimpse behind the scenes of the press world, and I found that all that is written, even by critics, by no means gets into print. I felt in the first pangs of disappointment that I would never put my pen to paper again, and so be lost to Mr. Bulger and _Thespis_ forever; but when a week or two later he actually published “The Witches’ Sabbath” on the last page, under the title of “Original Poetry,” I forgave him all. He had undoubtedly tampered with “The Witches’ Sabbath” and reduced the number of the stanzas; but all the best of it was still there; and in print it looked decidedly literary. A great many mistakes had unfortunately crept into it; and Mr. Bulger had rather tampered with the terror in one or two of the most fearful verses. Still, it was mine, and as I passed home through London that day, with a copy of _Thespis_ in my pocket, sent from the editor, I could not help wondering how little the hurrying thousands guessed that, as they carelessly elbowed me, they were touching a man who had written original poetry which had been accepted and printed in a public newspaper, and might be bought at any bookstall in London. It was rather a solemn thought in its way, and I stopped at a bookstall near Regent’s Circus to prove it, and threw down a penny and asked for _Thespis_. Much to my surprise, however, the man did not keep it in stock. “We could get it for you, no doubt; but I thought it was dead,” he said.