I wish I had the courage to begin this tale by turning to my professional visiting books, and, taking at any month out of the last twenty years, give its record as a fair sample of my ordinary work. The extract would tell you what a doctor’s—I suppose I may say a successful doctor’s—lot is, when his practice lies in a poor and densely-populated district of London. as such a beginning might be, it would perhaps some of the incredulity which this tale may probably provoke, as it would plainly show how little room there is for things imaginative or romantic in work so hard as mine, or among such grim realities of poverty, pain, and grief as those by which I have been surrounded. It would certainly make it appear extremely unlikely that I should have found time to imagine, much less to write, a romance or .
The truth is that when a man has from nine o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, such leisure as he can enjoy is precious to him, especially when even that short is liable to be broken in upon at any moment.
Still, in spite of the doleful picture I have of what may be called “the daily grind,” I begin this tale with the account of a holiday.
In the autumn of 1864 I turned my back with right good-will upon London streets, hospitals, and patients, and took my seat in the North Express. The first revolution of the wheels sent a thrill of delight through my frame. A sense of freedom came over me. I had really got away at last! Moreover, I had left no address behind me, so for three blessed weeks might roam an undisputed lord of myself. Three weeks were not very many to take out of the fifty-two, but they were all I could venture to give myself; for even at that time my practice, if not so as I could wish, was a large and increasing one. Having done a twelvemonth’s hard work, I felt that no one in the kingdom could take his holiday with a conscience clearer than mine, so I lay back in a peculiarly frame of mind, and discounted the coming pleasures of my brief respite from .
There are many ways of passing a holiday—many places at which it may be spent; but after all, if you wish to enjoy it there is but one royal rule to be followed. That is, simply to please yourself—go where you like, and mount the innocent holiday hobby which is dearest to your heart, let its name be botany, geology, entomology, conchology, venery, piscation, or what not. Then you will be happy, and return well up for the battle of life. I knew a city clerk with literary tastes, who invariably spent his annual fortnight among the mustiest tomes of the British Museum, and that his health was more benefited by so doing than if he had passed the time the freshest sea-breezes. I dare say he was right in his assertion.
has always been my favorite holiday pursuit. Poor as my drawings may be, nevertheless, as I turn them over in my , they bring to me at least vivid remembrances of many sweet and spots, happy days, and congenial companions. It was not for me to say anything of their actual merits, but they are dear to me for their associations.
This particular year I went to North Wales, and made Bettws-y-Coed my headquarters. I stayed at the Royal Oak, that well-known little inn dear to many an artist’s heart, and with reminiscences of famous men who have sojourned there times without number. It was here I made the acquaintance of the man with whose life the curious events here told are connected.
On the first day after my arrival at Bettws my of my liberty was so thorough, my appetite for the of the beauties of nature so keen and insatiable, that I went so far and saw so much, that when I returned to the Royal Oak night had fallen and the hour of dinner had long passed by. I was, when my own meal was placed on the table, the only occupant of the coffee-room. Just then............