My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected.

I likewise occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me.
"You had better leave off now for a short space," said the tempter, "and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done." I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on.

I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph Sell.
From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me.

It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel.

Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant--hungry talent too--a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours?
I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose.