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 shape, inevitable to me, of the book that was to be written. It was to be called—I have only just remembered the title after a long forgetfulness—"The Glory of Gwent"; it was to be, somehow, all about that beloved country in the west from which I was an exile; it was to be a Great Romance, a noble dream, a revelation of things hidden. Thus do I put myself in the pillory, not waiting for the just vengeance of the reader, who will listen to all this fine talk and then go on to the actuality, the thing that came of this vision in the night, this present "Chronicle of Clemendy"—and then liftedlift [sic] a bewildered brow, and if he be a kind man, weep for the burning desires and the sorry impotence of youth. "That is what he longed to do: this is what he has done: miserrimus."

But on this night of '85 I fell asleep happy and woke happy in the morning and bought pens and paper—I looked the other day for the stationer's shop, Murley's I think it was called, but I could not find it. I was quite clear that a vision had been vouchsafed me, but then, as often happens with the dreams of the night, the sharp outlines began to fade in daylight, the things