I was waiting once, when I was young at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching a three-volumed manuscript which I held in my hand.

The eminent publisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, but sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business.
"A novel, is it, sir ?" said the foreman.
"Yes," I answered; "a novel." "It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with a thoughtful and judicious frown--"upon the name, sir, and the subject;--daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English life.
Now your historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it's written on." I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as unattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will make the attempt.

I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, and would fain say a word of them as I do so.

If I do not say that word now it will never be said.
The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on its intrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures.

No one will think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose than Cumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire.