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few hours' relaxation or to while away the tedium of a journey。 And if I
may judge from the reviews； many of these books are well and carefully
written； much thought has gone to their composition； to some even has
been given the anxious labour of a lifetime。 The moral I draw is that the
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writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in release
from the burden of his thought； and； indifferent to aught else； care nothing
for praise or censure； failure or success。
Now the war has come； bringing with it a new attitude。 Youth has
turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not； and it is possible to see
already the direction in which those who come after us will move。 The
younger generation； conscious of strength and tumultuous； have done with
knocking at the door； they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats。
The air is noisy with their shouts。 Of their elders some； by imitating the
antics of youth； strive to persuade themselves that their day is not yet over；
they shout with the lustiest； but the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth；
they are like poor wantons attempting with pencil； paint and powder； with
shrill gaiety； to recover the illusion of their spring。 The wiser go their way
with a decent grace。 In their chastened smile is an indulgent mockery。
They remember that they too trod down a sated generation； with just such
clamor and with just such scorn； and they foresee that these brave torch…
bearers will presently yield their place also。 There is no last word。 The
new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness to the sky。
These gallant words which seem so novel to those that speak them were
said in accents scarcely changed a hundred times before。 The pendulum
swings backwards and forwards。 The circle is ever travelled anew。
Sometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era in which
he had his place into one which is strange to him； and then the curious are
offered one of the most singular spectacles in the human comedy。 Who
now； for example； thinks of George Crabbe？ He was a famous poet in
his day； and the world recognised his genius with a unanimity which the
greater complexity of modern life has rendered infrequent。 He had learnt
his craft at the school of Alexander Pope； and he wrote moral stories in
rhymed couplets。 Then came the French Revolution and the Napoleonic
Wars； and the poets sang new songs。 Mr。 Crabbe continued to write moral
stories in rhymed couplets。 I think he must have read the verse of these
young men who were making so great a stir in the world； and I fancy he
found it poor stuff。 Of course； much of it was。 But the odes of Keats
and of Wordsworth； a poem or two by Coleridge； a few more by Shelley；
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discovered vast realms of the spirit that none had explored before。 Mr。
Crabbe was as dead as mutton； but Mr。 Crabbe continued to write moral
stories in rhymed couplets。 I have read desultorily the writings of the
younger generation。 It may be that among them a more fervid Keats； a
more ethereal Shelley； has already published numbers the world will
willingly remember。 I cannot tell。 I admire their polish their youth is
already so accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of promise I
marvel at the felicity of their style； but with all their copiousness （their
vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roget's in their
cradles） they say nothing to me： to my mind they know too much and
feel too obviously； I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap
me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my
bosom； their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams a trifle
dull。 I do not like them。 I am on the shelf。 I will continue to write
moral stories in rhymed couplets。 But I should be thrice a fool if I did it
for aught but my own entertainment。
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Chapter III
But all this is by the way。
I was very young when I wrote my first book。 By a lucky chance it
excited attention； and various persons sought my acquaintance。
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of
the world of letters in London when first； bashful but eager； I was
introduced to it。 It is long since I frequented it； and if the novels that
describe its present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed。
The venue is different。 Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of
Hampstead； Notting Hill Gate； and High Street； Kensington。 Then it was a
distinction to be under forty； but now to be more than twenty…five is
absurd。 I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions； and
the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness。 I
do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture
of chastity； but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be
practised in the present day。 We did not think it hypocritical to draw over
our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence。 The spade was not
invariably called a bloody shovel。 Woman had not yet altogether come
into her own。
I lived near Victoria Station； and I recall long excursions by bus to the
hospitable houses of the literary。 In my timidity I wandered up and down
the street while I screwed up my courage to ring the bell； and then； sick
with apprehension； was ushered into an airless room full of people。 I was
introduced to this celebrated person after that one； and the kind words they
said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable。 I felt they
expected me to say clever things； and I never could think of any till after
the party was over。 I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round
cups of tea and rather ill…cut bread…and…butter。 I wanted no one to take
notice of me； so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease
and listen to the clever things they said。
I have a recollection of large； unbending women with great noses and
rapacious eyes； who wore their clothes as though they were armour； and of
little； mouse…like spinsters； with soft voices and a shrewd glance。 I never
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ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with
their gloves on； and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which
they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no one was
looking。 It must have been bad for the furniture； but I suppose the
hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when； in turn； she
visited them。 Some of them were dressed fashionably； and they said they
couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because
you had written a novel； if you had a neat figure you might as well make
the most of it； and a smart shoe on a small foot had never prevented an
editor from taking your 〃stuff。〃 But others thought this frivolous； and they
wore 〃art fabrics〃 and barbaric jewelry。 The men were seldom eccentric
in appearance。 They tried to look as little like authors as possible。 They
wished to be taken for men of the world； and could have passed anywhere
for the managing clerks of a city firm。 They always seemed a little tired。
I had never known writers before； and I found them very strange； but I do
not think they ever seemed to me quite real。
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant； and I used to
listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they would
tear a brother…author to pieces the moment that his back was tur