oking at men in the multitude； I marvel that they have advanced so far。
Foolishly arrogant as I was； I used to judge the worth of a person by his intellectual power and attainment。 I could see no good where there was no logic； no charm where there was no learning。 Now I think that one has to distinguish between two forms of intelligence； that of the brain； and that of the heart； and I have e to regard the second as by far the more important。 I guard myself against saying that intelligence does not matter； the fool is ever as noxious as he is wearisome。 But assuredly the best people I have known were saved from folly not by the intellect but by the heart。 They e before me； and I see them greatly ignorant； strongly prejudiced； capable of the absurdest mis…reasoning； yet their faces shine with the supreme virtues； kindness； sweetness； modesty； generosity。 Possessing these qualities； they at the same time understand how to use them； they have the intelligence of the heart。
This poor woman who labours for me in my house is even such a one。 From the first I thought her an unusually good servant； after three years of acquaintance； I find her one of the few women I have known who merit the term of excellent。 She can read and write……that is all。 More instruction would； I am sure； have harmed her； for it would have confused her natural motives； without supplying any clear ray of mental guidance。 She is fulfilling the offices for which she was born； and that with a grace of contentment； a joy of conscientiousness； which puts her high among civilized beings。 Her delight is in order and in peace； what greater praise can be given to any of the children of men？
The other day she told me a story of the days gone by。 Her mother； at the age of twelve； went into domestic service； but on what conditions； think you？ The girl's father； an honest labouring man； PAID the person whose house she entered one shilling a week for her instruction in the duties she wished to undertake。 What a grinning stare would e to the face of any labourer nowadays； who should be asked to do the like！ I no longer wonder that my housekeeper so little resembles the average of her kind。
XVII
A day of almost continuous rain； yet for me a day of delight。 I had breakfasted； and was poring over the map of Devon （how I love a good map！） to trace an expedition that I have in view； when a knock came at my door； and Mrs。 M。 bore in a great brown…paper parcel； which I saw at a glance must contain books。 The order was sent to London a few days ago； I had not expected to have my books so soon。 With throbbing heart I set the parcel on a clear table； eyed it whilst I mended the fire； then took my pen…knife； and gravely； deliberately； though with hand that trembled； began to unpack。
It is a joy to go through booksellers' catalogues； ticking here and there a possible purchase。 Formerly； when I could seldom spare money； I kept catalogues as much as possible out of sight； now I savour them page by page； and make a pleasant virtue of the discretion I must needs impose upon myself。 But greater still is the happiness of unpacking volumes which one has bought without seeing them。 I am no hunter of rarities； I care nothing for first editions and for tall copies； what I buy is literature； food for the soul of man。 The first glimpse of bindings when the inmost protective wrapper has been folded back！ The first scent of BOOKS！ The first gleam of a gilded title！ Here is a work the name of which has been known to me for half a lifetime； but which I never yet saw； I take it reverently in my hand； gently I open it； my eyes are dim with excitement as I glance over chapter…headings； and anticipate the treat which awaits me。 Who； more than I； has taken to heart that sentence of the Imitatio……〃In omnibus requiem quaesivi； et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro〃？
I had in me the making of a scholar。 ind； I should have amassed learning。 Within the walls of a college； I should have lived so happily； so harmlessly； my imagination ever busy with the old world。 In the introduction to his History of France； Michelet says： 〃J'ai passe e cote du monde； et j'ai pris l'histoire pour la vie。〃 That； as I can see now； was my true ideal； through all my battlings and miseries I have always lived more in the past than in the present。 At the time when I was literally starving in London； when it seemed impossible that I should ever gain a living by my pen； how many days have I spent at the British Museum； reading as disinterestedly as if I had been without a care！ It astounds me to remember that； having breakfasted on dry bread； and carrying in my pocket another piece of bread to serve for dinner； I settled myself at a desk in the great Reading… Room with books before me which by no possibility could be a source of immediate profit。 At such a time； I worked through German tomes on Ancient Philosophy。 At such a time； I read Appuleius and Lucian； Petronius and the Greek Anthology； Diogenes Laertius and……heaven knows what！ My hunger was forgotten； the garret to which I must return to pass the night never perturbed my thoughts。 On the whole； it seems to me something to be rather proud of； I smile approvingly at that thin； white…faced youth。 Me？ My very self？ No； no！ He has been dead these thirty years。
Scholarship in the high sense was denied me； and now it is too late。 Yet here am I gloating over Pausanias； and promising myself to read every word of him。 Who that has any tincture of old letters would not like to read Pausanias； instead of mere quotations from him and references to him？ Here are the volumes of Dahn's Die Konige der Germanen： who would not like to know all he can about the Teutonic conquerors of Rome？ And so on； and so on。 To the end I shall be reading……and forgetting。 Ah； that's the worst of it！ Had I at mand all the knowledge I have at any time possessed； I might call myself a learned man。 Nothing surely is so bad for the memory as long…enduring worry； agitation； fear。 I cannot preserve more than a few fragments of what I read； yet read I shall； persistently； rejoicingly。 Would I gather erudition for a future life？ Indeed； it no longer troubles me that I forget。 I have the happiness of the passing moment； and what more can mortal ask？
XVIII
Is it I； Henry Ryecroft； who； after a night of untroubled rest； rise unhurriedly； dress with the deliberation of an oldish man； and go downstairs happy in the thought that I can sit reading； quietly reading； all day long？ Is it I； Henry Ryecroft； the harassed toiler of so many a long year？
I dare not think of those I have left behind me； there in the ink… stained world。 It would make me miserable； and to what purpose？ Yet； having once looked that way； think of them I must。 Oh； you heavy…laden； who at this hour sit down to the cursed travail of the pen； writing； not because there is something in your mind； in your heart； which must needs be uttered； but because the pen is the only tool you can handle； your only means of earning bread！ Year after year the number of you is multiplied； you crowd the doors of publishers and editors； hustling； grappling； exchanging maledictions。 Oh； sorry spectacle； grotesque and heart…breaking！
Innumerable are the men and women now writing for bread； who have not the least chance of finding in such work a permanent livelihood。 They took to writing because they knew not what else to do； or because the literary calling tempted them by its independence and its dazzling prizes。 They will hang on to the squalid profession； their earnings eked out by begging and borrowing； until it is too late for them to do anything else……and then？ With a lifetime of dread experience behind me； I say that he who encourages any young man or woman to look for his living to 〃literature；〃 mits no less than a crime。 If my voice had any authority； I would cry this truth aloud wherever men could hear。 Hateful as is the struggle for life in every form； this rough…and…tumble of the literary arena seems to me sordid and degrading beyond all others。 Oh； your prices per thousand words！ Oh； your paragraphings and your interviewings！ And oh； the black despair that awaits those down…trodden in the fray。
Last midsummer I received a circular from a typewriting person； soliciting my custom； some one who had somehow got hold of my name； and fancied me to be still in purgatory。 This person wrote： 〃If you should be in need of any extra assistance in the pressure of your Christmas work； I hope；〃 etc。
How otherwise could one write if addressing a shopkeeper？ 〃The pressure of your Christmas work〃！ Nay； I am too sick to laugh。
XIX
Some one； I see； is lifting up his sweet voice in praise of Conscription。 It is only at long intervals that one reads this kind of thing in our reviews or newspapers； and I am happy in believing that most English people are affected by it even as I am； with the sickness of dread and of disgust。 That the thing is impossible in England； who would venture to say？ Every one who can think at all sees how slight are our safeguards against that barbaric force in man which the privileged races have so slowly and painfully brought into check。 Democracy is full of menace to all the finer hopes of civilization； and the revival； in not unnatural panionship with it； of monarchic power based on militarism； makes the prospect dubious enough。 There has but to arise some Lord of Slaughter； and the nations will be tearing at each other's throats。 Let England be imperilled； and Englishmen will fight； in such extremity there is no choice。 But what a dreary change must e upon our islanders if； without instant danger； they bend beneath the curse of universal soldiering！ I like to think that they will guard the liberty of their manhood even beyond the point of prudence。
A lettered German； speaking to me once of his year of military service； told me that； had it lasted but a month or two longer； he must have sought release in suicide。 I know very well that my own courage would not have borne me to the end of the twelvemonth； humiliation； resentment； loathing； would have goaded me to madness。 At school we used to be 〃drilled〃 in the playground once a week； I have but to think of it； even after forty years； and there es back upon me that tremor of passionate misery which； at the time； o