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； often made me ill。 The senseless routine of mechanic exercise was in itself all but unendurable to me； I hated the standing in line； the thrusting…out of arms and legs at a signal； the thud of feet stamping in constrained unison。 The loss of individuality seemed to me sheer disgrace。 And when； as often happened； the drill…sergeant rebuked me for some inefficiency as I stood in line； when he addressed me as 〃Number Seven！〃 I burned with shame and rage。 I was no longer a human being； I had bee part of a machine； and my name was 〃Number Seven。〃 It used to astonish me when I had a neighbour who went through the drill with amusement； with zealous energy； I would gaze at the boy； and ask myself how it was possible that he and I should feel so differently。 To be sure； nearly all my schoolfellows either enjoyed the thing； or at all events went through it with indifference； they made friends with the sergeant； and some were proud of walking with him 〃out of bounds。〃 Left； right！ Left； right！ For my own part； I think I have never hated man as I hated that broad…shouldered； hard…visaged； brassy…voiced fellow。 Every word he spoke to me； I felt as an insult。 Seeing him in the distance； I have turned and fled； to escape the necessity of saluting； and； still more； a quiver of the nerves which affected me so painfully。 If ever a man did me harm； it was he； harm physical and moral。 In all seriousness I believe that something of the nervous instability from which I have suffered since boyhood is traceable to those accursed hours of drill； and I am very sure that I can date from the same wretched moments a fierceness of personal pride which has been one of my most troublesome characteristics。 The disposition； of course； was there； it should have been modified； not exacerbated。
In younger manhood it would have flattered me to think that I alone on the school drill…ground had sensibility enough to suffer acutely。 Now I had much rather feel assured that many of my schoolfellows were in the same mind of subdued revolt。 Even of those wh