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ticence； as was natural in a sensitive man who had suffered much； he inclined to gentle acquiescence； shrank from argument； from self…assertion。 Here he spoke to me without restraint； and； when I had read it all through； I knew the man better than before。
Assuredly； this writing was not intended for the public； and yet； in many a passage； I seemed to perceive the literary purpose……something more than the turn of phrase； and so on； which results from long habit of position。 Certain of his reminiscences； in particular； Ryecroft could hardly have troubled to write down had he not； however vaguely； entertained the thought of putting them to some use。 I suspect that； in his happy leisure； there grew upon him a desire to write one more book； a book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction。 Plainly； it would have been the best he had it in him to do。 But he seems never to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary pieces； and probably because he could not decide upon the form they should take。 I imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first…person volume； he would feel it too pretentious； he would bid himself wait for the day of riper wisdom。 And so the pen fell from his hand。
Conjecturing thus； I wondered whether the irregular diary might not have wider interest than at first appeared。 To me； its personal appeal was very strong； might it not be possible to cull from it the substance of a small volume which； at least for its sincerity's sake； would not be without value for those who read； not with the eye alone； but with the mind？ I turned the pages again。 Here was a man who； having his desire； and that a very modest one； not only felt satisfied； but enjoyed great happiness。 He talked of many different things； saying exactly what he thought； he spoke of himself； and told the truth as far as mortal can tell it。 It seemed to me that the thing had human interest。 I decided to print。
The question of arrangement had to be considered； I did not like to offer a mere incondite miscellany。 To supply each of the disconnected passages with a title； or even to group them under subject headings； would have interfered with the spontaneity which； above all； I wished to preserve。 In reading through the matter I had selected； it struck me how often the aspects of nature were referred to； and how suitable many of the reflections were to the month with which they were dated。 Ryecroft； I knew； had ever been much influenced by the mood of the sky； and by the procession of the year。 So I hit upon the thought of dividing the little book into four chapters； named after the seasons。 Like all classifications； it is imperfect； but 'twill serve。
G。 G。
SPRING
I
For more than a week my pen has lain untouched。 I have written nothing for seven whole days； not even a letter。 Except during one or two bouts of illness； such a thing never happened in my life before。 In my life； the life； that is； which had to be supported by anxious toil； the life which was not lived for living's sake； as all life should be； but under the goad of fear。 The earning of money should be a means to an end； for more than thirty years……I began to support myself at sixteen……I had to regard it as the end itself。
I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards me。 Has it not served me well？ Why do I； in my happiness； let it lie there neglected； gathering dust？ The same penholder that has lain against my forefinger day after day； for……how many years？ Twenty； at least； I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham Court Road。 By the same token I bought that day a paper…weight； which cost me a whole shilling……an extravagance which made me tremble。 The penholder shone with its new varnish； now it is plain brown wood from end to end。 On my forefinger it has made a callosity。
Old panion； yet old enemy！ How many a time have I taken it up； loathing the necessity； heavy in head and heart； my hand shaking； my eyes sick…dazzled！ How I dreaded the white page I had to foul with ink！ Above all； on days such as this； when the blue eyes of Spring laughed from between rosy clouds； when the sunlight shimmered upon my table and made me long； long all but to madness； for the scent of the flowering earth； for the green of hillside larches； for the singing of the skylark above the downs。 There was a time……it seems further away than childhood……when I took up my pen with eagerness； if my hand trembled it was with hope。 But a hope that fooled me； for never a page of my writing deserved to live。 I can say that now without bitterness。 It was youthful error； and only the force of circumstance prolonged it。 The world has done me no injustice； thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this！ And why should any man who writes； even if he write things immortal； nurse anger at the world's neglect？ Who asked him to publish？ Who promised him a hearing？ Who has broken faith with him？ If my shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots； and I； in some mood of cantankerous unreason； throw them back upon his hands； the man has just cause of plaint。 But your poem； your novel； who bargained with you for it？ If it is honest journeywork； yet lacks purchasers； at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman。 If it e from on high； with what decency do you fret and fume because it is not paid for in heavy cash？ For the work of man's mind there is one test； and one alone； the judgment of generations yet unborn。 If you have written a great book； the world to e will know of it。 But you don't care for posthumous glory。 You want to enjoy fame in a fortable armchair。 Ah； that is quite another thing。 Have the courage of your desire。 Admit yourself a merchant； and protest to gods and men that the merchandise you offer is of better quality than much which sells for a high price。 You may be right； and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall。
II
The exquisite quiet of this room！ I have been sitting in utter idleness； watching the sky； viewing the shape of golden sunlight upon the carpet； which changes as the minutes pass； letting my eye wander from one framed print to another； and along the ranks of my beloved books。 Within the house nothing