o those who read it more intelligently。 A man with a watch before his eyes； penning exactly so many words every quarter of an hour……one imagines that this picture might haunt disagreeably the thoughts even of Mudie's steadiest subscriber； that it might e between him or her and any Trollopean work that lay upon the counter。
The surprise was so cynically sprung upon a yet innocent public。 At that happy time （already it seems so long ago） the literary news set before ordinary readers mostly had reference to literary work； in a reputable sense of the term； and not； as now； to the processes of 〃literary〃 manufacture and the ups and downs of the 〃literary〃 market。 Trollope himself tells how he surprised the editor of a periodical； who wanted a serial from him； by asking how many thousand words it should run to； an anecdote savouring indeed of good old days。 Since then； readers have grown accustomed to revelations of 〃literary〃 method； and nothing in that kind can shock them。 There has e into existence a school of journalism which would seem to have deliberately set itself the task of degrading authorship and everything connected with it； and these pernicious scribblers （or typists； to be more accurate） have found the authors of a fretful age only too receptive of their mercantile suggestions。 Yes； yes； I know as well as any man that reforms were needed in the relations between author and publisher。 Who knows better than I that your representative author face to face with your representative publisher was； is； and ever will be； at a ludicrous disadvantage？ And there is no reason in the nature and the decency of things why this wrong should not by some contrivance be remedied。 A big； blusterous； genial brute of a Trollope could very fairly hold his own； and exact at all events an acceptable share in the profits of his work。 A shrewd and vigorous man of business such as Dickens； aided by a lawyer who was his devoted friend； could do even better； and； in reaping sometimes more than his publisher； redress the ancient injustice。 But pray； what of Charlotte Bronte？ Think of that grey； pinched life； the latter years of which would have been so brightened had Charlotte Bronte received but； let us say； one third of what； in the same space of time； the publisher gained by her books。 I know all about this； alas！ no man better。 None the less do I loathe and sicken at the manifold baseness； the vulgarity unutterable； which； as a result of the new order； is blighting our literary life。 It is not easy to see how； in such an atmosphere； great and noble books can ever again e into being。 May it； perhaps； be hoped that once again the multitude will be somehow touched with disgust？……that the market for 〃literary〃 news of this costermonger sort will some day fail？
Dickens。 Why； there too was a disclosure of literary methods。 Did not Forster make known to all and sundry exactly how Dickens' work was done； and how the bargains for its production were made？ The multitudinous public saw him at his desk； learnt how long he sat there； were told that he could not get on without having certain little ornaments before his eyes； and that blue ink and a quill pen were indispensable to his writing； and did all this information ever chill the loyalty of a single reader？ There was a difference； in truth； between the picture of Charles Dickens sitting down to a chapter of his current novel； and that of the broad…based Trollope doing his so many words to the fifteen minutes。 Trollope； we know； wronged himself by the tone and manner of his reminiscences； but that tone and manner indicated an inferiority of mind； of nature。 Dickens……though he died in the endeavour to increase （not for himself） an already ample fortune； disastrous influence of his time and class……wrought with an artistic ingenuousness and fervour such as Trollope could not even conceive。 Methodical； of course； he was； no long work of prose fiction was ever brought into existence save by methodical labour； but we know that there was no measuring of so many words to the hour。 The picture of him at work which is seen in his own letters is one of the most bracing and inspiring in the history of literature。 It has had； and will always have； a great part in maintaining Dickens' place in the love and reverence of those who understand。
XXIII
As I walked to…day in the golden sunlight……this warm； still day on the far verge of autumn……there suddenly came to me a thought which checked my step； and for the moment half bewildered me。 I said to myself： My life is over。 Surely I ought to have been aware of that simple fact； certainly it has made part of my meditation； has often coloured my mood； but the thing had never definitely shaped itself； ready in words for the tongue。 My life is over。 I uttered the sentence once or twice； that my ear might test its truth。 Truth undeniable； however strange； undeniable as the figure of my age last birthday。
My age？ At this time of life； many a man is bracing himself for new efforts； is calculating on a decade or two of pursuit and attainment。 I； too； may perhaps live for some years； but for me there is no more activity； no ambition。 I have had my chance……and I see what I made of it。
The thought was for an instant all but dreadful。 What！ I； who only yesterday was a young man； planning； hoping； looking forward to life as to a practically endless career； I； who was so vigorous and scornful； have e to this day of definite retrospect？ How is it possible？ But； I have done nothing； I have had no time； I have only been preparing myself……a mere apprentice to life。 My brain is at some prank； I am suffering a momentary delusion； I shall shake myself； and return to mon sense……to my schemes and activities and eager enjoyments。
Nevertheless； my life is over。
What a little thing！ I knew how the philosophers had spoken； I repeated their musical phrases about the mortal span……yet never till now believed them。 And this is all？ A man's life can be so brief and so vain？ Idly would I persuade myself that life； in the true sense； is only now beginning； that the time of sweat and fear was not life at all； and that it now only depends upon my will to lead a worthy existence。 That may be a sort of consolation； but it does not obscure the truth that I shall never again see possibilities and promises opening before me。 I have 〃retired；〃 and for me as truly as for the retired tradesman； life is over。 I can look back upon its pleted course； and what a little thing！ I am tempted to laugh； I hold myself within the limit of a smile。
And that is best； to smile； not in scorn； but in all forbearance； without too much self…passion。 After all； that dreadful aspect of the thing never really took hold of me； I could put it by without much effort。 Life is done……and what matter？ Whether it has been； in sum； painful or enjoyable； even now I cannot say……a fact which in itself should prevent me from taking the loss too seriously。 What does it matter？ Destiny with the hidden face decreed that I should e into being； play my little part； and pass again into silence； is it mine either to approve or to rebel？ Let me be grateful that I have suffered no intolerable wrong； no terrible woe of flesh or spirit； such as others……alas！ alas！……have found in their lot。 Is it not much to have acplished so large a part of the mortal journey with so much ease？ If I find myself astonished at its brevity and small significance； why； that is my own fault； the voices of those gone before had sufficiently warned me。 Better to see the truth now； and accept it； than to fall into dread surprise on some day of weakness； and foolishly to cry against fate。 I will be glad rather than sorry； and think of the thing no more。
XXIV
Waking at early dawn used to be one of the things I most dreaded。 The night which made me capable of resuming labour had brought no such calm as should follow upon repose； I woke to a vision of the darkest miseries and lay through the hours of daybreak……too often…… in very anguish。 But that is past。 Sometimes； ere yet I know myself； the mind struggles as with an evil spirit on the confines of sleep； then the light at my window； the pictures on my walls； restore me to happy consciousness； happier for the miserable dream。 Now； when I lie thinking； my worst trouble is wonder at the mon life of man。 I see it as a thing so incredible that it oppresses the mind like a haunting illusion。 Is it the truth that men are fretting； raving； killing each other； for matters so trivial that I； even I； so far from saint or philosopher； must needs fall into amazement when I consider them？ I could imagine a man who； by living alone and at peace； came to regard the everyday world as not really existent； but a creation of his own fancy in unsound moments。 What lunatic ever dreamt of things less consonant with the calm reason than those which are thought and done every minute in every munity of men called sane？ But I put aside this reflection as soon as may be； it perturbs me fruitlessly。 Then I listen to the sounds about my cottage； always soft； soothing； such as lead the mind to gentle thoughts。 Sometimes I can hear nothing； not the rustle of a leaf； not the buzz of a fly； and then I think that utter silence is best of all。
This morning I was awakened by a continuous sound which presently shaped itself to my ear as a multitudinous shrilling of bird voices。 I knew what it meant。 For the last few days I have seen the swallows gathering； now they were ranged upon my roof； perhaps in the last council before their setting forth upon the great journey。 I know better than to talk about animal instinct； and to wonder in a pitying way at its resemblance to reason。 I know that these birds show to us a life far more reasonable； and infinitely more beautiful； than that of the masses of mankind。 They talk with each other； and in their talk is neither malice nor folly。 Could one but interpret the converse in which they make their plans for the long and perilous flight……and then pare it with that of numberless respectable persons who even now are projecting their winter in the South！
XXV
Yesterday I passed by an elm avenue； leading to a beautiful old house。 The road between the trees was covered in all its length and breadth with fallen leaves……a carpet of pale gold。 Further on； I came to a plantation； mostly of larches； it shone in the richest aureate hue； with here and there a splash of blood…red； which was a young beech in its moment of autumnal glory。
I looked at an alder； laden with brown catkins； its blunt foliage stained with innumerable shades of lovely colour。 Near it was a horse…chestnut； with but a few leaves hanging on its branches； and those a deep orange。 The limes； I see； are already bare。
To…night the wind is loud； and rain dashes against my casement； to… morrow I shall awake to a sky of winter。
WINTER
I
Blasts from the Channel； with raining scud； and spume of mist breaking upon the hills； have kept me indoors all day。 Yet not for a moment have I been dull or idle； and now； by the latter end of a sea…coal fire； I feel such enjoyment of my ease and tranquillity that I must needs word it before going up to bed。
Of course one ought to be able to breast weather such as this of to… day； and to find one's pleasure in the strife with it。 For the man soun