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 who； boylike； enjoyed their drill； scarce one or two； I trust； would have weled in their prime of life the imposition of military servitude upon them and their countrymen。 From a certain point of view； it would be better far that England should bleed under conquest than that she should be saved by eager； or careless； acceptance of Conscription。 That view will not be held by the English people； but it would be a sorry thing for England if the day came when no one of those who love her harboured such a thought。
XX
It has occurred to me that one might define Art as： an expression； satisfying and abiding； of the zest of life。 This is applicable to every form of Art devised by man； for； in his creative moment； whether he produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood； the artist is moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world about him； an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another man； and intensified； prolonged； by the power……which es to him we know not how……of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of rare vitality。 Art； in some degree； is within the scope of every human being； were he but the ploughman who utters a few would…be melodious notes； the mere oute of health and strength； in the field at sunrise； he sings； or tries to； prompted by an unusual gusto in being； and the rude stave is all his own。 Another was he； who also at the plough； sang of the daisy； of the field…mouse； or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam o' Shanter。 Not only had life a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than that which stirs the soul of Hodge； but he uttered it in word and music such as go to the heart of mankind； and hold a magic power for ages。
For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our country。 It began； I suspect； when the veritable artistic impulse of the Victorian time had flagged； when the energy of a great time was all but exhausted。 Principles always bee a matter of vehement discussion when practice is at ebb。 Not by taking thought does one bee an artist； or grow even an inch in that direction…… which is not at all the same as saying that he who IS an artist cannot profit by conscious effort。 Goethe （the example so often urged by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity） took thought enough about his Faust； but what of those youthtime lyrics； not the least precious of his achievements； which were scribbled as fast as pen could go； thwartwise on the paper； because he could not stop to set it straight？ Dare I pen； even for my own eyes； the venerable truth that an artist is born and not made？ It seems not superfluous； in times which have heard disdainful criticism of Scott； on the ground that he had no artistic conscience； that he scribbled without a thought of style； that he never elaborated his scheme before beginning……as Flaubert； of course you know； invariably did。 Why； after all； has one not heard that a certain William Shakespeare turned out his so…called works of art with something like criminal carelessness？ Is it not a fact that a bungler named Cervantes was so little in earnest about his Art that； having in one chapter described the stealing of Sancho's donkey； he presently； in mere forgetfulness； shows us Sancho riding on Dapple； as if nothing had happened？ Does not one Thackeray shamelessly avow on the last page of a grossly 〃subjective〃 novel that he had killed Lord Farintosh's mother at one page and brought her to life again at another？ These sinners against Art are none the less among the world's supreme artists； for they LIVED； in a sense； in a degree； unintelligible to these critics of theirs； and their work is an expression； satisfying and abiding； of the zest of life。
Some one； no doubt； hit upon this definition of mine long ago。 It doesn't matter； is it the less original with me？ Not long since I should have fretted over the possibility； for my living depended on an avoidance of even seeming plagiarism。 Now I am at one with Lord Foppington； and much disposed to take pleasure in the natural sprouts of my own wit……without troubling whether the same idea has occurred to others。 Suppose me； in total ignorance of Euclid； to have discovered even the simplest of his geometrical demonstrations； shall I be crestfallen when some one draws attention to the book？ These natural sprouts are； after all； the best products of our life； it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world's market。 One of my conscious efforts； in these days of freedom； is to live intellectually for myself。 Formerly； when in reading I came upon anything that impressed or delighted me； down it went in my note…book； for 〃use。〃 I could not read a striking verse； or sentence of prose； without thinking of it as an apt quotation in something I might write……one of the evil results of a literary life。 Now that I strive to repel this habit of thought； I find myself asking： To what end； then； do I read and remember？ Surely as foolish a question as ever man put to himself。 You read for your own pleasure； for your solace and strengthening。 Pleasure； then