er 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 come 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
common 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