it has not received.

So much I feel it incumbent upon me to say, as the avowed sponsor for
the book, in order that praise and blame may be rightly apportioned.
Touching the inherent value of this document, nothing whatever is due
to me. Any criticism of its arrangement, or lack of arrangement, to be
just, should be levelled at myself alone.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY

CHILDHOOD--ENGLAND

BOYHOOD--AUSTRALIA

YOUTH--AUSTRALIA

MANHOOD--ENGLAND: FIRST PERIOD

MANHOOD--ENGLAND: SECOND PERIOD

THE LAST STAGE

EDITOR'S NOTE

THE RECORD OF NICHOLAS FREYDON

INTRODUCTORY

Back there in London--how many leagues and aeons distant!--I threw
down my pen and fled here to the ends of the earth, in pursuit of rest
and self-comprehending peace of mind. Here I now take up the pen again
and return in thought to London: that vast cockpit; still in pursuit
of rest and self-comprehending peace of mind.

That seems wasteful and not very hopeful. But, to be honest--and if
this final piece of pen-work be not honest to its core, it certainly
will prove the very acme of futility--I must add the expression of
opinion that most of the important actions of my life till now have
had the self-same goal in view: peace of mind. The surprising thing is
that, right up to this present, every one of my efforts has been
backed by a substantial if varying amount of solid conviction; of
belief that that particular action would bring the long-sought reward.
I suppose I thought this in coming here, in fleeing from London. Nay,
I know I did.

The latest, and I suppose the last, illusion bids me believe that if,
using the literary habit of a lifetime, I can set down in ordered
sequence the salient facts and events of that restless, struggling
pilgrimage I call my life, there is a likelihood that, seeing the
entire fabric in one piece, I may be able truly to understand it, and,
understanding it, to rest content before it ends. The ironical habit
makes me call it an illusion. In strict truth I listen to the call
with some confidence; not, to be sure, with the flaming ardour which
in bygone years has set me leaping into action in answer to such a
call; yet with real hope.

It is none so easy a task, this exact charting out of so complex a
matter as a man's life. And it may be that long practice of the
writer's art but serves to heighten its difficulties. For example,
since writing the sentence ending on that word 'hope,' I hav