od people would tell me
the secret lay in the apparent absence of definitely dogmatic
religious influence in my life. Ah, well, there is that, of course.
But it does not give me the explanation. Others would tell me the
explanation could be given in one word--egoism; that there has been
always too much ego in my cosmos. Yes, there is doubtless a great deal
in that. And yet, goodness knows, mine has not been a self-indulgent
life.

As I see it, there was a period in which I urgently desired to secure
a safe foothold in London's literary and journalistic life. Material
needs being moderately satisfied I happened, pretty blindly, into my
marriage. That effectually shut out any possibility of content while
it lasted, and added very materially to the inroads made by the
previous struggling period upon my health. Later, came my strongest
literary ambitions: a striving for achievement and success, and I
suppose for fame, as author. And then the brief, tremendous struggle
to win Cynthia for my wife. So far, naturally enough, there had been
no content.

After the collapse of my attempt to win a mate, it seems to me that I
became definitely middle-aged; though any outside observer of my life
would probably have dated the serious beginnings of my career--the
'young man of undoubted promise,' etc.--from that time, since it was
from then on that my position became more important. I directed the
energies of others, was a leading editor's right hand man, initiated
and controlled new departures, and commanded far more attention for my
writings than ever before.

But--and here, it seems to me, lies the crux of the matter--in all
this period the present moment of living never appealed to me in the
least. I derived no suggestion of satisfaction or enjoyment from it. I
was for ever striving, restlessly, uneasily, and to weariness, for
something to be attained later on. And for what did I strive? Well, I
know that the old ambitions in the direction of world-wide recognition
as a literary master did not survive my return to Fleet Street, the
landmark for me of Cynthia's marriage. Equally certain am I that I
cherished no plan or desire to accumulate money and become rich. I had
no desire to become a politician, or to obtain such a post as
Arncliffe's. The desires of my youth were dead; the energies of my
youth were dulled; the health and physical standard of my early
manhood was greatly and for ever lowered. The enthusiasms of my youth
h