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young men who were making so great a stir in the world； and I fancy he
found it poor stuff。 Of course； much of it was。 But the odes of Keats
and of Wordsworth； a poem or two by Coleridge； a few more by Shelley；
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discovered vast realms of the spirit that none had explored before。 Mr。
Crabbe was as dead as mutton； but Mr。 Crabbe continued to write moral
stories in rhymed couplets。 I have read desultorily the writings of the
younger generation。 It may be that among them a more fervid Keats； a
more ethereal Shelley； has already published numbers the world will
willingly remember。 I cannot tell。 I admire their polish their youth is
already so accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of promise I
marvel at the felicity of their style； but with all their copiousness （their
vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roget's in their
cradles） they say nothing to me： to my mind they know too much and
feel too obviously； I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap
me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my
bosom； their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams a trifle
dull。 I do not like them。 I am on the shelf。 I will continue to write
moral stories in rhymed couplets。 But I should be thrice a fool if I did it
for aught but my own entertainment。
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Chapter III
But all this is by the way。
I was very young when I wrote my first book。 By a lucky chance it
excited attention； and various persons sought my acquaintance。
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of
the world of letters in London when first； bashful but eager； I was
introduced to it。 It is long since I frequented it； and if the novels that
describe its present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed。
The venue is different。 Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of
Hampstead； Notting Hill Gate； and High Street； Kensington。 Then it was a
distinction to be under forty； but now to be more than twenty…five is
absurd。 I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions； and
the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness。 I
do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture
of chastity； but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be
practised in the present day。 We did not think it hypocritical to draw over
our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence。 The spade was not
invariably called a bloody shovel。 Woman had not yet altogether come
into her own。
I lived near Victoria Station； and I recall long excursions by bus to the
hospitable houses of the literary。 In my timidity I wandered up and down
the street while I screwed up my courage to ring the bell； and then； sick
with apprehension； was ushered into an airless room full of people。 I was
introduced to this celebrated person after that one； and the kind words they
said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable。 I felt they
expected me to say clever things； and I never could think of any till after
the party was over。 I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round
cups of tea and rather ill…cut bread…and…butter。 I wanted no one to take
notice of me； so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease
and listen to the clever things they said。
I have a recollection of large； unbending women with great noses and
rapacious eyes； who wore their clothes as though they were armour； and of
little； mouse…like spinsters； with soft voices and a shrewd glance。 I never
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ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with
their gloves on； and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which
they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no one was
looking。 It must have been bad for the furniture； but I suppose the
hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when； in turn； she
visited them。 Some of them were dressed fashionably； and they said they
couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because
you had written a novel； if you had a neat figure you might as well make
the most of it； and a smart shoe on a small foot had never prevented an
editor from taking your 〃stuff。〃 But others thought this frivolous； and they
wore 〃art fabrics〃 and barbaric jewelry。 The men were seldom eccentric
in appearance。 They tried to look as little like authors as possible。 They
wished to be taken for men of the world； and could have passed anywhere
for the managing clerks of a city firm。 They always seemed a little tired。
I had never known writers before； and I found them very strange； but I do
not think they ever seemed to me quite real。
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant； and I used to
listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they would
tear a brother…author to pieces the moment that his back was turned。 The
artist has this advantage over the rest of the world； that his friends offer
not only their appearance and their character to his satire； but also their
work。 I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness or with
such fluency。 In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art； a
neat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under a
pot； and the epigram； not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dull
may achieve a semblance of wit； gave sprightliness to the small talk of the
urbane。 It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation。 But I
think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when it
turned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art we
practised。 When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book； it
was natural to wonder how