ty years ago； more glorious； it seems to me； than any I have since beheld。 It happened that； on one such evening； I was by the river at Chelsea； with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry； and to reflect that； before morning； I should be hungrier still。 I loitered upon Battersea Bridge……the old picturesque wooden bridge； and there the western sky took hold upon me。 Half an hour later； I was speeding home。 I sat down； and wrote a description of what I had seen； and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper； which； to my astonishment； published the thing next day……〃On Battersea Bridge。〃 How proud I was of that little bit of writing！ I should not much like to see it again； for I thought it then so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now。 Still； I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so； quite as much as because I was hungry； and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a ring as any money I ever earned。
XXII
I wonder whether it be really true； as I have more than once seen suggested； that the publication of Anthony Trollope's autobiography in some degree accounts for the neglect into which he and his works fell so soon after his death。 I should like to believe it； for such a fact would be； from one point of view； a credit to 〃the great big stupid public。〃 Only； of course； from one point of view； the notable merits of Trollope's work are unaffected by one's knowledge of how that work was produced； at his best he is an admirable writer of the pedestrian school； and this disappearance of his name does not mean final oblivion。 Like every other novelist of note； he had two classes of admirers……those who read him for the sake of that excellence which here and there he achieved； and the undistinguishing crowd which found in him a level entertainment。 But it would be a satisfaction to think that 〃the great big stupid〃 was really； somewhere in its secret economy； offended by that revelation of mechanical methods which made the autobiography either a disgusting or an amusing book to those who read it more intelligently。 A man with a watch before his eyes； penning exactly so many words every quarter of an hour……one imagines that this picture might haunt disagreeably the thoughts even of Mudie's steadiest subscriber； that it might e between him or her and any Trollopean work that lay upon the counter。
The surprise was so cynically sprung upon a yet innocent public。 At that happy time （already it seems so long ago） the literary news set before ordinary readers mostly had reference to literary work； in a reputable sense of the term； and not； as now； to the processes of 〃literary〃 manufacture and the ups and downs of the 〃literary〃 market。 Trollope himself tells how he surprised the editor of a periodical； who wanted a serial from him； by asking how many thousand words it should run to； an anecdote savouring indeed of good old days。 Since then； readers have grown accustomed to revelations of 〃literary〃 method； and nothing in that kind can shock them。 There has e into existence a school of journalism which would seem to have deliberately set itself the task of degrading authorship and everything connected with it； and these pernicious scribblers （or typists； to be more accurate） have found the authors of a fretful age only too receptive of their mercantile suggestions。 Yes； yes； I know as well as any man that reforms were needed in the relations between author and publisher。 Who knows better than I that your representative author face to face with your representative publisher was； is； and ever will be； at a ludicrous disadvantage？ And there is no reason in the nature and the decency of things why this wrong should not by some contrivance be remedied。 A big； blusterous； genial brute of a Trollope could very fairly hold his own； and exact at all events an acceptable share in the profits of his work。 A shrewd and vigorous man of business such as Dickens； aided by a lawyer who was his devoted friend； could do even better； and； in reaping sometimes more than his publisher； redress the ancient injustice。 But pray； what of Charlotte Bronte？ Think of that grey； pinched life； the latter years of which would have been so brightened had Charlotte Bronte received but； let us say； one third of what； in the same space of time； the publisher gained by her books。 I know all about this； alas！ no man better。 None the less do I loathe and sicken at the manifold baseness； the vulgarity unutterable； which； as a result of the new order； is blighting our literary life。 It is not easy to see how； in such an atmosphere； great and noble books can ever again e into being。 May it； perhaps； be hoped that once again the multitude will be somehow touched with disgust？……that the market for 〃literary〃 news of this costermonger sort will some day fail？
Dickens。 Why； there too was a disclosure of literary methods。 Did not Forster make known to all and sundry exactly how Dickens' work was done； and how the bargains for its production were made？ The multitudinous public saw him at his desk； learnt how long he sat there； were told that he could not get on without having certain little ornaments before his eyes； and that blue ink and a quill pen were indispensable to his writing； and did all this information ever chill the loyalty of a single reader？ There was a difference； in truth； between the picture of Charles Dickens sitting down to a chapter of his current novel； and that of the broad…based Trollope doing his so many words to the fifteen minutes。 Trollope； we know； wronged himself by the tone and manner of his reminiscences； but that tone and manner indicated an inferiority of mind； of nature。 Dickens……though he died in the endeavour to increase （not for himself） an already ample fortune； disastrous influence of his time and class……wrought with an artistic ingenuousness and fervour such as Trollope could not even conceive。 Methodical； of course； he was； no long work of prose fiction was ever 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 e 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 mon 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 c