zest and spirit, or acquiesce slothfully in comfortable and
material conditions, but that life ought to be full of perception
and emotion. Here again lies my mistake; that it has not been
perception or emotion that I have practised, but the art of
expressing what I have perceived and felt. Of course, I wish with
all my heart and soul that it were otherwise; but it seems that I
have drifted so far into these tepid, sun-warmed shallows, the
shallows of egoism and self-centred absorption, that there is no
possibility of my finding my way again to the wholesome brine, to
the fresh movement of the leaping wave. I am like one of those who
lingered so long in the enchanted isle of Circe, listening
luxuriously to the melting cadences of her magic song, that I have
lost all hope of extricating myself from the spell. The old free
days, when the heart beat light, and the breeze blew keen against
my brow, have become only a memory of delights, just enabling me to
speak deftly and artfully of the strong joys which I have
forfeited.



February 24, 1889.


I have been away for some days, paying a visit to an old friend, a
bachelor clergyman living in the country. The only other occupant
of the house, a comfortable vicarage, is his curate. I am better--
ashamed almost to think how much better--for the change. It is
partly the new place, the new surroundings, the new minds, no
doubt. But it is also the change of atmosphere. At home I am
surrounded by sympathy and compassion; however unobtrusive they