one, the
judgment of generations yet unborn. If you have written a great book,
the world to come will know of it. But you don't care for posthumous
glory. You want to enjoy fame in a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is
quite another thing. Have the courage of your desire. Admit yourself a
merchant, and protest to gods and men that the merchandise you offer is
of better quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be
right, and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your
stall.

II.

The exquisite quiet of this room! I have been sitting in utter idleness,
watching the sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight upon the carpet,
which changes as the minutes pass, letting my eye wander from one framed
print to another, and along the ranks of my beloved books. Within the
house nothing stirs. In the garden I can hear singing of birds, I can
hear the rustle of their wings. And thus, if it please me, I may sit all
day long, and into the profounder quiet of the night.

My house is perfect. By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no
less to my mind, a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong
and deft enough to render me all the service I require, and not afraid of
solitude. She rises very early. By my breakfast-time there remains
little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals. Very rarely do
I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.
Oh, blessed silence!

There is not the remotest possibility of any one's calling upon me, and
that I should call upon any one else is a thing undreamt of. I owe a
letter to a friend; perhaps I shall write it before bedtime; perhaps I
shall leave it till to-morrow morning. A letter of friendship should
never be written save when the spirit prompts. I have not yet looked at
the newspaper. Generally I leave it till I come back tired from my walk;
it amuses me then to see what the noisy world is doing, what new self-
torments men have discovered, what new forms of vain toil, what new
occasions of peril and of strife. I grudge to give the first freshness
of the morning mind to things so sad and foolish.

My house is perfect. Just large enough to allow the grace of order in
domestic circumstance; just that superfluity of intramural space, to lack
which is to be less than at one's ease. The fabric is sound; the work in
wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than