ased than I am with
all the shower of compliments. Of course in a sense praise makes life
more interesting; but what I really desire to apprehend is the
significance and meaning of life, that strange mixture of pain and
pleasure, of commonplace events and raptures; and my book brings me no
nearer that. To feel God nearer me, to feel, not by evidence but by
instinct, that there is a Heart that cares for me, and moulded me from
the clay for a purpose--why, I would give all that I have in the world
for that!

Of course Maud will be pleased; but that will be because she believes
that I deserve everything and anything, and is only surprised that the
world has not found out sooner what a marvellous person I am. God knows
I do not undervalue her belief in me; but it makes and keeps me humble
to feel how far she is from the truth, how far from realising the
pitiful weakness and emptiness of her lover and husband.

Is this, I wonder, how all successful people feel about fame? The
greatest of all have often never enjoyed the least touch of it in their
lifetime; and they are happier so. Some few rich and generous natures,
like Scott and Browning, have neither craved for it nor valued it. Some
of the greatest have desired it, slaved for it, clung to it. Yet when
it comes, one realises how small a part of life and thought it
fills--unless indeed it brings other desirable things with it; and this
is not the case with me, because I have all I want. Well, if I can but
set to work at another book, all these idle thoughts will die away; but
my mind rattles like a shrunken kernel. I must kneel down and pray, as
Blake and his wife did, when the visions deserted them.

September 25, 1888.

Here is a social instance of what it means to become "quite a little
man," as Stevenson used to say. Some county people near here,
good-natured, pushing persons, who have always been quite civil but
nothing more, invited themselves to luncheon here a day or two ago,
bringing with them a distinguished visitor. They throw in some nauseous
compliments to my book, and say that Lord Wilburton wishes to make my
acquaintance. I do not particularly want to make his, though he is a
man of some not. But there was no pretext for declining. Such an
incursion is a distinct bore; it clouds the morning--one cannot settle
down with a tranquil mind to one's work; it fills the afternoon. They
came, and it proved not uninteresting. They are pleasant people enough,