r life to the
amount of two-thirds of my accustomed salary--a magnificent offer! I
do not know what I answered between surprise and gratitude, but it was
understood that I accepted their proposal, and I was told that I was
free from that hour to leave their service. I stammered out a bow,
and at just ten minutes after eight I went home--for ever. This noble
benefit--gratitude forbids me to conceal their names--I owe to the
kindness of the most munificent firm in the world--the house of
Boldero, Merryweather, Bosanquet, and Lacy.

_Esto perpetua!_

For the first day or two I felt stunned, overwhelmed. I could only
apprehend my felicity; I was too confused to taste it sincerely. I
wandered about, thinking I was happy, and knowing that I was not. I
was in the condition of a prisoner in the old Bastile, suddenly let
loose after a forty years' confinement. I could scarce trust myself
with myself. It was like passing out of Time into Eternity--for it
is a sort of Eternity for a man to have his Time all to himself.
It seemed to me that I had more time on my hands than I could ever
manage. From a poor man, poor in Time, I was suddenly lifted up into
a vast revenue; I could see no end of my possessions; I wanted some
steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage my estates in Time for me.
And here let me caution persons grown old in active business, not
lightly, nor without weighing their own resources, to forego their
customary employment all at once, for there may be danger in it. I
feel it by myself, but I know that my resources are sufficient; and
now that those first giddy raptures have subsided, I have a quiet
home-feeling of the blessedness of my condition. I am in no hurry.
Having all holidays, I am as though I had none. If Time hung heavy
upon me, I could walk it away; but I do _not_ walk all day long, as
I used to do in those old transient holidays, thirty miles a day, to
make the most of them. If Time were troublesome, I could read it away,
but I do _not_ read in that violent measure, with which, having no
Time my own but candlelight Time, I used to weary out my head and
eyesight in by-gone winters. I walk, read or scribble (as now) just
when the fit seizes me. I no longer hunt after pleasure; I let it come
to me. I am like the man

--That's born, and has his years come to him,
In some green desart.

"Years," you will say! "what is this superannuated simpleton
calculating upon? He has already told us, he is pas