eyes which have ceased to look reverently on worn-out symbols, learn
to select from among the grey-coated multitude, and place in

reverence even higher him who "holds his patent of nobility straight
from Almighty God"? Upon that depends the future of England. In

days gone by, our very Snob bore testimony after his fashion to our
scorn of meanness; he at all events imagined himself to be imitating

those who were capable" target="_blank" title="a.无能力的；不能的">incapable of a sordid transaction, of a plebeian
compliance. But the Snob, one notes, is in the way of degeneracy;

he has new exemplars; he speaks a ruder language. Him, be sure, in
one form or another, we shall have always with us, and to observe

his habits is to note the tenor of the time. If he have at the back
of his dim mind no living ideal which lends his foolishness a

generous significance, then indeed--videant consules.
XXIII

A visit from N-. He stayed with me two days, and I wish he could
have stayed a third. (Beyond the third day, I am not sure that any

man would be whollywelcome. My strength will bear but a certain
amount of conversation, even the pleasantest, and before long I

desire solitude, which is rest.)
The mere sight of N-, to say nothing of his talk, did me good. If

appearances can ever be trusted, there are few men who get more
enjoyment out of life. His hardships were never excessive; they did

not affect his health or touch his spirits; probably he is in every
way a better man for having--as he says--"gone through the mill."

His recollection of the time when he had to work hard for a five-
pound note, and was not always sure of getting it, obviously lends

gusto to his present state of ease. I persuaded him to talk about
his successes, and to give me a glimpse of their meaning in solid

cash. Last Midsummer day, his receipts for the twelvemonth were
more than two thousand pounds. Nothing wonderful, of course,

bearing in mind what some men are making by their pen; but very good
for a writer who does not address the baser throng. Two thousand

pounds in a year! I gazed at him with wonder and admiration.
I have known very few prosperous men of letters; N- represents for

me the best and brightest side of literary success. Say what one
will after a lifetime of disillusion, the author who earns largely

by honest and capable work is among the few enviable mortals. Think
of N-'s existence. No other man could do what he is doing, and he

does it with ease. Two, or at most three, hours' work a day--and
that by no means every day--suffices to him. Like all who write, he

has his unfruitful times, his mental worries, his disappointments,
but these bear no proportion to the hours of happy and effective

labour. Every time I see him he looks in better health, for of late
years he has taken much more exercise, and he is often travelling.

He is happy in his wife and children; the thought of all the
comforts and pleasures he is able to give them must be a constant

joy to him; were he to die, his family is safe from want. He has
friends and acquaintances as many as he desires; congenial folk

gather at his table; he is welcome in pleasant houses near and far;
his praise is upon the lips of all whose praise is worth having.

With all this, he has the good sense to avoid manifest dangers; he
has not abandoned his privacy, and he seems to be in no danger of

being spoilt by good fortune. His work is more to him than a means
of earning money; he talks about a book he has in hand almost as

freshly and keenly as in the old days, when his annualincome was
barely a couple of hundred. I note, too, that his leisure is not

swamped with the publications of the day; he reads as many old books
as new, and keeps many of his early enthusiasms.

He is one of the men I heartily like. That he greatly cares for me
I do not suppose, but this has nothing to do with the matter; enough

that he likes my society well enough to make a special journey down
into Devon. I represent to him, of course, the days gone by, and

for their sake he will always feel an interest in me. Being ten
years my junior, he must naturally regard me as an old buffer; I

notice, indeed, that he is just a little too deferential at moments.
He feels a certain respect for some of my work, but thinks, I am

sure, that I ceased writing none too soon--which is very true. If I
had not been such a lucky fellow--if at this moment I were still

toiling for bread--it is probable that he and I would see each other
very seldom; for N- has delicacy, and would shrink from bringing his

high-spirited affluence face to face with Grub Street squalor and
gloom; whilst I, on the other hand, should hate to think that he

kept up my acquaintance from a sense of decency. As it is we are
very good friends, quite unembarrassed, and--for a couple of days--

really enjoy the sight and hearing of each other. That I am able to
give him a comfortable bedroom, and set before him an eatable

dinner, flatters my pride. If I chose at any time to accept his
hearty invitation, I can do so without moral twinges.

Two thousand pounds! If, at N-'s age, I had achieved that income,
what would have been the result upon me? Nothing but good, I know;

but what form would the good have taken? Should I have become a
social man, a giver of dinners, a member of clubs? Or should I

merely have begun, ten years sooner, the life I am living now? That
is more likely.

In my twenties I used to say to myself: what a splendid thing it
will be WHEN I am the possessor of a thousand pounds! Well, I have

never possessed that sum--never anything like it--and now never
shall. Yet it was not an extravagantambition, methinks, however

primitive.
As we sat in the garden dusk, the scent of our pipes mingling with

that of roses, N- said to me in a laughing tone: "Come now, tell me
how you felt when you first heard of your legacy?" And I could not

tell him; I had nothing to say; no vivid recollection of the moment
would come back to me. I am afraid N- thought he had been

indiscreet, for he passed quickly to another subject. Thinking it
over now, I see, of course, that it would be impossible to put into

words the feeling of that supreme moment of life. It was not joy
that possessed me; I did not exult; I did not lose control of myself

in any way. But I remember drawing one or two deep sighs, as if all
at once relieved of some distressing burden or constraint. Only

some hours after did I begin to feel any kind of agitation. That
night I did not close my eyes; the night after I slept longer and

more soundly than I remember to have done for a score of years.
Once or twice in the first week I had a hysterical feeling; I scarce

kept myself from shedding tears. And the strange thing is that it
seems to have happened so long ago; I seem to have been a free man

for many a twelvemonth, instead of only for two. Indeed, that is
what I have often thought about forms of true happiness; the brief

are quite as satisfying as those that last long. I wanted, before
my death, to enjoy liberty from care, and repose in a place I love.

That was granted me; and, had I known it only for one whole year,
the sum of my enjoyment would have been no whit less than if I live

to savour it for a decade.
XXIV

The honest fellow who comes to dig in my garden is puzzled to
account for my peculiarities; I often catch a look of wondering

speculation in his eye when it turns upon me. It is all because I
will not let him lay out flower-beds in the usual way, and make the

bit of ground in front of the house really neat and ornamental. At
first he put it down to meanness, but he knows by now that that

cannot be the explanation. That I really prefer a garden so poor
and plain that every cottager would be ashamed of it, he cannot

bring himself to believe, and of course I have long since given up
trying to explain myself. The good man probably concludes that too

many books and the habit of solitude have somewhat affected what he
would call my "reasons."

The only garden flowers I care for are the quite old-fashioned
roses, sunflowers, hollyhocks, lilies and so on, and these I like to

see growing as much as possible as if they were wild. Trim and
symmetrical beds are my abhorrence, and most of the flowers which

are put into them--hybrids with some grotesque name--Jonesia,
Snooksia--hurt my eyes. On the other hand, a garden is a garden,

and I would not try to introduce into it the flowers which are my
solace in lanes and fields. Foxgloves, for instance--it would pain