likenesses as remain of her, an extremely handsome woman. I was
born much better looking. He was small and dark, a little man

with deep-set eyes and beetling brows. I am also dark, but tall
above the average, and well made. I do not know that I need say

more about my personal appearance, to me not a very attractive
subject, but the fact remains that they called me "handsome

Humphrey" at the University, and I was the captain of my college
boat and won many prizes at athletic sports when I had time to

train for them.
Until I went up to Oxford my father educated me, partly because

he knew that he could do it better than anyone else, and partly
to save school expenses. The experiment was very successful, as my

love of all outdoor sports and of any small hazardous adventure
that came to my hand, also of associating with fisherfolk whom

the dangers of the deep make men among men, saved me from
becoming a milksop. For the rest I learned more from my father,

whom I always desired to please because I loved him, than I
should have done at the best and most costly of schools. This was

shown when at last I went to college with a scholarship, for
there I did very well indeed, as search would still reveal.

Here I had better set out some of my shortcomings, which in
their sum have made a failure of me. Yes, a failure in the

highest sense, though I trust what Stevenson calls "a faithful
failure." These have their root in fastidiousness and that lack

of perseverance, which really means a lack of faith, again using
the word in its higher and wider sense. For if one had real faith

one would always persevere, knowing that in every work undertaken
with high aim, there is an element of nobility, however humble

and unrecognised that work may seem to be. God after all is the
God of Work, it is written large upon the face of the Universe. I

will not expand upon the thought; it would lead me too far
afield, but those who have understanding will know what I mean.

As regards what I interpret as fastidiousness, this is not very
easy to express. Perhaps a definition will help. I am like a man

with an over-developed sense of smell, who when walking through a
foreign city, however clean and well kept, can always catch the

evil savours that are inseparable from such cities. More, his
keen perception of them interferes with all other perceptions and

spoils his walks. The result is that in after years, whenever he
thinks of that beautiful city, he remembers, not its historic

buildings or its wide boulevards, or whatever it has to boast,
but rather its ancient, fish-like smell. At least he remembers

that first owing to this defect in his temperament.
So it is with everything. A lovely woman is spoiled for such a

one because she eats too much or has too high a voice; he does
not care for his shooting because the scenery is flat, or for his

fishing because the gnats bite as well as the trout. In short he
is out of tune with the world as it is. Moreover, this is a

quality which, where it exists, cannot be overcome; it affects
day-labourers as well as gentlemen at large. It is bred in the

bone.
Probably the second failure-breeding fault, lack of

perseverance, has its roots in the first, at any rate in my case.
At least on leaving college with some reputation, I was called to

the Bar where, owing to certain solicitor and other connections,
I had a good opening. Also, owing to the excellence of my memory

and powers of work, I began very well, making money even during
my first year. Then, as it happened, a certain case came my way

and, my leader falling ill suddenly after it was opened, was left
in my hands. The man whose cause I was pleading was, I think, one

of the biggest scoundrels it is possible to conceive. It was a
will case and if he won, the effect would be to beggar two most

estimable middle-aged women who were justly entitled to the
property, to which end personally I am convinced he had committed

forgery; the perjury that accompanied it I do not even mention.
Well, he did win, thanks to me, and the estimable middle-aged

ladies were beggared, and as I heard afterwards, driven to such
extremities that one of them died of her misery and the other

became a lodging-house keeper. The details do not matter, but I
may explain that these ladies were unattractive in appearance and

manner and broke down beneath my cross-examination which made
them appear to be telling falsehoods, whereas they were only

completely confused. Further, I invented an ingenious theory of
the facts which, although the judge regarded it with suspicion,

convinced an unusuallystupid jury who gave me their verdict.
Everybody congratulated me and at the time I was triumphant,

especially as my leader had declared that our case was
impossible. Afterwards, however, my conscience smote me sorely,

so much so that arguing from the false premise of this business,
I came to the conclusion that the practice of the Law was not

suited to an honest man. I did not take the large view that such
matters average themselves up and that if I had done harm in this

instance, I might live to do good in many others, and perhaps
become a just judge, even a great judge. Here I may mention that

in after years, when I grew rich, I rescued that surviving old
lady from her lodging-house, although to this day she does not

know the name of her anonymous friend. So by degrees, without
saying anything, for I kept on my chambers, I slipped out of

practice, to the great disappointment of everybody connected with
me, and took to authorship.

A marvel came to pass, my first book was an enormous success.
The whole world talked of it. A leading journal, delighted to

have discovered someone, wrote it up; other journals followed
suit to be in the movement. One of them, I remember, which had

already dismissed it with three or four sneering lines, came out
with a second and two-column notice. It sold like wildfire and I

suppose had some merits, for it is still read, though few know
that I wrote it, since fortunately it was published under a

pseudonym.
Again I was much elated and set to work to write another and,

as I believe, a much better book. But jealousies had been excited
by this leaping into fame of a totally unknown person, which

were, moreover, accentuated through a foolish article that I
published in answer to some criticisms, wherein I spoke my mind

with an insane freedom and biting sarcasm. Indeed I was even mad
enough to quote names and to give the example of the very

powerful journal which at first carped at my work and then gushed
over it when it became the fashion. All of this made me many

bitter enemies, as I found out when my next book appeared.
It was torn to shreds, it was reviled as subversive of morality

and religion, good arrows in those days. It was called puerile,
half-educated stuff--I half-educated! More, an utterly false

charge of plagiarism was cooked up against me and so well and
venomously run that vast numbers of people concluded that I was a

thief of the lowest order. Lastly, my father, from whom the
secret could no longer be kept, sternly disapproved of both these

books which I admit were written from a very radical and somewhat
anti-church point of view. The result was our first quarrel and

before it was made up, he died suddenly.
Now again fastidiousness and my lack of perseverance did their

work, and solemnly I swore that I would never write another book,
an oath which I have kept till this moment, at least so far as

publication is concerned, and now break only because I consider
it my duty so to do and am not animated by any pecuniary object.

Thus came to an end my second attempt at carving out a career.
By now I had grown savage and cynical, rather revengeful also, I

fear. Knowing myself to possess considerable abilities in sundry
directions, I sat down, as it were, to think things over and

digest my past experiences. Then it was that the truth of a very
ancient adage struck upon my mind, namely, that money is power.

Had I sufficient money I could laugh at unjust critics for
example; indeed they or their papers would scarcely dare to

criticise me for fear lest it should be in my power to do them a