Nothing mattered to me, but this one thing.  To put an end to the landlady’s cheating, and to bind myself to remain at home, I entered into an arrangement with her that she was to supply me with board and lodgings for three pounds a week, and henceforth resisting all Curzon Street temptations, I trudge home through November fogs, to eat a chop in a frouzy lodging-house.  I studied the horrible servant as one might an insect under a microscope.  “What an admirable book she would make, but what will the end be? if I only knew the end!” I had more and more difficulty in keeping the fat landlady at arm’s length, and the nasty child was well beaten one day for lingering about my door.  I saw poor Miss L. nightly, on the stairs of this infamous house, and I never wearied of talking to her of her hopes and ambitions, of the young man she admired.  She used to ask me about my novel.

Poor Miss L.!  Where is she?  I do not know, but I shall not forget the time when I used to listen for her footstep on the midnight stairs.  Often I was too despondent, when my troubles lay too heavily and darkly upon me, I let her go up to her garret without a word.  Despondent days and nights when I cried, Shall I never pass from this lodging? shall I never be a light in that London, long, low, misshapen, that dark monumental stream flowing through the lean bridges; and what if I were a light in this umber-coloured mass,—­shadows falling, barges moored midway in a monumental stream?  Happiness abides only in the natural affections—­in a home and a sweet wife.  Would she whom I saw to-night marry me?  How sweet she was in her simple naturalness, the joys she has known have been slight and pure, not violent and complex as mine.  Ah, she is not for me, I am not fit for her, I am too sullied for her lips....  Were I to win her could I be dutiful, true?...

“Young men, young men whom I love, dear ones who have rejoiced with me, not the least of our pleasures is the virtuous woman; after excesses there is reaction, all things are good in nature, and they are foolish young men who think that sin alone should be sought for.  The feast is over for me, I have eaten and drunk; I yield my place, do you eat and drink as I have; do you be young as I was.  I have written it!  The word is not worth erasure, if it is not true to-day it will be in two years hence; farewell!  I yield my place, do you be young as I was, do you love youth as I did; remember you are the most interesting beings under heaven, for you all sacrifices will be made, you will be feted and adored upon the condition of remaining young men.  The feast is over for me, I yield my place, but I will not make this leavetaking more sorrowful than it is already by afflicting you with advice and instruction how to obtain what I have obtained.  I have spoken bitterly against education, I will not strive to educate you, you will educate yourselves.  Dear ones, dear ones, the world is your pleasure, you can use it at your will.  Dear ones, I see you all about me still, I yield my place; but one more glass I will drink with you; and while drinking I would say my last word—­were it possible I would be remembered by you as a young man:  but I know too well that the young never realise that the old were not born old.  Farewell.”