Assuredly, this writing was not intended for the public, and yet, in many a passage, I seemed to perceive the literary purpose—­something more than the turn of phrase, and so on, which results from long habit of composition.  Certain of his reminiscences, in particular, Ryecroft could hardly have troubled to write down had he not, however vaguely, entertained the thought of putting them to some use.  I suspect that, in his happy leisure, there grew upon him a desire to write one more book, a book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction.  Plainly, it would have been the best he had it in him to do.  But he seems never to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary pieces, and probably because he could not decide upon the form they should take.  I imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first-person volume; he would feel it too pretentious; he would bid himself wait for the day of riper wisdom.  And so the pen fell from his hand.

Conjecturing thus, I wondered whether the irregular diary might not have wider interest than at first appeared.  To me, its personal appeal was very strong; might it not be possible to cull from it the substance of a small volume which, at least for its sincerity’s sake, would not be without value for those who read, not with the eye alone, but with the mind?  I turned the pages again.  Here was a man who, having his desire, and that a very modest one, not only felt satisfied, but enjoyed great happiness.  He talked of many different things, saying exactly what he thought; he spoke of himself, and told the truth as far as mortal can tell it.  It seemed to me that the thing had human interest.  I decided to print.

The question of arrangement had to be considered; I did not like to offer a mere incondite miscellany.  To supply each of the disconnected passages with a title, or even to group them under subject headings, would have interfered with the spontaneity which, above all, I wished to preserve.  In reading through the matter I had selected, it struck me how often the aspects of nature were referred to, and how suitable many of the reflections were to the month with which they were dated.  Ryecroft, I knew, had ever been much influenced by the mood of the sky, and by the procession of the year.  So I hit upon the thought of dividing the little book into four chapters, named after the seasons.  Like all classifications, it is imperfect, but ’twill serve.

G. G.

SPRING

I.

For more than a week my pen has lain untouched.  I have written nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter.  Except during one or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life before.  In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported by anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living’s sake, as all life should be, but under the goad of fear.  The earning of money should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years—­I began to support myself at sixteen—­I had to regard it as the end itself.