And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to day just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts himself in his bed.  Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a record.

But now I shall write no more.  I shall slip gratefully and securely into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast majority, after all, of humanity.  One who like myself has the consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields, trees, clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it all in words and phrases.  Why, I know not!  It is the desire, I suppose, to make some record of what seems so clear, so distinct, so beautiful, so interesting.  One cannot bear that one impression that seems so vivid and strange should be lost and perish.  It is the artistic instinct, no doubt.  And then one passes through the streets of a great city, and one becomes aware that of the thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one or two have the same instinct, and even they are bound to silence by circumstance, by lack of opportunity.  The rest—­life is enough for them; hunger and thirst, love and strife, hope and fear, that is their daily meat.  And life, I doubt not, is what we are set to taste.  Of all those thousands, some few have the desire, and fewer still the power, to stand apart from the throng.  These are not content with the humdrum life of earning a livelihood, of forming ties, of passing the time as pleasantly as they can.  They desire rather to be felt, to exercise influence, to mould others to their will, to use them for their convenience.  I have had little temptation to do that, but my life has been poisoned at its source, I now discern, by the desire to differentiate myself from others.  I could not walk faithfully in the procession; I was as one who likes to sit securely in his window above the street, noting all that he sees, sketching all that strikes his fancy, hugging his pleasure at being apart from and superior to the ordinary run of mortals.  Here lay my chiefest fault, that I could not bear a humble hand, but looked upon my wealth, my loving circle, as things that should fence me from the throng.  I lived in a paradise of my own devising.

But now I have put that all aside for ever.  I will live the life of a learner; I will be docile if I can.  I might indeed have been stripped of everything, bidden to join the humblest tribe of workers for daily bread.  But God has spared my weakness, and I should be faithless indeed, if, seeing how intently His will has dealt with me, I did not recognise the clear guiding of His hand.  He has given me a place and a quiet work to do; these strange bereavements, one after another, have not hardened me.  I feel the bonds of love for those whom I have lost drawn closer every hour.  They are waiting for me, I am sure of that.  It is not reason, it is not faith which prompts me; it is a far deeper and stronger