Chapter III

           

           Butallthisisbytheway.

           IwasveryyoungwhenIwrotemyfirstbook.Byaluckychanceitexcitedattention,andvariouspersonssoughtmyacquaintance.

           ItisnotwithoutmelancholythatIwanderamongmyrecollectionsoftheworldoflettersinLondonwhenfirst,bashfulbuteager,Iwasintroducedtoit.ItislongsinceIfrequentedit,andifthenovelsthatdescribeitspresentsingularitiesareaccuratemuchinitisnowchanged.Thevenueisdifferent.ChelseaandBloomsburyhavetakentheplaceofHampstead,NottingHillGate,andHighStreet,Kensington.Thenitwasadistinctiontobeunderforty,butnowtobemorethantwenty-fiveisabsurd.Ithinkinthosedayswewerealittleshyofouremotions,andthefearofridiculetemperedthemoreobviousformsofpretentiousness.IdonotbelievethattherewasinthatgenteelBohemiaanintensivecultureofchastity,butIdonotremembersocrudeapromiscuityasseemstobepractisedinthepresentday.Wedidnotthinkithypocriticaltodrawoverourvagariesthecurtainofadecentsilence.Thespadewasnotinvariablycalledabloodyshovel.Womanhadnotyetaltogethercomeintoherown.

           IlivednearVictoriaStation,andIrecalllongexcursionsbybustothehospitablehousesoftheliterary.InmytimidityIwanderedupanddownthestreetwhileIscrewedupmycouragetoringthebell;andthen,sickwithapprehension,wasusheredintoanairlessroomfullofpeople.Iwasintroducedtothiscelebratedpersonafterthatone,andthekindwordstheysaidaboutmybookmademeexcessivelyuncomfortable.

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