a　future　life？　Indeed；　it　no　longer　troubles　me　that　I　forget。　I　have　the　happiness　of　the　passing　moment；　and　what　more　can　mortal　ask？

XVIII

Is　it　I；　Henry　Ryecroft；　who；　after　a　night　of　untroubled　rest；　rise　unhurriedly；　dress　with　the　deliberation　of　an　oldish　man；　and　go　downstairs　happy　in　the　thought　that　I　can　sit　reading；　quietly　reading；　all　day　long？　Is　it　I；　Henry　Ryecroft；　the　harassed　toiler　of　so　many　a　long　year？

I　dare　not　think　of　those　I　have　left　behind　me；　there　in　the　ink…　stained　world。　It　would　make　me　miserable；　and　to　what　purpose？　Yet；　having　once　looked　that　way；　think　of　them　I　must。　Oh；　you　heavy…laden；　who　at　this　hour　sit　down　to　the　cursed　travail　of　the　pen；　writing；　not　because　there　is　something　in　your　mind；　in　your　heart；　which　must　needs　be　uttered；　but　because　the　pen　is　the　only　tool　you　can　handle；　your　only　means　of　earning　bread！　Year　after　year　the　number　of　you　is　multiplied；　you　crowd　the　doors　of　publishers　and　editors；　hustling；　grappling；　exchanging　maledictions。　Oh；　sorry　spectacle；　grotesque　and　heart…breaking！

Innumerable　are　the　men　and　women　now　writing　for　bread；　who　have　not　the　least　chance　of　finding　in　such　work　a　permanent　livelihood。　They　took　to　writing　because　they　knew　not　what　else　to　do；　or　because　the　literary　calling　tempted　them　by　its　independence　and　its　dazzling　prizes。　They　will　hang　on　to　the　squalid　profession；　their　earnings　eked　out　by　begging　and　borrowing；　until　it