If ever there is a time for sententiousness it is when one is elderly, leisured and comfortable; that is the time to set down one’s thoughts as they come, not inviting anybody to read them, but promising to those who do, that they will find a commentary upon life as it passes, either because it may be useful or because it may have been earned.  I hope I have neither prejudice nor afterthought; I know that I have, as we say now, neither axe to grind nor log to roll.  Politics!  None.  I want people to be happy; and whether Mr. George make them so, or the Trade Unions, whether Christ or Sir Conan Doyle, it’s all one to me.  I have my pet nostrums, of course.  I believe in Poverty, Love, and England, and am convinced that only through the first will the other two thrive.  I want men to be gentlemen and women to be modest.  I want men to have work and women to have children.  Any check on production, Trade-Union, war, or something else, will get no good words from me.  As for war, after our late experience, I confess that I could be a Mr. Dick with it, but we are not apt in the country to dwell overmuch on war now it is over.  We honour our beloved dead; those of us who have returned unbattered go now about our work with cooler, more critical eyes, but mostly with lips closed against our three or four years’ experience.  Khaki has disappeared; the war is over; let us forget it.  If there is a people to be pitied, swarming and groping on this tormented earth, we say, it is the German people; but that seems an insufficient reason for hating them in saecula saeculorum.  A German is a human being, and very likely Mr. Bottomley is one too, and not a big-head in a pantomime; such also may be Mrs. Partington’s nephew and the editor of the Morning Post.  There does not seem much difference between them, and we must be charitable.

The sojourner in the green shade will find himself, as I have found myself, more interested in people (but not those people) than in books.  We have too many books, as I discovered when I left London for good.  I sold six tons, and again another six, when, after two years in West Sussex, I came home.  Now I have collected about me the things I can’t do without, the things of which I read at least portions every year, as well as a few which it is good to have handy in case of accidents.  Book-collecting is a foppery, a pastime of youth, when spending money is as necessary as taking exercise, and you are better for an object in each case.  But I find that I now read with motives other than those of old.  I am now more interested in the author than in his book.  That must mean that I am more interested in life than in art.  I am reading at this moment Professor Child’s edition of the Ballads, and though I am occasionally moved to tears by the beauty and tragic insight of things like The Wife of Usher’s Well; Clerk Saunders, or Lord Thomas and Fair Annie, I am sure that considerations altogether unliterary