The Adventure of Living | Page 4

LIFE IN LONDON IN THE 'NINETIES (_Continued_)
XX.--THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM
XXI.--THE PLACE OF THE JOURNALIST IN MODERN LIFE
XXII.--A WAR EPISODE--MY AMERICAN TEA-PARTIES
XXIII.--IDYLLS OF THE WAR
XXIV.--FIVE GREAT MEN

XXV.--FIVE GREAT MEN (Continued)
XXVI.--MY POLITICAL OPINIONS
XXVII.--MY POLITICAL OPINIONS (Continued)
XXVIII.--UNWRITTEN CHAPTERS

INDEX

ILLUSTRATIONS
ST. LOE STRACHEY [Frontispiece] From a drawing by W.
Rothenstein.
VIEW OF NORTH FRONT OF SUTTON COURT, IN THE
COUNTY OF SOMERSET, THE FAMILY HOUSE OF THE
STRACHEYS
SIR EDWARD STRACHEY IN THE HALL AT SUTTON COURT,
WITH HIS FAVOURITE CAT From a picture by his son Henry
Strachey.
JOHN STRACHEY, THE FRIEND OF LOCKE
THE CLOSE, SUTTON COURT, SOMERSET
SUTTON COURT, SOMERSET
SUTTON COURT, SOMERSET
MRS. SALOME LEAKER,--"THE FAMILY NURSE"
J. ST. LOE STRACHEY,--ÆTAT 16 From a photograph done at
Cannes, about 1876.
J. ST. LOE STRACHEY AS AN OXFORD FRESHMAN, ÆTAT 18
MEREDITH TOWNSEND, EDITOR OF THE "FRIEND OF INDIA,"
AND HIS MOONSHEE, THE PUNDIT OOMACANTO MUKAJI,
DOCTOR OF LOGIC IN THE MUDDEH UNIVERSITY Taken at
Serampore, Bengal, in 1849.
J. ST. LOE STRACHEY, ÆTAT. 32
J. ST. LOE STRACHEY AT NEWLANDS CORNER, ÆTAT. 45

THE ADVENTURE OF LIVING

CHAPTER I
HOW I CAME TO "THE SPECTATOR"

Sir Thomas Browne gave his son an admirable piece of literary advice.
The young son had been travelling in Hungary and proposed to write an
account of what he had seen. His father approved the project, but urged
him strongly not to trouble himself about the methods of extracting iron
and copper from the ores, or with a multitude of facts and statistics.
These were matters in which there was no need to be particular. But, he
added, his son must on no account forget to give a full description of
the "Roman alabaster tomb in the barber's shop at Pesth."
In writing my recollections I mean to keep always before me the
alabaster tomb in the barber's shop rather than a view of life which is
based on high politics, or even high literature. At first sight it may seem
as if the life of an editor is not likely to contain very much of the
alabaster tomb element. In truth, however, every life is an adventure,
and if a sense of this adventure cannot be communicated to the reader,
one may feel sure that it is the fault of the writer, not of the facts. A
dull man might make a dull thing of his autobiography even if he had
lived through the French Revolution; whereas a country curate might
thrill the world with his story, provided that his mind were cast in the
right mould and that he found a quickening interest in its delineation.
Barbellion's Diary provides the proof. The interest of that supremely
interesting book lies in the way of telling.
But how is one to know what will interest one's readers? That is a
difficult question. Clearly it is no use to put up a man of straw, call him
the Public, and then try to play down to him or up to him and his
alleged and purely hypothetical opinions and tastes. Those who attempt
to fawn upon the puppet of their own creation are as likely as not to end
by interesting nobody. At any rate, try and please yourself, then at least
one person's liking is engaged. That is the autobiographer's simple
secret.
All the same there is a better reason than that. Pleasure is contagious.
He who writes with zest will infect his readers. The man who argues,
"This seems stupid and tedious to me, but I expect it is what the public
likes," is certain to make shipwreck of his endeavour.
The pivot of my life has been _The Spectator_, and so The Spectator

must be the pivot of my book--the point upon which it and I and all that
is mine turn. I therefore make no apology for beginning this book with
the story of how I came to The Spectator.
My father, a friend of both the joint editors, Mr. Hutton and Mr.
Townsend, was a frequent contributor to the paper. In a sense, therefore,
I was brought up in a "Spectator" atmosphere. Indeed, the first
contributions ever made by me to the press were two sonnets which
appeared in its pages, one in the year 1875 and the other in 1876. I did
not, however, begin serious journalistic work in _The Spectator_, but,
curiously enough, in its rival, The Saturday Review. While I was at
Oxford I sent several middle articles to _The Saturday_, got them
accepted, and later, to my great delight, received novels and poems for
review. I also wrote occasionally in _The Pall Mall_, in the days in
which it was edited by Lord Morley, and in The Academy. It was not
until I settled down in