The Adventure of Living | Page 6

the
quagmire of my own creation if I rewrote the two reviews. Accordingly,
they were sent off in the usual way. Knowing my father's experience in
such matters, I did not expect to get them back in type for many weeks.
As a matter of fact, they came back quite quickly. I corrected the proofs
and returned them. To my astonishment the review of Swift appeared
almost at once. I supposed, in the luxury of depression, that they
wished to cast the rubbish out of the way as quickly as possible.
My first intention was not to go again to The Spectator office, the place
where I was so obviously not wanted, but I remembered that my father
had told me that it was always the custom to return books as soon as
the proofs were corrected or the articles had appeared. I determined,
therefore, that I would do the proper thing, though I felt rather shy, and
feared I might be looked upon as "cadging" for work.
With my books under my arm I walked off to Wellington Street, on a
Tuesday morning, and went up to Mr. Hutton's room, where on that day
the two editors used to spend the greater part of the morning discussing
the coming issue of the paper. I had prepared a nice little impromptu
speech, which was to convey in unmistakable terms that I had not come
to ask for more books; "I fully realise and fully acquiesce in your
inability to use my work." When I went in I was most cordially
received, and almost immediately Mr. Hutton asked me to look over a
pile of new books and see if there was anything there I would like. This
appeared to be my cue, and I accordingly proceeded to explain that I
had not come to ask for more books but only to bring back the two
books I had already reviewed and to thank the editors. I quite

understood that there was no more work for me.
Then, to my amazement, Mr. Townsend, with that vividness of
expression which was his, said something to the effect that they had
only said that when they didn't know that I could write. The position, it
appeared, had been entirely changed by the review of _Gulliver's
Travels_ and they hoped very much that I should be able to do regular
work for The Spectator. Mr. Hutton chimed in with equally kind and
appreciative words, and I can well remember the pleasant confusion
caused in my mind by the evident satisfaction of my future chiefs. I
was actually hailed as "a writer and critic of the first force."
To say that I returned home elated would not be exactly true.
Bewildered would more accurately describe my state of mind. I had
genuinely believed that my attempt to give the final word of criticism
upon _Gulliver's Travels_--that is what a young man always thinks, and
ought to think, he is doing in the matter of literary criticism--had been a
total failure. Surely I couldn't be wrong about my own work. Yet The
Spectator editors were evidently not mad or pulling my leg or even
flattering me! It was a violent mystery.
Of course I was pleased at heart, but I tried to unload some of my
liabilities to Nemesis by the thought that my new patrons would
probably get tired of my manner of writing before very long. What had
captured them for the moment was merely a certain novelty of style.
They would very soon see through it, as I had done in my poignant
self-criticism. But this prudent view was before long, in a couple of
days, to be exact, knocked on the head by a delightful letter which Mr.
Townsend wrote to my father. In it he expressed himself even more
strongly in regard to the review than he had done in speaking to me.
I honestly think that what I liked best in the whole business was the
element of adventure. There was something thrilling and, so, intensely
delightful to me in the thought, that I had walked down to Wellington
Street, like a character in a novel, prepared for a setback, only to find
that Fate was there, "hid in an auger-hole," ready to rush and seize me.
Somehow or other I felt, though I would not admit it even to myself,
that the incident had been written in the Book of Destiny, and that it

was one which was going to affect my whole life. Of course, being, like
other young men, a creature governed wholly by reason and good sense,
I scouted the notion of a destined day as sentimental and ridiculous.
Still, the facts were "as stated," and could not be altogether denied.
Looking back at the lucky accident which