Page:The Anatomy of Tobacco.pdf/21

 must be done, and yet scarcely can be done; a job that he knows well is to try him to the uttermost and beyond the uttermost; and the time is short.

This man sets out in the morning, silent and alone, with set lips, towards the place of the strong and heavy trial. He has not a word to fling to a neighbour as he goes on his way speechless; the bright booths at the fair mean nothing to him; he does not see the gay figures dancing in a ring, nor hear any sound of laughter nor of laughing music. He goes forward to fulfil his doom; silent and alone; for none can help him.

Only a short while ago, a distinguished man of letters who had been reading a book of mine, ("Far Off Things,") which gives some account of these old days, said to me: "I wouldn't have stood that lonely life you describe in your book. I would have gone to Wimbledon Common and waylaid Swinburne. I would have insisted on knowing him, whether he liked it or not."

I said nothing, seeing that I could not