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 year 1885—and thought of "The Chronicle of Clemendy."

Not many months ago I was talking to a man of letters about those early days of mine. He had been reading my book, "Far Off Things," which attempts to relate the story of this adventurous time.

"I wouldn't have stood it," said my author. "I wouldn't have borne the loneliness that you describe. I would have rushed off to Wimbledon and lain in wait for Swinburne and insisted on knowing him whether he liked it or not."

And I am sure that my friend would have been as good as his word. He would have hailed Swinburne on Wimbledon Common, he would have insisted on knowing him, and I daresay that Swinburne would have liked him very much. And, somehow, I perceive by this example what helpless, bound creatures we all are; bound and imprisoned not so much by circumstance but by the chains of our several natures, constraining us. I have no doubt, I say, that poor Guy Thorne—he is dead not long ago—would have followed the course he preached with the utmost