THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
that I have never cared two straws for publishers' refusals or for any such merely external hindrances. Just as the play did me no good, just as the companionship of the distinguished would have done me no good if I had possessed it; so, on the other side, external obstacles and failures never did me any harm. The fire that scorched me was in my own judgement of my gross incapacity and demerit: that was the flame that burned and blackened, that was the anguish that made mere existence almost intolerable. In '83, after horrible struggles, I had written a queer, futile book called "The Anatomy of Tobacco" and had obtained some relief. Then, I had a year's rest in my old home, finding solace and refreshment in the sight of old, homely, friendly faces, in the warmth of hearths that have long ago grown cold and grey. Now, I was back in Clarendon Road, alone again, picking up a small and precarious living for a while, again at once urged and tormented by the mysterious impulse of letters which, to my mind, is in itself satisfactory proof of the essentially spiritual nature of man. For, on the one hand, in 999 cases out of a thousand, there is no result-
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