a future life？ Indeed； it no longer troubles me that I forget。 I have the happiness of the passing moment； and what more can mortal ask？
XVIII
Is it I； Henry Ryecroft； who； after a night of untroubled rest； rise unhurriedly； dress with the deliberation of an oldish man； and go downstairs happy in the thought that I can sit reading； quietly reading； all day long？ Is it I； Henry Ryecroft； the harassed toiler of so many a long year？
I dare not think of those I have left behind me； there in the ink… stained world。 It would make me miserable； and to what purpose？ Yet； having once looked that way； think of them I must。 Oh； you heavy…laden； who at this hour sit down to the cursed travail of the pen； writing； not because there is something in your mind； in your heart； which must needs be uttered； but because the pen is the only tool you can handle； your only means of earning bread！ Year after year the number of you is multiplied； you crowd the doors of publishers and editors； hustling； grappling； exchanging maledictions。 Oh； sorry spectacle； grotesque and heart…breaking！
Innumerable are the men and women now writing for bread； who have not the least chance of finding in such work a permanent livelihood。 They took to writing because they knew not what else to do； or because the literary calling tempted them by its independence and its dazzling prizes。 They will hang on to the squalid profession； their earnings eked out by begging and borrowing； until it