and where I would. I thought with horror of lives spent in an office,
with an employer to obey. The glory of the career of letters was its
freedom, its dignity!

The fact of the matter was, of course, that I served, not one master, but
a whole crowd of them. Independence, forsooth! If my writing failed to
please editor, publisher, public, where was my daily bread? The greater
my success, the more numerous my employers. I was the slave of a
multitude. By heaven's grace I had succeeded in pleasing (that is to
say, in making myself a source of profit to) certain persons who
represented this vague throng; for the time, they were gracious to me;
but what justified me in the faith that I should hold the ground I had
gained? Could the position of any toiling man be more precarious than
mine? I tremble now as I think of it, tremble as I should in watching
some one who walked carelessly on the edge of an abyss. I marvel at the
recollection that for a good score of years this pen and a scrap of paper
clothed and fed me and my household, kept me in physical comfort, held at
bay all those hostile forces of the world ranged against one who has no
resource save in his own right hand.

But I was thinking of the year which saw my first exodus from London. On
an irresistible impulse, I suddenly made up my mind to go into Devon, a
part of England I had never seen. At the end of March I escaped from my
grim lodgings, and, before I had time to reflect on the details of my
undertaking, I found myself sitting in sunshine at a spot very near to
where I now dwell--before me the green valley of the broadening Exe and
the pine-clad ridge of Haldon. That was one of the moments of my life
when I have tasted exquisite joy. My state of mind was very strange.
Though as boy and youth I had been familiar with the country, had seen
much of England's beauties, it was as though I found myself for the first