action, of contemplation rather than of business; and I have tried
to do this from different points of view, though the essence has
been the same. I endeavoured at first to do it anonymously, because
I have no desire to recommend these ideas as being my own theories.
The personal background rather detracts from than adds to the value
of the thoughts, because people can compare my theories with my
practice, and show how lamentably I fail to carry them out. But
time after time I have been pulled reluctantly out of my burrow, by
what I still consider a wholly misguided zeal for publicity, till I
have decided that I will lurk no longer. It was in this frame of
mind that I published, under my own name, a book called Beside
Still Waters, a harmless enough volume, I thought, which was meant
to be a deliberate summary or manifesto of these ideas. It depicted
a young man who, after a reasonable experience of practical life,
resolved to retire into the shade, who in that position indulged
profusely in leisurely reverie. The book was carefully enough
written, and I have been a good deal surprised to find that it has
met with considerable disapproval, and even derision, on the part
of many reviewers. It has been called morbid and indolent, and
decadent, and half a hundred more ugly adjectives. Now I do not for
an instant question the right of a single one of these
conscientious persons to form whatever opinion they like about my
book, and to express it in any terms they like; they say, and
obviously feel, that the thought of the book is essentially thin,
and that the vein in which it is written is offensively
egotistical. I do not dispute the possibility of their being
perfectly right. An artist who exhibits his paintings, or a writer
who publishes his books, challenges the criticisms of the public;
and I am quite sure that the reviewers who frankly disliked my
book, and said so plainly, thought that they were doing their duty