virtues. I hugged the thought that it was not through my merits but
because I possessed a conquering star that I had got where I was.

Curiously enough, I had never dreamed of joining _The Spectator_
staff or even of becoming its Editor. I had imagined every other sort of
strange and sudden preferment, of frantic proprietors asking me at a
moment's notice to edit their papers, or of taking up some great and
responsible position, but never of carrying by assault 1 Wellington
Street. But that, of course, made it all the more delightful. No one
could have prepared me a greater or a more grateful surprise.

It is strange to look back and see how at this moment that mystery which
we barbarously call "the force of circumstances" seemed to have
determined not merely to drive in my nail but to hammer it up to the
head. It happened that both Mr. Hutton and Mr. Townsend had great belief
in the literary judgment of Canon Ainger, a man, it is to be feared, now
almost forgotten, but whose opinion was looked upon in the 'eighties and
'nineties with something approaching reverence.

In 1886--my "Spectator" year, as I may call it--when I was acting as
election-agent to Mr. Henry Hobhouse, I happened to be searching in the
old library at Hadspen House for something to read, something with which
to occupy the time of waiting between the issue of the writ and
nomination-day. If there was to be no opposition it did not seem worth
while to get too busy over the electorate. We remained, therefore, in a
kind of enchanter's circle until nomination-day was over. It was a time
in which everybody whispered mysteriously that a very strong candidate,
name unknown, would suddenly appear at Yeovil, Langport, or Chard--I
forget which of these pleasant little towns was the place of nomination
--and imperil our chances. As was natural to me then, and, I must