And yet, despite my laziness, my lack of initiative, my sacrifices to dull Convention, my timidity and my vacillation, I could not help harbouring a dull dim fury of resentment against Fate itself. I realised that I was the owner of high and original genius, yet this had omitted to imprint its proper mark in the world; and further, I argued that it was not wholly through my own fault that my latent virtues had never developed. The finest and most useful piece of machinery remains valueless and inert unless there be a skilled workman to set its mechanism in motion, to oil its cogs, and generally to supervise its action. So in my own case, the mental mechanism was all there ready to perform and needing but the touch of a sympathetic human hand to inspire its dormant possibilities. Some of the foremost characters in history have owed their fame and their success to the judicious but unappreciated help of persons of an inferior calibre, whose very names are often unknown to posterity; then why could not I have been permitted the service of some exterior force, some understanding coadjutor, to awaken the gigantic strength that was slumbering in myself? Thus in my case a boyhood full of promise, yet a boyhood ever repressed and misunderstood, ripened into an early manhood of diffidence and irresolution. The golden years glided by unprofitably, until at length they reached the grand climacteric, when I found myself straying in a barren and deserted portion of the plain of life. A mental and physical weariness began to enfold me; the sense of failure at times was certainly keen and cutting as a razor, still I contrived by various devices to blunt its edge. I had indeed obtained some slight distinction in the sphere of literature, so that I was fain to feed my hungry disappointed soul with such crumbs or stale food of gratulation as fell to me from the small circle of those who admired my works, concerning which I myself can honestly say that I neither professed nor felt the smallest pride. A few trifles from my pen may possibly live in the general literature of Britain, mostly in verse, for poetry is often less perishable than prose in such instances as mine. Nevertheless, I recognised myself as a partial failure in the domain of letters, as I was admittedly a complete failure in the departments of politics, of thought, of influence, of philosophy.