Here I close my tale; my further doings would be an entirely different story. I was anchored for life with a future before me of comparative comfort as well assured as can be expected in the affairs of humanity. I close my memoirs at the age of fifty, because I was a boy till then, but no longer. I matured so late in life that my boyhood lingered beyond its time. I have said comparatively little about the Civil Service. I would have said more had I been able to use names and recent incidents bringing my history up to date. But being forced to generalise and use fictitious names, I have had to be content with giving a mere sketch of my experience.

No one can understand the Civil Service unless he has lived in it for a long period of years and can look backward. I see it now as a clumsy, powerful machine guided by unskilled hands; or a great foolish, good-natured, long-suffering giant allowing himself to be bullied by pygmies—short-sighted, self-seeking, ignorant and stubborn pygmies; or, let us say, little strutting bantams whose lives are only a few days long. But in that brief tenure, they never tire of harrying and baiting the great giant who will surely walk on all their little graves.

The Civil Service suffers and will suffer, for many years to come, from the dead weight of the human culls and misfits dumped into it by the official and professional politician. It is really a great deal better than might be expected, considering the handicap under which it does a great work. To say that it is corrupt or inefficient, as if it were the actual cause of its own failings and shortcomings, is foolish. It is exactly what politicians have made it, and the politician in his turn is the exact logical product of his time. A virtuous and honest people produces virtuous and upright politicians; upright politicians make a clean and efficient Civil Service. The failings of the Civil Service are the failings of the people for whom it works. In short, a country has the government it deserves to have, and what the government is the Civil Service is.

Now, to end the chronicle, if I have any readers, I am quite aware that the large majority of them will declare my tale to be the story of a failure. But it is not so. What is success? I reply that I do not know. It is one thing to one man and another to another. And even if the world consider me as a failure, it must recognise that I failed in more things than most men because I tried more things. And if the output of energy is the measure of a man, these failures were only episodes of a struggle toward a more human ideal of life.

I had a many-sided character to satisfy. I desired all things which seemed good to me: a happy home, love, beautiful children, music, literature, and the stage. I have been great in nothing; yet have I tasted all things and partly satisfied all my cravings. This book is one of my failures, but one, I persist, that makes for human experience.

Since the days of which I tell dire things have happened to me. I have seen my poor old father, who loved me well, fall into premature senile decay and die leaving my dear mother to make the short end of the road alone. I have seen beguiling, attractive depravity take away from me the little girl who was born at the mill, marry her, break her heart, and kill her. On the other hand, I have seen my son grow up and make a man of himself, marry the right woman (who is so rarely found), and prosper. I have seen my Third Beloved grow in beauty and character and mate with a man of heart and mind. All these things have I seen; and my grand-children and I have kept One Beloved at our side; and last, but by no means least, life has spared me Muriel; and the world seems good. Therefore, write me not down a failure.

THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH

Transcriber’s Notes