"And the subject is the Conventionalism which you call civilisation. Well, I don't wonder at your looking vacant. You are not quite up to it, Lord Frank. Why don't you write a novel?"
"My imagination is too vivid, and would run away with me."
"Nothing else would," she said, laughing; "but if you don't like fiction, you can always fall back upon fact; be the hero of your own romance, publish your diary, and call it 'The Experiences of a Product of the Highest State of Civilisation.' Thus you will be able to write about civilisation and yourself at the same time, which I am sure you will like. I want some tea, please; do you know you are rather dull to-night?" And Lady Veriphast walked me into the middle of the crowd, and abandoned me abruptly for somebody else, with whom she returned to her corner, and I went and had tea by myself.
But Lady Veriphast had put me on the right track: why, I thought as I scrambled back again from my brougham across the wet pavement to my bay-window, should I not begin at once to write about the civilisation of the day? 'The Civilisation of the British Isles, as exhibited in Piccadilly, a Fragment of Contemporaneous Biography,' that would not be a bad title; people would think, if I called it a biography, it must be true; here I squared my elbows before a quantity of foolscap, dipped my pen in the ink, and dashed off the introduction as above.
Next morning I got up and began again as follows: Why should I commit the ridiculous error of supposing that the incidents of my daily life are not likely to interest the world at large? Whether I read the diary of Mr Pepys, or of Lady Morgan—whether I wade through the Journal of Mr Evelyn, or pleasantly while away an hour with the memoirs of "a Lady of Quality," I am equally struck with this traditional practice of the bores and the wits of society, to write at length the records of their daily life, bottle them carefully up in a series of MS. volumes, and leave them to their grandchildren to publish, and to posterity to criticise. Now it has always appeared to me that the whole fun of writing was to watch the immediate effect produced by one's own literary genius. If, in addition to this, it is possible to interest the public in the current events of one's life, what nobler object of ambition could a man propose to himself? Thus, though the circle of my personal acquaintances may not be increased, I shall feel my sympathies are becoming enlarged with each succeeding mark of confidence I bestow upon the numerous readers to whom I will recount the most intimate relations of my life. I will tell them of my aspirations and my failures—of my hopes and fears, of my friends and my enemies. I shall not shrink from alluding to the state of my affections; and if the still unfulfilled story of my life becomes involved with the destiny of others, and entangles itself in an inextricable manner, that is no concern of mine. I shall do nothing to be ashamed of, or that I can't tell; and if truth turn out stranger than fiction, so much the better for my readers. It may be that I shall become the hero of a sensation episode in real life, for the future looks vague and complicated enough; but it is much better to make the world my friend before anything serious occurs, than allow posterity to misjudge my conduct when I am no longer alive to explain it. Now, at least, I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever happens I shall give my version of the story first. Should the daily tenor of my life be undisturbed, I can always fall back upon the exciting character of my opinions.
As I write, the magnitude of the task I propose to myself assumes still larger proportions. I yearn to develop in the world at large those organs of conscientiousness and benevolence which we all possess but so few exercise. I invoke the cooperation of my readers in this great work: I implore them to accompany me step by step in the crusade which I am about to preach in favour of the sacrifice of self for the public good. I demand their sympathy in this monthly record of my trials as an uncompromising exponent of the motives of the day, and I claim their tender solicitude should I writhe, crushed and mangled by the iron hand of a social tyranny dexterously concealed in its velvet glove. I will begin my efforts at reform with the Church; I may then possibly diverge to the Legislature, and I will mix in the highest circles of society in the spirit of a missionary. I will endeavour to show everybody up to everybody else in the spirit of love; and if they end by quarrelling with each other and with me, I shall at least have the satisfaction of feeling myself divested of all further responsibility in the matter. In my present frame of mind apathy would be culpable and weakness a crime....
Candour compels me to state that when, as I told Lady Veriphast, my imagination becomes heated, my pen travels with a velocity which fails to convey any adequate impression of the seething thoughts which course through my brain. I lose myself in my subject, and become almost insensible to external sensations; thus it happened that I did not hear the door open as I was writing the above, and I was totally unconscious as I was reading fervently aloud the last paragraph, containing those aspirations which I promised to confide to the public, that I had already a listener. Judge of my surprise—I may say dismay—when, just as I had finished, and was biting the end of my pen for a new inspiration, I heard the voice of Grandon close behind my chair. "Well done, my dear Frank," he said—and as he has known me from my boyhood, he can make allowances for my fervent nature. "Your programme is very complete, but I doubt your being able to carry it out. How, for instance, do you propose to open the campaign against the Church?"
If there is one quality upon which I pride myself more than another it is readiness. I certainly had not formed the slightest conception of how these burning thoughts of mine should be put into execution; but I did not hesitate a second in my answer. "I shall go down to a bishop and stay with him in his palace," I replied, promptly.
"Which one?" said Grandon.
I was going to say "Oxbridge," as he is the only one I happen to know; but, in the first place, I am a little afraid of him; and, in the second, I am hardly on sufficiently intimate terms with him to venture to propose myself—so I said, with some effrontery, "Oh, to a colonial bishop, whom you don't know."