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Chapter 7

           Now,howhadthishappened,Iaskedmyself?WhyhadIthusinvitedthepublictoacceptmeatafalsevaluation?IpausedtoconsiderandIfoundthesuggestionpuzzling.HowcameItowritethebookatall,seeingthatitwasutterlyunlikemeasInowknewmyself?Mypen,consciouslyorunconsciously,hadwrittendownthingswhichmyreasoningfacultiesentirelyrepudiatedsuchasbeliefinaGodtrustintheeternalpossibilitiesofman’sdivinerprogressIcreditedneitherofthesedoctrines.WhenIimaginedsuchtranscendentalandfoolishdreamsIwaspoorstarvingandwithoutafriendintheworld;rememberingallthis,Ipromptlysetdownmyso-called‘inspiration’totheactionofanill-nourishedbrain.Yettherewassomethingsubtleintheteachingofthestory,andoneafternoonwhenIwasrevisingsomeofthelastproofsheetsIcaughtmyselfthinkingthatthebookwasnoblerthanitswriter.ThisideasmotemewithasuddenpangIpushedmypapersaside,andwalkingtothewindow,lookedout.Itwasraininghard,andthestreetswereblackwithmudandslushthefoot-passengersweredrenchedandmiserablethewholeprospectwasdreary,andthefactthatIwasarichmandidnotintheleastliftfrommymindthedepressionthathadstolenonmeunawares.

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