|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmceg

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ay.
I was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance it excited attention
and various persons
sought my acquaintance.
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London when
first
bashful but eager
I was introduced to it. It is long since I frequented it
and if the novels that describe its
present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed. The venue is different. Chelsea and Bloomsbury
have taken the place of Hampstead
Notting Hill Gate
and High Street
Kensington. Then it was a distinction
to be under forty
but now to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in those days we were a little shy of
our emotions
and the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness. I do not believe
that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture of chastity
but I do not remember so crude a
promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day. We did not think it hypocritical to draw over our
vagaries the curtain of a decent silence. The spade was not invariably called a bloody shovel. Woman had not
yet altogether come into her own.
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmdvl