curate might thrill the world with his story, provided that
his mind were cast in the right mould and that he found a
quickening interest in its delineation. Barbellion's Diary
provides the proof. The interest of that supremely in-
teresting book lies in the way of telling.

But how is one to know what will interest one's readers?
That is a difficult question. Clearly it is no use to put up
a man of straw, call him the Public, and then try to play
down to him or up to him and his alleged and purely
hypothetical opinions and tastes. Those who attempt to
fawn upon the puppet of their own creation are as likely
as not to end by interesting nobody. At any rate, try
and please yourself, then at least one person's liking is
engaged. That is the autobiographer's simple secret.

All the same there is a better reason than that. Pleasure
is contagious. He who writes with zest will infect his
readers. The man who argues, "This seems stupid and
tedious to me, but I expect it is what the public likes," is
certain to make shipwreck of his endeavour.

The pivot of my life has been The Spectator, and so The
Spectator must be the pivot of my book -- the point upon
which it and I and all that is mine turn. I therefore make
no apology for beginning this book with the story of how
I came to The Spectator.

My father, a friend of both the joint editors, Mr. Hutton
and Mr. Townsend, was a frequent contributor to the
paper. In a sense, therefore, I was brought up in a "Spec-
tator" atmosphere. Indeed, the first contributions ever
made by me to the press were two sonnets which appeared
in its pages, one in the year 1875 and the other in 1876.
I did not, however, begin serious journalistic work in The
Spectator, but, curiously enough, in its rival, The Saturday
Review. While I was at Oxford I sent several middle

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