The Henson Journals

[421]

Tuesday, November 27th, 1900.

This day has been utterly wasted. Beyond a few letters & a visit to Marsden in the afternoon, nothing has been done.

I saddened myself before going to bed by turning over a drawer–full of letters. The writers were mostly dead. My Father, Jennie, Campion, Cockayne – all dead: & I linger on, &, as the world counts, am a successful man: but my heart is empty, or rather it is for ever hungry. What balderdash this talk of 'success' is!

The "Daily News" had a very hostile & unjust leader on my lecture at the Working Men's Institute. It refers to me as if I were the type of carpet–cleric whom I most despise. I was angry at first, but not for long. What can they know about me, these minions of convention?

Henceforward, for good or evil, I will live my own life in the sight of God.

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