the field-mouse, or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam o' Shanter. Not

only had life a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than
that which stirs the soul of Hodge, but he uttered it in word and

music such as go to the heart of mankind, and hold a magic power for
ages.

For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our
country. It began, I suspect, when the veritableartistic impulse

of the Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time
was all but exhausted. Principles always become a matter of

vehement discussion when practice is at ebb. Not by taking thought
does one become an artist, or grow even an inch in that direction--

which is not at all the same as saying that he who IS an artist
cannot profit by conscious effort. Goethe (the example so often

urged by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity) took
thought enough about his Faust; but what of those youthtime lyrics,

not the least precious of his achievements, which were scribbled as
fast as pen could go, thwartwise on the paper, because he could not

stop to set it straight? Dare I pen, even for my own eyes, the
venerable truth that an artist is born and not made? It seems not

superfluous, in times which have heard disdainful criticism of
Scott, on the ground that he had no artisticconscience, that he

scribbled without a thought of style, that he never elaborated his
scheme before beginning--as Flaubert, of course you know, invariably

did. Why, after all, has one not heard that a certain William
Shakespeare turned out his so-called works of art with something

like criminalcarelessness? Is it not a fact that a bungler named
Cervantes was so little in earnest about his Art that, having in one

chapter described the stealing of Sancho's donkey, he presently, in
mere forgetfulness, shows us Sancho riding on Dapple, as if nothing

had happened? Does not one Thackeray shamelessly avow on the last
page of a grossly "subjective" novel that he had killed Lord

Farintosh's mother at one page and brought her to life again at
another? These sinners against Art are none the less among the

world's supreme artists, for they LIVED, in a sense, in a degree,
unintelligible to these critics of theirs, and their work is an

expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life.
Some one, no doubt, hit upon this definition of mine long ago. It

doesn't matter; is it the less original with me? Not long since I
should have fretted over the possibility, for my living depended on

an avoidance of even seeming plagiarism. Now I am at one with Lord
Foppington, and much disposed to take pleasure in the natural

sprouts of my own wit--without troubling whether the same idea has
occurred to others. Suppose me, in total ignorance of Euclid, to

have discovered even the simplest of his geometrical demonstrations,
shall I be crestfallen when some one draws attention to the book?

These natural sprouts are, after all, the best products of our life;
it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world's

market. One of my conscious efforts, in these days of freedom, is
to live intellectually for myself. Formerly, when in reading I came

upon anything that impressed or delighted me, down it went in my
note-book, for "use." I could not read a striking verse, or

sentence of prose, without thinking of it as an apt quotation in
something I might write--one of the evil results of a literary life.

Now that I strive to repel this habit of thought, I find myself
asking: To what end, then, do I read and remember? Surely as

foolish a question as ever man put to himself. You read for your
own pleasure, for your solace and strengthening. Pleasure, then,

purely selfish? Solace which endures for an hour, and strengthening
for no combat? Ay, but I know, I know. With what heart should I

live here in my cottage, waiting for life's end, were it not for
those hours of seeming idle reading?

I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen
when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any

mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for
sympathetic understanding?--nay, who would even generally be at one

with me in my appreciation. Such harmony of intelligences is the
rarest thing. All through life we long for it: the desire drives

us, like a demon, into waste places; too often ends by plunging us
into mud and morass. And, after all, we learn that the vision was

illusory. To every man is it decreed: thou shalt live alone.
Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy,

whilst they imagine it. Those to whom no such happiness has ever
been granted at least avoid the bitterest of disillusions. And is

it not always good to face a truth, however discomfortable? The
mind which renounces, once and for ever, a futile hope, has its

compensation in ever-growing calm.
XXI

All about my garden to-day the birds are loud. To say that the air
is filled with their song gives no idea of the ceaseless piping,

whistling, trilling, which at moments rings to heaven in a
triumphant unison, a wild accord. Now and then I notice one of the

smaller songsters who seems to strain his throat in a madly joyous
endeavour to out-carol all the rest. It is a chorus of praise such

as none other of earth's children have the voice or the heart to
utter. As I listen, I am carried away by its gloriousrapture; my

being melts in the tenderness of an impassioned joy; my eyes are dim
with I know not what profound humility.

XXII
Were one to look at the literary journals only, and thereafter judge

of the time, it would be easy to persuade oneself that civilization
had indeed made great and solid progress, and that the world stood

at a very hopeful stage of enlightenment. Week after week, I glance
over these pages of crowdedadvertisement; I see a great many

publishing-houses zealously active in putting forth every kind of
book, new and old; I see names innumerable of workers in every

branch of literature. Much that is announced declares itself at
once of merely ephemeral import, or even of no import at all; but

what masses of print which invite the attention of thoughtful or
studious folk! To the multitude is offered a long succession of

classic authors, in beautiful form, at a minimum cost; never were
such treasures so cheaply and so gracefully set before all who can

prize them. For the wealthy, there are volumes magnificent; lordly
editions; works of art whereon have been lavished care and skill and

expense incalculable. Here is exhibited the learning of the whole
world and of all the ages; be a man's study what it will, in these

columns, at one time or another he shall find that which appeals to
him. Here are labours of the erudite, exercised on every subject

that falls within learning's scope. Science brings forth its newest
discoveries in earth and heaven; it speaks to the philosopher in his

solitude, and to the crowd in the market-place. Curious pursuits of
the mind at leisure are represented in publications numberless;

trifles and oddities of intellectualsavour; gatherings from every
byway of human interest. For other moods there are the fabulists;

to tell truth, they commonly hold the place of honour in these
varied lists. Who shall count them? Who shall calculate their

readers? Builders of verse are many; yet the observer will note
that contemporary poets have but an inconspicuous standing in this

index of the public taste. Travel, on the other hand, is largely
represented; the general appetite for information about lands remote

would appear to be only less keen than for the adventures of
romance.

With these pages before one's eyes, must one not needs believe that
things of the mind are a prime concern of our day? Who are the

purchasers of these volumes ever pouring from the press? How is it
possible for so great a commerce to flourish save as a consequence

of national eagerness in this intellectualdomain? Surely one must
take for granted that throughout the land, in town and country,

private libraries are growing apace; that by the people at large a
great deal of time is devoted to reading; that literaryambition is

one of the commonest spurs to effort?
It is the truth. All this may be said of contemporary England. But

is it enough to set one's mind at ease regarding the outlook of our
civilization?

Two things must be remembered. However considerable this literary
traffic, regarded by itself, it is relatively of small extent. And,

in the second place, literary activity is by no means an invariable
proof of that mental attitude which marks the truly civilized man.

Lay aside the "literary organ," which appears once a week, and take
up the newspaper, which comes forth every day, morning and evening.

Here you get the true proportion of things. Read your daily news-
sheet--that which costs threepence or that which costs a halfpenny--

and muse upon the impression it leaves. It may be that a few books
are "noticed"; granting that the "notice" is in any way noticeable,

compare the space it occupies with that devoted to the material
interests of life: you have a gauge of the real importance of

intellectualendeavour to the people at large. No, the public which
reads, in any sense of the word worth considering, is very, very