and unimportant people who have given their vividness and originality to life itself, to talk and letters and complex relationships; we do not want the lives of people who have prosed on platforms and bawled at the openings of bazaars.  They have said their say, and we have heard as much as we need to hear of their views already.  But I know half-a-dozen people, of whose words and works probably no record whatever will be made, whose lives, if they could be painted, would be more interesting than any novel, and more inspiring than any sermon; who have not taken things for granted, but have made up their own minds; and, what is more, have really had minds to make up; who have said, day after day, fine, humorous, tender, illuminating things; who have loved life better than routine, and ideas-better than success; who have really enriched the blood of the world, instead of feebly adulterating it; who have given their companions zest and joy, trenchant memories and eager emotions:  but the whole process has been so delicate, so evasive, so informal, that it seems impossible to recapture the charm in heavy words.  A man who would set himself to write the life of one of these delightful people, instead of adding to the interminable stream of tiresome romances which inundate us, might leave a very fine legacy to the world.  It would mean an immense amount of trouble, and the cultivation of a Boswellian memory—­for such a book would consist largely of recorded conversations—­but what a hopeful and uplifting thing it would be to read and re-read!

The difficulty is that to a perceptive man—­and none but a man of the finest perception could do it,—­an eagle-eating eagle, in fact—­it would seem a ghoulish and a treacherous business.  He would feel like an interviewer and like a spy.  It would have to be done in a noble, self-denying sort of secrecy, amassing and recording day by day; and he would never be able to let his hero suspect what was happening, or the gracious spontaneity would vanish; for the essence of such a life and such talk as I have described is that they should be wholly frank and unconsidered; and the thought of the presence of the note-taking spectator would overshadow its radiance at once.

There is a task for a patient, unambitious, perceptive man!  He must be a man of infinite leisure, and he must be ready to take a large risk of disappointment; for he must outlive his subject, and he must be willing to sacrifice all other opportunities of artistic creation.  But he might write one of the great books of the world, and win a secure seat upon the Muses’ Hill.

XLVI