It may be asked, in what is this poetical prose to differ from the prose of great artists who have written melodious, reflective, essentially poetical prose—­the prose of Lamb, of Ruskin, of Pater?  The answer must be that it must differ from Lamb in sustained intention, from Ruskin in firmness of structure, from Pater in variety of mood.  Such prose as I mean must be serious, liquid, profound.  It must probably eschew all broad effects of humour; it must eschew narrative; it must be in its essence lyrical, an outburst like the song of the lark or the voice of the waterfall.  It must deal with beauty, not only the beauty of natural things, but the beauty of human relations, though not trenching upon drama; and, above all, it must take into itself the mystery of philosophical and scientific thought.  Science and philosophy are deeply and essentially poetical, in that they are attempts to build bridges into the abyss of the unknown.  The work of the new lyrist must be to see in things and emotions the quality of beauty, and to discern and express the magic quickening thrill that creeps like a flame through the material form, and passes out beyond the invisible horizon, leaping from star to star, and from the furthest star into the depths of the ancient environing night.

XXVIII

A few days ago an old friend of mine, who has been a good friend to me, who is more careful of my reputation even than myself, gave me some serious advice.  He said, speaking with affectionate partiality, that I had considerable literary gifts, but that I was tending to devote myself too much to ephemeral and imaginative literature, and that I ought to take up a task more worthy of my powers, write a historical biography such as a Life of Canning, or produce a complete annotated edition of the works of Pope, with a biography and appendices.  I assured him that I had no talents for research, and insufficient knowledge for a historical biography.  He replied that research was a matter of patience, and that as for knowledge, I could acquire it.

I thanked him sincerely for his thoughtful kindness, and said that I would hear it in mind.

The result of my reflections is that the only kind of literature worth writing is literature with some original intention.  Solid works have a melancholy tendency to be monumental, in the sense that they cover the graves of literary reputations.  Historical works are superseded with shocking rapidity.  One remembers the description which FitzGerald gave of the labours of his friend Spedding upon Bacon.  Spedding gave up the whole of his life, said FitzGerald, to editing works which did not need editing, and to whitewashing a character which could not be whitewashed.  It is awful to reflect how many years Walter Scott gave to editing Dryden and Swift and to writing a Life of Napoleon—­years which might have given us more novels and poems.  Did Scott, did