nately, however, the
English spirit is solitary rather than social, and the artistic spirit
is jealous rather than inclusive; and so it comes about that instead
of artists and men of ideas consorting together and living a free and
simple life, they tend to dwell in lonely fortresses and paradises,
costly to create, costly to maintain. The English spirit is against
communities. If it were not so, how easy it would be for people to
live in groups and circles, with common interests and tastes, to
encourage each other to believe in beautiful things, and to practise
ardent thoughts and generous dreams. But this cannot be done
artificially, and the only people who ever try to do it are artists,
who do occasionally congregate in a place, and make no secret to each
other of what they are pursuing. I have sometimes touched the fringe
of a community like that, and have been charmed by the sense of a more
eager happiness, a more unaffected intercourse of spirits than I have
found elsewhere. But the world intervenes! domestic ties, pecuniary
interests, civic claims disintegrate the group. It is sad to think how
possible such intercourse is in youth, and in youth only, as one sees
it displayed in that fine and moving book _Trilby_, which does
contrive to reflect the joy of the buoyant companionship of art. But
the flush dies down, the insouciance departs, and with it the ardent
generosity of life. Some day perhaps, when life has become simpler and
wealth more equalised, when work is more distributed, when there is
less production of unnecessary things, these groups will form
themselves, and the frank, eager, vivid spirit of youth will last on
into middle-age, and even into age itself. I do not think that this is
wholly a dream; but we must first get rid of much of the pompous
nonsense about money and position, which now spoils so many lives; and
if we could be more genuinely interested in the beauty and complex
charm and joy of life, we should think less and less of material
things, be content with shelter, warmth, and food, and grudge the time
we waste in providing things for which we have no real use, simply in
order that, like the rich fool, we may congratulate ourselves on
having much goods laid up for many years, when the end was hard at
hand!

XII

MEMORY

Memory is for many people the only form of poetry which they indulge.
If a soul turns to the future for consolation in a sad or wearied or
disappointed present,