writing delicious with honeyed lines, each word a
flower, each letter rounded with the firm soft curves of hawthorn in
bud, or the delicate knobs of palm against the sky.

CHAPTER VIII

GEORGE MUNCASTER

When I spoke of London's men of genius I referred, of course, to such as
are duly accredited, certificated, so to say, by public opinion; but of
those others whose shining is under the bushel of obscurity, few or
many, how can one affirm? That there are such, any man with any happy
experience of living should be able to testify; and I should say, for
fear of misunderstanding, that I do not use the word genius in any
technical sense, not only of men who can _do_ in the great triumphal
way, but also of those who can _be_ in their quiet, effective fashion,
within their own 'scanty plot of ground'; men who, if ever conscious of
it, are content with the diffusion of their influence around the narrow
limits of their daily life, content to bend their creative instincts on
the building and beautifying of home. It is no lax use of the word
genius to apply it to such, for unless you profess the modern heresy
that genius is but a multiplied talent, a coral-island growth, that
earns its right to a new name only when it has lifted its head above the
waters of oblivion, you must agree. For 'you saw at once,' said
Narcissus, in reference to that poet, 'that his writing was so
delightful because he was more so.' His writings, in fact, were but the
accidental emanations of his personality. He might have given himself
out to us in fugues, or canvases, or simply, like the George Muncaster
of whom I am thinking, in the sweet breath and happy shining of his
home. Genius is a personal quality, and if a man has it, whatever his
hand touches will bear the trace of his power, an undying odour, an
unfading radiance. When Rossetti wrote 'Beauty like hers is genius,' he
was not dealing in metaphor, and Meissonier should have abolished for
ever the superstition of large canvases.

These desultory hints of the development of Narcissus would certainly be
more incomplete than necessity demands, if I did not try to give the
Reader some idea of the man of genius of this unobtrusive type to whom I
have just alluded. Samuel Dale used to call himself 'an artist in life,'
and there could be no truer general phrase to describe George Muncaster
than that. His whole life possesses a singular unity, such as is the
most satisfying joy of a fine work