d be characteristic of so acute a critic. They do not
stick together naturally, but merely logically. And I am sure you would
not tolerate them from me. But of all the books you have given me I like
best George Santayana's _Poetry and Religion_. Who is he anyhow? It may be
a disgraceful admission to make, but I never heard of him before. His name
is foreign, and his style is not American. For when an American says a
daring thing, particularly of religion, he says it impudently, with a
vulgar bravado. But this man writes out his opinion coolly, simply, with
that fine hauteur that will not condescend to know of opposition. I think
that is admirable. Arnold's courtesy and satirical temperance in dealing
with what he discredits is a pose by the side of this man's mental grace
and courage. And you know how we usually denominate style: it is the
little lace-frilled petticoat of the lady novelist's mincing passions, or
the breeches that belong to a male author's mental respirations. But with
this man, style is a spirit sword which cleaves between delusions and
facts, which separates religion from reality and establishes it in our
upper consciousness of ideality.

Is it not absurd for such a barbarian as I am to discuss these
gospel-makers of literature with you? But it is much more remarkable that
one or any of them should excite my admiration and respect. Really, if you
must know it, Mr. Towers, this is where I grow humble-minded in your
presence. I am fascinated with your ability to deal with the usually
indefinable, the esoteric side of art,--the esoteric side of life by
interpretation. And here I discover a shadowy, ghostly likeness between
you and this George Santayana. You do not think toward the same ends, or
write in the same style, but you _know_ things alike, as if you had both
drunk from the same Eastern fountain of mysteries.

And now I am about to change my gratitude into indignation. For I begin to
suspect that you sent me these books to inculcate the doctrine of literary
humility. If so, you have succeeded beyond your highest expectations.
Until now, writing has been a series of desperate experiments with me. I
progressed by inspiration. But these fellows--Arnold especially--discredit
all such performances. And he does it with the air of an English gentleman
inspecting a naked cannibal. He makes my flesh creep! He regards an
inspiration as a sort of vulgarity that must be dressed and stretched
before it can be u