ations,' why our duty to them is to him
'the cry of the conscience of life,' or why, as he studies Earth, he
maintains that--

"'Deepest at her springs,
Most filial, is an eye to love her young.'"

"But Meredith, if a true poet, is also and undeniably a hard one: and a
poet must not only preach but persuade. 'He dooth not only show the way,'
says Sidney, 'but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way as will intice
any man to enter into it.'

"Here, my dear X, I lay hands on you and drag you in as the Conscientious
Objector. 'How?' you will ask. 'Is not the plain truth good enough for
men? And if poetry must win acceptance for her by beautiful adornments,
alluring images, captivating music, is there not something deceptive in
the business, even if it be not downright dishonest?' Well, I think you
have a right to be answered."

"Thank you," said X.

"And I don't think you are convincingly answered by Keats'--

"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

"With all respect to the poet, we don't know it; and if we did it would
come a long way short of all we need to know. The Conscientious Objector
will none the less maintain that truth and beauty have never been
recognised as identical, and that, in practice, to employ their names as
convertible terms would lead to no end of confusion. I like the man (you
will be glad to hear), because on an important subject he will be
satisfied with nothing less than clear thinking. My own suspicion is
that, when we have yielded him the inquiry which is his due into the
relations between truth and beauty, we shall discover that spiritual
truth--with which alone poetry concerns itself--is less a matter of
ascertained facts than of ascertained harmonies, and that these harmonies
are incapable of being expressed otherwise than in beautiful terms.
But pending our inquiry (which must be a long one) let us put to the
objector a practical question: 'What forbids a man, who has the truth to
tell, from putting it as persuasively as possible? Were not the truths of
the Gospel conveyed in parables? And is their truth diminished because
these parables are exquisite in form and in language? Will you only
commend persuasiveness in a sophist who engages to make the worst argument
appear the better, and condemn it in a teacher who employs it to enforce
truth?' The question, surely, is answered as soon as we