works of fiction, meditation, or rhapsody; for
there it not only colours but itself chooses the facts; not only
modifies but shapes the work. And hence, over the far larger proportion
of the field of literature, the health or disease of the writer's mind
or momentary humour forms not only the leading feature of his work, but
is, at bottom, the only thing he can communicate to others. In all works
of art, widely speaking, it is first of all the author's attitude that
is narrated, though in the attitude there be implied a whole experience
and a theory of life. An author who has begged the question and reposes
in some narrow faith cannot, if he would, express the whole or even many
of the sides of this various existence; for, his own life being maim,
some of them are not admitted in his theory, and were only dimly and
unwillingly recognised in his experience. Hence the smallness, the
triteness, and the inhumanity in works of merely sectarian religion; and
hence we find equal although unsimilar limitations in works inspired by
the spirit of the flesh or the despicable taste for high society. So
that the first duty of any man who is to write is intellectual.
Designedly or not, he has so far set himself up for a leader of the
minds of men; and he must see that his own mind is kept supple,
charitable, and bright. Everything but prejudice should find a voice
through him; he should see the good in all things; where he has even a
fear that he does not wholly understand, there he should be wholly
silent; and he should recognise from the first that he has only one tool
in his workshop and that tool is sympathy.[28]

The second duty, far harder to define, is moral. There are a thousand
different humours in the mind, and about each of them, when it is
uppermost, some literature tends to be deposited. Is this to be
allowed? Not certainly in every case, and yet perhaps in more than
rigorists would fancy. It were to be desired that all literary work, and
chiefly works of art, issued from sound, human, healthy, and potent
impulses, whether grave or laughing, humorous, romantic, or religious.
Yet it cannot be denied that some valuable books are partially insane;
some, mostly religious, partially inhuman; and very many tainted with
morbidity and impotence. We do not loathe a masterpiece although we gird
against its blemishes. We are not, above all, to look for faults but
merits. There is no book perfect, even in design; but there are many