of on its old worn-out poles;--none of
them to be works of genius;--none of them to be, more than all true work
_must_ be, pious;--and none to be, beyond the power of common people's
eyes,[16] ears, and noses, 'aesthetic.' They tell you that the world is _so_
big, and can't be made bigger--that you yourself are also so big, and can't
be made bigger, however you puff or bloat yourself; but that, on modern
mental nourishment, you may very easily be made smaller. They tell you that
two and two are four, that ginger is hot in the mouth, that roses are red,
and smuts black. Not themselves assuming to be pious, they yet assure you
that there is such a thing as piety in the world, and that it is wiser than
impiety; and not themselves pretending to be works of genius, they yet
assure you that there is such a thing as genius in the world, and that it
is meant for the light and delight of the world.

8. Into these repetitions of remarks on my work, often made before, I have
been led by an unlucky author who has just sent me his book, advising me
that it is "neither critical nor sentimental" (he had better have said in
plain English "without either judgment or feeling"), and in which nearly
the first sentence I read is--"Solomon with all his acuteness was not wise
enough to ... etc., etc., etc." ('give the Jews the British constitution,'
I believe the man means.) He is not a whit more conceited than Mr. Herbert
Spencer, or Mr. Goldwin Smith, or Professor Tyndall,--or any lively London
apprentice out on a Sunday; but this general superciliousness with respect
to Solomon, his Proverbs, and his politics, characteristic of the modern
Cockney, Yankee, and Anglicised Scot, is a difficult thing to deal with for
us of the old school, who were well whipped when we were young; and have
been in the habit of occasionally ascertaining our own levels as we grew
older, and of recognizing that, here and there, somebody stood higher, and
struck harder.

9. A difficult thing to deal with, I feel more and more, hourly, even to
the point of almost ceasing to write; not only every feeling I have, but,
of late, even _every word I use_, being alike inconceivable to the
insolence, and unintelligible amidst the slang, of the modern London
writers. Only in the last magazine I took up, I found an article by Mr.
Goldwin Smith on the Jews (of which the gist--as far as it had any--was
that we had better give up reading the Bible), and in the text of which I
f