anything else. I
would rather be Charles Lamb than Charles XII. I would rather be
remembered by a song than by a victory. I would rather build a fine
sonnet than have built St. Paul's. I would rather be the discoverer of a
new image than the discoverer of a new planet. Fine phrases I value more
than bank notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of
words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.

But what of the literary life? How fares it with the men whose days and
nights are devoted to the writing of books? We know the famous men of
letters; we give them the highest place in our regards; we crown them
with laurels so thickly that we hide the furrows on their foreheads. Yet
we must remember that there are men of letters who have been equally
sanguine, equally ardent, who have pursued perfection equally
unselfishly, but who have failed to make themselves famous. We know the
ships that come with streaming pennons into the immortal ports; we know
but little of the ships that have gone on fire on the way thither,--that
have gone down at sea. Even with successful men we cannot know precisely
how matters have gone. We read the fine raptures of the poet, but we do
not know into what kind of being he relapses when the inspiration is
over, any more than, seeing and hearing the lark shrilling at the gate of
heaven, we know with what effort it has climbed thither, or into what
kind of nest it must descend. The lark is not always singing; no more is
the poet. The lark is only interesting _while_ singing; at other times
it is but a plain brown bird. We may not be able to recognise the poet
when he doffs his singing robes; he may then sink to the level of his
admirers. We laugh at the fancies of the humourists, but he may have
written his brilliant things in a dismal enough mood. The writer is not
continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies of life, he is not
continually uttering generous sentiments, and saying fine things. On
him, as on his brethren, the world presses with its prosaic needs. He
has to make love and marry, and run the usual matrimonial risks. The
income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around his head at
Christmas-times drives a snow-storm of bills. He must keep the wolf from
the door, and he has only his goose-quills to confront it with. And here
it is, having to deal with alien powers, that his special temperament
comes into play, and may work h