variety of good cheer, but he assimilates all that is best of his
fare, and he grows powerful, calm, able to endure heavy tasks. The
jaded creature of the clubs and the race-courses and the ball-room has
swift incessant variety until all things pall upon him. In time he
must begin with damaging stimulants before he can go on with the
interesting pursuits of each day. Every device is tried to tickle his
dead palate; but the succession of dainties is of no avail, for the
man cannot assimilate what is set before him, and he becomes soft of
muscle, devoid of nerve--a weed of civilisation. Are not the cases
analogous to those of the sound reverent student and the weary _blase_
skimmer of books? So, in sum, I say that, even if our enormous output
of printed matter goes on increasing, and if the number of readers
increases by millions, yet, so long as men read the thoughts of other
men not to search for instruction and high pleasure, but to search for
distraction and vain delirious excitement, then we are justified in
talking of the decline of literature. Far be it from me to say that
people should neglect the study of men and women and devote themselves
to the strained study of books alone. The mere bookman is always more
or less a dolt; but the wise reader who learns from the living voice
and visible actions of his fellow-creatures as well as from the dead
printed pages is on the way to placidity and strength and true wisdom.
Thus much I will say--the flippant devourer of books can neither be
wise nor strong nor useful; and it is his tribe who have discredited a
pursuit which once was noble and of good report.

IV.

COLOUR-BLINDNESS IN LITERATURE.

The singular phrase at the head of this Essay came to me from a
correspondent who wrote in great perplexity. This unhappy man was
quite miserable because he found that his own views of the
masterpieces of literature differed from those generally expressed;
his modesty prevented him from setting himself up in opposition to the
opinions of others, and he frankly asked, "Is there anything answering
to colour-blindness which may exist in the mind as regards
literature?" The absurd but felicitous inquiry took my fancy greatly,
and I resolved to examine the problem with care. In particular my
perturbed friend alluded to certain movements in modern criticism. He
cannot admire Shelley, yet he finds Shelley placed above Byron and
next to Shakspere; he reads a political poem by