most; and he will never fail her for an instant--he will never
even confess to himself in the loneliness of his own heart that there
is anything amiss. The severest criticism he will ever pass upon her
will be a half-hearted wish that she should exhibit the best side of
herself more consistently. And so I come at last to think that there
are many worse things in the world for a strong man than to be the
bulwark and fortress of a thoroughly inferior nature. He feels the
strain at first, because it is all so different from what he expected
and hoped. But he will soon grow used to that. And, after all, his wife
is both lovely and healthy; she will always be delightful to look at.
Indeed, if he can teach, her to hold her tongue, to listen instead of
rattling away, to smile with those pretty eyes of hers as if she
understood, to ask the simplest questions about other people's tastes
and preferences, instead of describing her own garden and poultry-yard,
she might pass for a delightful and even enchanting woman. But I fear
that neither he nor she are quite clever enough for that. I do not
personally envy my old friend; if I were in his position, the situation
would bring out the very worst side of my nature. But because I realise
how much better a fellow he is than myself, I believe that he has every
prospect of being a decidedly happy man.

XXXV

There are certain writers--men, too, of ability, humour, perspicacity,
with wide knowledge, lucidity of expression, firm intellectual grip,
genuine admirations, who really live among the things of the
mind--whose writings are almost wholly distressing to me, and affect me
exactly as the cry of an itinerant vendor in a quiet and picturesque
town affects me. It is an honest trade enough; he saves people a great
deal of trouble; he sells, no doubt, perfectly wholesome and
inexpensive things; but I am glad when he has turned the corner, and
when his raucous clamour is heard more faintly--glad when he is out of
sight, and still more when he is out of hearing. So with these authors;
if I take up one of their books, however brilliant and even true the
statements may be, I am sorry that the writer has laid hands upon a
thing I admire and value. He seems like a damp-handed auctioneer,
bawling in public, and pointing out the beauties of a mute and pathetic
statue.

I am thinking now of one writer in particular, a well-known man of
letters, a critic, essayist, and biographer; a man