is
to be trusted in state-craft until he can show a stomach. A lack of
stomach betokens lack of mental solidity, of humanity, of capacity for
going through with things; and these three qualities are essential to
statesmanship. Poets and philosophers can afford to be thin--cannot,
indeed, afford to be otherwise; inasmuch as poetry and philosophy
thrive but in the clouds aloft, and a stomach ballasts you to earth.
Such ballast the statesman must have. Thin statesmen may destroy, but
construct they cannot; have achieved chaos, but cosmos never.

But why prate history, why evoke phantoms of the past, when we can gaze
on this exquisitely concrete thing--this glad and simple creature of
Hokusai? Let us emulate his calm, enjoy his enjoyment as he sprawls
before us--pinguis, iners, placidus--in the pale twilight. Let us not
seek to identify him as god or mortal, nor guess his character from his
form. Rather, let us take him as he is; for all time the perfect type
of fatness.

Lovely and excessive monster! Monster immensurable! What belt could
inclip you? What blade were long enough to prick the heart of you?

'THE VISIT'

A PAINTING BY GEORGE MORLAND, IN THE HERTFORD HOUSE COLLECTION

Never, I suppose, was a painter less maladif in his work than Morland,
that lover of simple and sun-bright English scenes. Probably, this
picture of his is all cheerful in intention. Yet the effect of it is
saddening.

Superficially, the scene is cheerful enough. Our first impression is of
a happy English home, of childish high-spirits and pretty manners. We
note how genial a lady is the visitor, and how eager the children are
to please. One of them trips respectfully forward--a wave of yellow
curls fresh and crisp from the brush, a rustle of white muslin fresh
and crisp from the wash. She is supported on one side by her grown-up
sister, on the other by her little brother, who displays the nectarine
already given to him by the kind lady. Splendid in far-reaching
furbelows, that kind lady holds out both her hands, beaming
encouragement. On her ample lap is a little open basket with other ripe
nectarines in it--one for every child.

Modest, demure, the girl trips forward as though she were dancing a
quadrille. In the garden, just beyond the threshold, stand two smaller
sisters, shyly awaiting their turn. They, too, are in their
Sunday-best, and on the tiptoe of excitement--infant coryphe'es, in
whom, as they stand at the wings, stage-f