friends　should　nurse　the　germ　of　incipient　madness　than　that　I
  should　turn　into　a　writer　of　tales。
  To　survey　with　wonder　the　changes　of　one's　own　self　is　a
  fascinating　pursuit　for　idle　hours。　　The　field　is　so　wide；　the
  surprises　so　varied；　the　subject　so　full　of　unprofitable　but
  curious　hints　as　to　the　work　of　unseen　forces；　that　one　does　not
  weary　easily　of　it。　　I　am　not　speaking　here　of　megalomaniacs　who
  rest　uneasy　under　the　crown　of　their　unbounded　conceitwho
  really　never　rest　in　this　world；　and　when　out　of　it　go　on
  fretting　and　fuming　on　the　straitened　circumstances　of　their　last
  habitation；　where　all　men　must　lie　in　obscure　equality。　　Neither
  am　I　thinking　of　those　ambitious　minds　who；　always　looking
  forward　to　some　aim　of　aggrandisement；　can　spare　no　time　for　a
  detached；　impersonal　glance　upon　themselves。
  And　that's　a　pity。　　They　are　unlucky。　　These　two　kinds；　together
  with　the　much　larger　band　of　the　totally　unimaginative；　of　those
  unfortunate　beings　in　whose　empty　and　unseeing　gaze　（as　a　great
  French　writer　has　put　it）　〃the　whole　universe　vanishes　into　blank
  nothingness；〃　miss；　perhaps；　the　true　task　of　us　men　whose　day　is
  short　on　this　earth；　the　abode　of　conflicting　opinions。　　The
  ethical　view　of　the　universe　involves　us　at　last　in　so　many　cruel
  and　absurd　contradictions；　where　the　last　vestiges　of　faith；
  hope；　charity；　and　even　of　reason　itself；　seem　ready　to　perish；
  that　I　have　come　to　suspect　that　the　aim　of　creation　cannot　be
  ethical　at　all。　　I　would　fondly　believe　that　its　object　is　purely
  spectacular：　　a　spectacle　for　awe；　love；　adoration；　or　hate；　if
  you　like；　but　in　this　viewand　in　this　view　alonenever　for
  despair！　　Those　visions；　delicious　or　poignant；　are　a　moral　end
  in　themselves。　　The　rest　is　our　affairthe　laughter；　the　tears；
  the　tenderness；　the　indignation；　the　high　tranquillity　of　a
  steeled　heart；　the　detached　curiosity　of　a　subtle　mindthat's
  our　affair！　　And　the　unwearied　self…forgetful　attention　to　every
  phase　of　the　living　universe　reflected　in　our　consciousness　may
  be　our　appointed　task　on　this　earth。　　A　task　in　which　fate　has
  perhaps　engaged　nothing　of　us　except　our　conscience；　gifted　with
  a　voice　in　order　to　bear　true　testimony　to　the　visible　wonder；
  the　haunting　terror；　the　infinite　passion　and　the　illimitable
  serenity；　to　the　supreme　law　and　the　abiding　mystery　of　the
  sublime　spectacle。
  Chi　lo　sa？　　It　may　be　true。　　In　this　view　there　is　room　for　every
  religion　except　for　the　inverted　creed　of　impiety；　the　mask　and
  cloak　of　arid　despair；　for　every　joy　and　every　sorrow；　for　every
  fair　dream；　for　every　charitable　hope。　　The　great　aim　is　to
  remain　true　to　the　emotions　called　out　of　the　deep　encircled　by
  the　firmament　of　stars；　whose　infinite　numbers　and　awful
  distances　may　move　us　to　laughter　or　tears　（was　it　the　Walrus　or
  the　Carpenter；　in　the　poem；　who　〃wept　to　see　such　quantities　of
  sand〃？）；　or；　again；　to　a　properly　steeled　heart；　may　matter
  nothing　at　all。
  The　casual　quotation；　which　had　suggested　itself　out　of　a　poem
  full　of　merit；　leads　me　to　remark　that　in　the　conception　of　a
  purely　spectacular　universe；　where　inspiration　of　every　sort　has
  a　rational　existence；　the　artist　of　every　kind　finds　a　natural
  place；　and　amongst　them　the　poet　as　the　seer　par　excellence。
  Even　the　writer　of　prose；　who　in　his　less　noble　and　more　toilsome
  task　should　be　a　man　with　the　steeled　heart；　is　worthy　of　a
  place；　providing　he　looks　on　with　undimmed　eyes　and　keeps
  laughter　out　of　his　voice；　let　who　will　laugh　or　cry。　　Yes！　　Even
  he；　the　prose　artist　of　fiction；　which　after　all　is　but　truth
  often　dragged　out　of　a　well　and　clothed　in　the　painted　robe　of
  imaged　phraseseven　he　has　his　place　amongst　kings；　demagogues；
  priests；　charlatans；　dukes；　giraffes；　Cabinet　Ministers；　Fabians；
  bricklayers；　apostles；　ants；　scientists；　Kaffirs；　soldiers；
  sailors；　elephants；　lawyers；　dandies；　microbes　and　constellations
  of　a　universe　whose　amazing　spectacle　is　a　moral　end　in　itself。
  Here　I　perceive　（speaking　without　offence）　the　reader　assuming　a
  subtle　expression；　as　if　the　cat　were　out　of　the　bag。　　I　take　the
  novelist's　freedom　to　observe　the　reader's　mind　formulating　the
  exclamation；　〃That's　it！　　The　fellow　talks　pro　domo。〃
  Indeed　it　was　not　the　intention！　　When　I　shouldered　the　bag　I　was
  not　aware　of　the　cat　inside。　　But；　after　all；　why　not？　　The　fair
  courtyards　of　the　House　of　Art　are　thronged　by　many　humble
  retainers。　　And　there　is　no　retainer　so　devoted　as　he　who　is
  allowed　to　sit　on　the　doorstep。　　The　fellows　who　have　got　inside
  are　apt　to　think　too　much　of　themselves。　　This　last　remark；　I　beg
  to　state；　is　not　malicious　within　the　definition　of　the　law　of
  libel。　　It's　fair　comment　on　a　matter　of　public　interest。　　But
  never　mind。　　Pro　domo。　　So　be　it。　　For　his　house　tant　que　vous
  voudrez。　　And　yet　in　truth　I　was　by　no　means　anxious　to　justify
  my　existence。　　The　attempt　would　have　been　not　only　needless　and
  absurd；　but　almost　inconceivable；　in　a　purely　spectacular
  universe；　where　no　such　disagreeable　necessity　can　possibly
  arise。　　It　is　sufficient　for　me　to　say　（and　I　am　saying　it　at
  some　length　in　these　pages）：　　〃J'ai　vecu。〃　　I　have　existed；
  obscure　amongst　the　wonders　and　terrors　of　my　time；　as　the　Abbe
  Sieyes；　the　original　utterer　of　the　quoted　words；　had　managed　to
  exist　through　the　violences；　the　crimes；　and　the　enthusiasms　of
  the　French　Revolution。　　〃J'ai　vecu〃；　as　I　apprehend　most　of　us
  manage　to　exist；　missing　all　along　the　varied　forms　of
  destruction　by　a　hair's…breadth；　saving　my　body；　that's　clear；
  and　perhaps　my　soul　also；　but　not　without　some　damage　here　and
  there　to　the　fine　edge　of　my　conscience；　that　heirloom　of　the
  ages；　of　the　race；　of　the　group；　of　the　family；　colourable　and
  plastic；　fashioned　by　the　words；　the　looks；　the　acts；　and　even　by
  the　silences　and　abstentions　surrounding　one's　childhood；　tinged
  in　a　complete　scheme　of　delicate　shades　and　crude　colours　by　the
  inherited　traditions；　beliefs；　or　prejudicesunaccountable；
  despotic；　persuasive；　and　often；　in　its　texture；　romantic。
  And　often　romantic！。　。　。The　matter　in　hand；　however；　is　to　keep
  these　reminiscences　from　turning　into　confessions；　a　form　of
  literary　activity　discredited　by　Jean　Jacques　Rousseau　on　account
  of　the　extreme　thoroughness　he　brought　to　the　work　of　justifying
  his　own　existence；　for　that　such　was　his　purpose　is　palpably；
  even　grossly；　visible　to　an　unprejudiced　eye。　　But　then；　you　see；
  the　man　was　not　a　writer　of　fiction。　　He　was　an　artless　moralist；
  as　is　clearly　demonstrated　by　his　anniversaries　being　celebrated
  with　marked　emphasis　by　the　heirs　of　the　French　Revolution；　which
  was　not　a　political　movement　at　all；　but　a　great　outburst　of
  morality。　　He　had　no　imagination；　as　the　most　casual　perusal　of
  〃Emile〃　will　prove。　　He　was　no　novelist；　whose　first　virtue　is
  the　exact　understanding　of　the　limits　traced　by　the　reality　of
  his　time　to　the　play　of　his　invention。　　Inspiration　comes　from
  the　earth；　which　has　a　past；　a　history；　a　future；　not　from　the
  cold　and　immutable　heaven。　　A　writer　of　imaginative　prose　（even
  more　than　any　other　sort　of　artist）　stands　confessed　in　his
  works。　　His　conscience；　his　deeper　sense　of　things；　lawful　and
  unlawful；　gives　him　his　attitude　before　the　world。　　Indeed；　every
  one　who　puts　pen　to　paper　for　the　reading　of　strangers　（unless　a
  moralist；　who；　generally　speaking；　has　no　conscience　except　the
  one　he　is　at　pains　to　produce　for　the　use　of　others）　can　speak　of
  nothing　else。　　It　is　M。　Anatole　France；　the　most　eloquent　and
  just　of　French　prose　writers；　who　says　that　we　must　recognise　at
  last　that；　〃failing　the　resolution　to　hold　our　peace；　we　can　only
  talk　of　ourselves。〃
  This　remark；　if　I　remember　rightly；　was　made　in　the　course　of　a
  sparring　match　with　the　late　Ferdinand　Brunetiere　over　the
  principles　and　rules　of　literary　criticism。　　As　was　fitting　for　a
  man　to　whom　we　owe　the　memorable　saying；　〃The　good　critic　is　he
  who　relates　the　adventures　of　his　soul　amongst　masterpieces；〃　M。
  Anatole　France　maintained　that　there　were　no　rules　and　no
  principles。　　And　that　may　be　very　true。　　Rules；　principles　and
  standards　die　and　vanish　every　day。　　Perhaps　they　are　all　dead
  and　vanished　by　this　time。　　These；　if　ever；　are　the　brave；　free
  days　of　destroyed　landmarks；　while　the　ingenious　minds　are　busy
  inventing　the　forms　of　the　new　beacons　whic