of　failure。　　This　is　time。　　To　gain　time　requires　so　little　wit
  that；　except　for　competition；　every　one　could　be　first　at　the　game。
  In　fact；　time　gains　itself。　　The　actor　is　really　not　called　upon　to
  do　anything。　　There　is　nothing；　accordingly；　for　which　our　actors
  and　actresses　do　not　rely　upon　time。　　For　humour　even；　when　the
  humour　occurs　in　tragedy；　they　appeal　to　time。　　They　give　blanks　to
  their　audiences　to　be　filled　up。
  It　might　be　possible　to　have　tragedies　written　from　beginning　to　end
  for　the　service　of　the　present　kind　of　〃art。〃　　But　the　tragedies　we
  have　are　not　so　written。　　And　being　what　they　are；　it　is　not
  vivacity　that　they　lose　by　this　length　of　pause；　this　length　of
  phrasing；　this　illimitable　tiresomeness；　it　is　life　itself。　　For　the
  life　of　a　scene　conceived　directly　is　its　directness；　the　life　of　a
  scene　created　simply　is　its　simplicity。　　And　simplicity；　directness；
  impetus；　emotion；　nature　fall　out　of　the　trailing；　loose；　long
  dialogue；　like　fish　from　the　loose　meshes　of　a　net　…　they　fall　out；
  they　drift　off；　they　are　lost。
  The　universal　slowness；　moreover；　is　not　good　for　metre。　　Even　when
  an　actress　speaks　her　lines　as　lines；　and　does　not　drop　into　prose
  by　slipping　here　and　there　a　syllable；　she　spoils　the　tempo　by
  inordinate　length　of　pronunciation。　　Verse　cannot　keep　upon　the　wing
  without　a　certain　measure　in　the　movement　of　the　pinion。　　Verse　is　a
  flight。
  GRASS
  Now　and　then；　at　regular　intervals　of　the　summer；　the　Suburb　springs
  for　a　time　from　its　mediocrity；　but　an　inattentive　eye　might　not　see
  why；　or　might　not　seize　the　cause　of　the　bloom　and　of　the　new　look
  of　humility　and　dignity　that　makes　the　Road；　the　Rise；　and　the
  Villas　seem　suddenly　gentle；　gay　and　rather　shy。
  It　is　no　change　in　the　gardens。　　These　are；　as　usual；　full；
  abundant；　fragrant；　and　quite　uninteresting；　keeping　the　traditional
  secret　by　which　the　suburban　rose；　magnolia；　clematis；　and　all　other
  flowers　grow　dull　…　not　in　colour；　but　in　spirit　…　between　the
  yellow　brick　house…front　and　the　iron　railings。　　Nor　is　there
  anything　altered　for　the　better　in　the　houses　themselves。
  Nevertheless；　the　little；　common；　prosperous　road；　has　bloomed；　you
  cannot　tell　how。　　It　is　unexpectedly　liberal；　fresh；　and　innocent。
  The　soft　garden…winds　that　rustle　its　shrubs　are；　for　the　moment；
  genuine。
  Another　day　and　all　is　undone。　　The　Rise　is　its　daily　self　again　…　a
  road　of　flowers　and　foliage　that　is　less　pleasant　than　a　fairly
  well…built　street。　　And　if　you　happen　to　find　the　men　at　work　on　the
  re…transformation；　you　become　aware　of　the　accident　that　made　all
  this　difference。　　It　lay　in　the　little　border　of　wayside　grass　which
  a　row　of　public　servants　…　men　with　spades　and　a　cart　…　are　in　the
  act　of　tidying　up。　　Their　way　of　tidying　it　up　is　to　lay　its　little
  corpse　all　along　the　suburban　roadside；　and　then　to　carry　it　away　to
  some　parochial　dust…heap。
  But　for　the　vigilance　of　Vestries；　grass　would　reconcile　everything。
  When　the　first　heat　of　the　summer　was　over；　a　few　nights　of　rain
  altered　all　the　colour　of　the　world。　　It　had　been　the　brown　and
  russet　of　drought　…　very　beautiful　in　landscape；　but　lifeless；　it
  became　a　translucent；　profound；　and　eager　green。　　The　citizen　does
  not　spend　attention　on　it。
  Why；　then；　is　his　vestry　so　alert；　so　apprehensive；　so　swift；　in
  perception　so　instant；　in　execution　so　prompt；　so　silent　in　action；
  so　punctual　in　destruction？　　The　vestry　keeps；　as　it　were；　a　tryst
  with　the　grass。　　The　〃sunny　spots　of　greenery〃　are　given　just　time
  enough　to　grow　and　be　conspicuous；　and　the　barrow　is　there；　true　to
  time；　and　the　spade。　　（To　call　that　spade　a　spade　hardly　seems
  enough。）
  For　the　gracious　grass　of　the　summer　has　not　been　content　within
  enclosures。　　It　has　…　or　would　have　…　cheered　up　and　sweetened
  everything。　　Over　asphalte　it　could　not　prevail；　and　it　has　prettily
  yielded　to　asphalte；　taking　leave　to　live　and　let　live。　　It　has
  taken　the　little　strip　of　ground　next　to　the　asphalte；　between　this
  and　the　kerb；　and　again　the　refuse　of　ground　between　the　kerb　and
  the　roadway。　　The　man　of　business　walking　to　the　station　with　a　bag
  could　have　his　asphalte　all　unbroken；　and　the　butcher's　boy　in　his
  cart　was　not　annoyed。　　The　grass　seemed　to　respect　everybody's
  views；　and　to　take　only　what　nobody　wanted。　　But　these　gay　and　lowly
  ways　will　not　escape　a　vestry。
  There　is　no　wall　so　impregnable　or　so　vulgar；　but　a　summer's　grass
  will　attempt　it。　　It　will　try　to　persuade　the　yellow　brick；　to　win
  the　purple　slate；　to　reconcile　stucco。　　Outside　the　authority　of　the
  suburbs　it　has　put　a　luminous　touch　everywhere。　　The　thatch　of
  cottages　has　given　it　an　opportunity。　　It　has　perched　and　alighted
  in　showers　and　flocks。　　It　has　crept　and　crawled；　and　stolen　its
  hour。　　It　has　made　haste　between　the　ruts　of　cart　wheels；　so　they
  were　not　too　frequent。　　It　has　been　stealthy　in　a　good　cause；　and
  bold　out　of　reach。　　It　has　been　the　most　defiant　runaway；　and　the
  meekest　lingerer。　　It　has　been　universal；　ready　and　potential　in
  every　place；　so　that　the　happy　country　…　village　and　field　alike　…
  has　been　all　grass；　with　mere　exceptions。
  And　all　this　the　grass　does　in　spite　of　the　ill…treatment　it　suffers
  at　the　hands；　and　mowing…machines；　and　vestries　of　man。　　His　ideal
  of　grass　is　growth　that　shall　never　be　allowed　to　come　to　its　flower
  and　completion。　　He　proves　this　in　his　lawns。　　Not　only　does　he　cut
  the　coming　grass…flower　off　by　the　stalk；　but　he　does　not　allow　the
  mere　leaf　…　the　blade　…　to　perfect　itself。　　He　will　not　have　it　a
  〃blade〃　at　all；　he　cuts　its　top　away　as　never　sword　or　sabre　was
  shaped。　　All　the　beauty　of　a　blade　of　grass　is　that　the　organic
  shape　has　the　intention　of　ending　in　a　point。　　Surely　no　one　at　all
  aware　of　the　beauty　of　lines　ought　to　be　ignorant　of　the
  significance　and　grace　of　manifest　intention；　which　rules　a　living
  line　from　its　beginning；　even　though　the　intention　be　towards　a
  point　while　the　first　spring　of　the　line　is　towards　an　opening
  curve。　　But　man　does　not　care　for　intention；　he　mows　it。　　Nor　does
  he　care　for　attitude；　he　rolls　it。　　In　a　word；　he　proves　to　the
  grass；　as　plainly　as　deeds　can　do　so；　that　it　is　not　to　his　mind。
  The　rolling；　especially；　seems　to　be　a　violent　way　of　showing　that
  the　universal　grass　interrupted　by　the　life　of　the　Englishman　is　not
  as　he　would　have　it。　　Besides；　when　he　wishes　to　deride　a　city；　he
  calls　it　grass…grown。
  But　his　suburbs　shall　not；　if　he　can　help　it；　be　grass…grown。　　They
  shall　not　be　like　a　mere　Pisa。　　Highgate　shall　not　so；　nor　Peckham。
  A　WOMAN　IN　GREY
  The　mothers　of　Professors　were　indulged　in　the　practice　of　jumping
  at　conclusions；　and　were　praised　for　their　impatience　of　the　slow
  process　of　reason。
  Professors　have　written　of　the　mental　habits　of　women　as　though　they
  accumulated　generation　by　generation　upon　women；　and　passed　over
  their　sons。　　Professors　take　it　for　granted；　obviously　by　some
  process　other　than　the　slow　process　of　reason；　that　women　derive
  from　their　mothers　and　grandmothers；　and　men　from　their　fathers　and
  grandfathers。　　This；　for　instance；　was　written　lately：　〃This　power
  ＇it　matters　not　what＇　would　be　about　equal　in　the　two　sexes　but　for
  the　influence　of　heredity；　which　turns　the　scale　in　favour　of　the
  woman；　as　for　long　generations　the　surroundings　and　conditions　of
  life　of　the　female　sex　have　developed　in　her　a　greater　degree　of　the
  power　in　question　than　circumstances　have　required　from　men。〃　　〃Long
  generations〃　of　subjection　are；　strangely　enough；　held　to　excuse　the
  timorousness　and　the　shifts　of　women　to…day。　　But　the　world；
  unknowing；　tampers　with　the　courage　of　its　sons　by　such　a　slovenly
  indulgence。　　It　tampers　with　their　intelligence　by　fostering　the
  ignorance　of　women。
  And　yet　Shakespeare　confessed　the　participation　of　man　and　woman　in
  their　common　heritage。　　It　is　Cassius　who　speaks：
  〃Have　you　not　love　enough　to　bear　with　me
  When　that　rash　humour　which　my　mother　gave　me
  Makes　me　forgetful？〃
  And　Brutus　who　replies：
  〃Yes；　Cassius；　and　from　henceforth
  When　you　are　over…earnest　with　your　Brutus
  He'll　think　your　mother　chides；　and　leave　you　so。〃
  Dryden　confessed　it　also　in　his　praises　of　Anne　Killigrew：
  〃If　by　traduction　came　thy　mind；
  Our　wonder　is　the　less　to　find
  A　soul　so　charming　from　a　stock　so　good。
  Thy　father　was　transfused　into　thy　blood。〃
  The　winning　of　Waterloo　upon　the　Eton　playgrounds　is　very　well；　but
  there　have　been　some　other；　and　happily　minor；　fields　that　were　not
  won　…　that　were　more　or　less　lost。　　Where　did　this　loss　take　place；
  if　the　gains　were　secured　at　football？　　This　inquiry　is　not　quite　so
  cheerful　as　the　other。　　But　while　the　victories　were　once　going
  forward　in　the　playground；　the　defeats　or　disasters　were　once　going
  forward　in　some　other　pl