of art, considering which it never
occurs to one to think of the limitation of conditions or material. So
with his life, the shortness of man's 'term' is never felt; one could
win no completer effect with eternity than he with every day. Hurry and
false starts seem unknown in his round, and his little home is a
microcosm of the Golden Age.

It would even seem sometimes that he has an artistic rule over his
'accidents,' for 'surprises' have a wonderful knack of falling into the
general plan of his life, as though but waited for. Our first meeting
with him was a singular instance of this. I say 'our,' for Narcissus and
I chanced to be walking a holiday together at the time. It fell on this
wise. At Tewkesbury it was we had arrived, one dull September evening,
just in time to escape a wetting from a grey drizzle then imminent; and
in no very buoyant spirits we turned into _The Swan Inn_. A more dismal
coffee-room for a dismal evening could hardly be--gloomy, vast, and
thinly furnished. We entered sulkily, seeming the only occupants of the
sepulchre. However, there was a small book on the table facing the door,
sufficiently modern in appearance to catch one's eye and arouse a faint
ripple of interest. 'A Canterbury,' we cried. 'And a Whitman, more's the
wonder,' cried Narcissus, who had snatched it up. 'Why, some one's had
the sense, too, to cut out the abominable portrait. I wonder whose it
is. The owner must evidently have some right feeling.'

Then, before there was time for further exclamatory compliment of the
unknown, we were half-startled by the turning round of an arm-chair at
the far end of the room, and were aware of a manly voice of exquisite
quality asking, 'Do you know Whitman?'

And moving towards the speaker, we were for the first time face to face
with the strong and gentle George Muncaster, who since stands in our
little gallery of types as Whitman's Camarado and Divine Husband made
flesh. I wish, Reader, that I could make you see his face; but at best I
have little faith in pen portraits. It is comparatively easy to write a
graphic description of _a_ face; but when it has been read, has the
reader realised _the_ face? I doubt it, and am inclined to believe that
three different readers will carry away three different impressions even
from a really brilliant portrait. Laborious realism may, at least, I
think, be admitted as hopeless. The only chance is in a Meredithian
lightning-flash, and those fly but fr