there will come moods of discouragement to all authors, when
they will ask themselves, as even Tennyson confesses that he was
tempted to do, what, after all, it amounts to? The author must beware
of rating his own possibilities too high. In looking back at one's own
life, in trying to trace what are the things that have had a deep and
permanent influence on one's character, how rarely is it possible to
point to a particular book, and say, "That book gave me the message I
most needed, made me take the right turn, gave me the requisite bias,
the momentous impulse"? We tend to want to do things on too large a
scale, to affect great masses of people, to influence numerous hearts.
An author should be more than content if he finds he has made a
difference to a handful of people, or given innocent pleasure to a
small company. Only to those whose heart is high, whose patience is
inexhaustible, whose vigour is great, whose emotion is passionate, is
it given to make a deep mark upon the age; and there is needed too the
magical charm of personality, overflowing in "thoughts that breathe and
words that burn." But we can all take a hand in the great game; and if
the leading parts are denied us, if we are told off to sit among a row
of supers, drinking and whispering on a bench, while the great
characters soliloquize, let us be sure that we drain our empty cup with
zest, and do our whispering with intentness; not striving to divert
attention to ourselves, but contributing with all our might to the
naturalness, the effectiveness of the scene.

XI

THE CRITICISM OF OTHERS

I was staying the other day in the house of an old friend, a public
man, who is a deeply interesting character, energetic, able, vigorous,
with very definite limitations. The only male guest in the house, it so
happened, was also an old friend of mine, a serious man. One night,
when we were all three in the smoking-room, our host rose, and excused
himself, saying that he had some letters to write. When he was gone, I
said to my serious friend: "What an interesting fellow our host is! He
is almost more interesting because of the qualities that he does not
possess, than because of the qualities that he does possess." My
companion, who is remarkable for his power of blunt statement, looked
at me gravely, and said: "If you propose to discuss our host, you must
find some one else to conduct the argument; he is my friend, whom I
esteem and love, and I am not in