ally and unconsciously like the gentleman who
discovered he had been doing it all his life, but professionally.
Consider the immense output of novels--but no, do not let us consider
anything so surprising and perplexing. The novel, that most exacting
problem in the sublimation of the history of our kind, not to be solved
with ease, it now appears may be handled by children as a profitable
pastime. Children, of course, should be taught to express themselves in
writing, and simply, lucidly, and with sincerity. Yet all editors know
the delusion is common with beginners in journalism that the essay, a
form in which perhaps only six writers have been successful in the
history of English letters, is but a prelude to serious work, a holiday
before the realities have begun. They all attempt it. Every editorial
letter-box is loaded with essays every morning. Yet the love of learning,
and wisdom and humour, are not usual, and the gods still more rarely give
with these gifts the ability to express them in the written word; and how
often may we count on learning, wisdom, and humour being not only
reflected through a delightful and original character, but miraculously
condensed into the controlled display of a bright and revealing beam? It
is no wonder we have but six essayists!

There is no doubt about it. If we mean by prose much more than the
sincere and lucid written expression of our desires and opinions, it is
because beyond that simplicity we know the thrill which is sometimes
given by a revelation of beauty and significance in common words and
tidings. The best writing must come of a gift for making magic out of
what are but commodities to us, and that gift is not distributed by the
generous gods from barrows which go the round of the neighbourhoods where
many babies are born, as are faith, hope, and credulity, those virtues
that cause the enormous circulations of the picture papers, and form the
ready material for the careers of statesmen and the glory of famous
soldiers. It is more unusual. We see it as often as we do comets and
signs in the heavens, a John in the Wilderness again, pastors who would
die for their lambs, women who contemn the ritual and splendour of
man-slaying, and a politician never moved by the enticements of a
successful career. It is therefore likely that when we see great prose
for the first time we may not know it, and may not enjoy it. It can be so
disrespectful to what we think is good. It may be ev