ness of self, the tenderness of others, that are there
expressed and were practised on so great a scale in the life of its
writer, make this book a book quite by itself. No one can read it and
not be moved. Yet it scarcely or rarely appeals to the feelings--those
very mobile, those not very trusty parts of man. Its address lies
further back: its lesson comes more deeply home; when you have read, you
carry away with you a memory of the man himself; it is as though you had
touched a loyal hand, looked into brave eyes, and made a noble friend;
there is another bond on you thenceforward, binding you to life and to
the love of virtue.

Wordsworth should perhaps come next. Every one has been influenced by
Wordsworth, and it is hard to tell precisely how. A certain innocence, a
rugged austerity of joy, a sight of the stars, "the silence that is in
the lonely hills," something of the cold thrill of dawn, cling to his
work and give it a particular address to what is best in us. I do not
know that you learn a lesson; you need not--Mill did not--agree with any
one of his beliefs; and yet the spell is cast. Such are the best
teachers; a dogma learned is only a new error--the old one was perhaps
as good; but a spirit communicated is a perpetual possession. These best
teachers climb beyond teaching to the plane of art; it is themselves,
and what is best in themselves, that they communicate.

I should never forgive myself if I forgot "The Egoist." It is art, if
you like, but it belongs purely to didactic art, and from all the novels
I have read (and I have read thousands) stands in a place by itself.
Here is a Nathan for the modern David; here is a book to send the blood
into men's faces. Satire, the angry picture of human faults, is not
great art; we can all be angry with our neighbour; what we want is to be
shown, not his defects, of which we are too conscious, but his merits,
to which we are too blind. And "The Egoist" is a satire; so much must be
allowed; but it is a satire of a singular quality, which tells you
nothing of that obvious mote, which is engaged from first to last with
that invisible beam. It is yourself that is hunted down; these are your
own faults that are dragged into the day and numbered, with lingering
relish, with cruel cunning and precision. A young friend of Mr.
Meredith's (as I have the story) came to him in an agony. "This is too
bad of you," he cried. "Willoughby is me!" "No, my dear fellow," said
the aut