one bane of the world. Quack and Dupe, upper side and under
of the selfsame substance.

Chap. V. _Aristocracy of Talent_

All misery the fruit of unwisdom: Neither with individuals nor
with Nations is it fundamentally otherwise. Nature in late
centuries universally supposed to be dead; but now everywhere
asserting herself to be alive and miraculous. That guidance of
this country not sufficiently wise. Aristocracy of talent, or
government by the Wisest, a dreadfully difficult affair to get
started. The true _eye_ for talent; and the flunky eye for
respectabilities, warm garnitures and
larders dropping fatness: Bobus and Bobissimus.

Chap. VI. _Hero-worship_

Enlightened Egoism, never so luminous, not the rule by which
man's life can be led: A _soul,_ different from a stomach in any
sense of the word. Hero-worship done differently in every
different epoch of the world. Reform, like Charity, must begin
at home. Arrestment of the knaves and dastards, beginning by
arresting our own poor selves out of that fraternity. The
present Editor's purpose to himself full of hope. A Loadstar
in the eternal sky: glimmering of light, for here and there
a human soul.

Book II--The Ancient Monk

Chap. I. _Jocelin of Brakelond_

How the Centuries stand lineally related to each other. The one
Book not permissible, the kind that has nothing in it. Jocelin's
'Chronicle,' a private Boswellean Note-book, now seven centuries
old. How Jocelin, from under his monk's cowl, looked out on that
narrow section of the world in a really _human_ manner: A wise
simplicity in him; a _veracity_ that goes deeper than words.
Jocelin's Monk-Latin; and Mr. Rokewood's editorial helpfulness
and fidelity. A veritable Monk of old Bury St. Edmunds worth
attending to. This England of ours, of the year 1200: Coeur-de-
Lion: King Lackland, and his thirteenpenny mass. The poorest
historical Fact, and the grandest imaginative Fiction.

Chap. II. _St. Edmundsbury_

St. Edmund's Bury, a prosperous brisk Town: Extensive ruins of
the Abbey still visible. Assiduous Pedantry, and its rubbish-
heaps called 'History.' Another world it was, when those black
ruins first saw the sun as walls. At lowest, O dilettante
friend, let us know always that it _was_ a world. No easy matter
to get across the chasm of Seven Centuries: Of all helps; a
Boswell, even a small Boswell, the welcomest.

Chap. III. _Landlord Edmund_

'B