g himself to call "creative," though he did not mind others calling
it so. Whatever had been the shortcomings of the conventional reports
upon his work, it was his glad experience that nothing he said or meant,
not the slightest intention or airiest intimation in his books, was ever
wholly lost. Somewhere, some one, somehow had caught it, liked it,
remembered it, and had by a happy inspiration written him of it, it
might be diffident, it might be confident, of his pleasure in the
recognition.

Such recognition was always more precious than the reports of the
conventional critics, though if these were favorable the author was glad
of them, as of any good that the gods gave. But what struck Eugenio was
that such recognition was the real, the very, the vital criticism, and
that if it could be evoked in behalf of others, in its sincerity, it
might be helpful to the cause of literature far beyond anything that the
courts of criticism could do or effect in its behalf. After all, as he
said to himself, an author wrote for his readers and not for his
critics, for pleasure and not for judgment; and if he could be assured
publicly, as he sometimes was assured privately, that nothing he did was
lost, he might be encouraged to keep on doing his best. Why, indeed,
should not there be a critical journal embodying in a species of
fragrant bouquet the flowers of thought and emotion springing up in the
brains and bosoms of readers responsive to the influence of a new book?
Such readers would have only to suppose themselves addressing the author
direct, and the thing could be done. It might be done in another way by
the authors contributing the praises privately sent him. In a time when
personal letters to authors are constantly quoted in advertisements,
this might not seem so immodest as in some earlier literary condition.

In the mean time the question of what shall be done for veteran authors
who are always breaking new ground still remains, and it is complicated
by a fact of psychological import for the reader as well as the author.
What first gives an author his hold upon the reader is not the novelty
of his theme, but a pleasing, it may be a painfully pleasing, quality
which in its peculiar variation must be called his personal quality. It
is the sense of this in each of his successive books which deepens his
hold upon the reader, and not the style, or the characters, or the
intrigue. As long as this personal quality delights, he i