lowers, to be fancifully cognisant of "the
music of the spheres"; better this with only a garret for your
environment, than to be a wealthy Peter Bell in a palace, or a lord of
many acres who sees nothing beyond its intrinsic value in a Turner, and
finds Shelley poor stuff and Tennyson only a rhymster. It is the
artistic temperament that lives up to the glories of Nature, and
understands the parables; and you need not be a writing poet to have it.
There is many a poet who never wrote a line, many a romancist who never
contributed to a magazine. The ploughboy whistling behind his team, the
gardener lovingly pruning his vines, the angler sitting in the shade of
summer trees, even the playgoer craning his neck over the gallery and
failing to catch the last words of Hamlet on the stage, may be blessed
with something of "the divine afflatus," to be born utterly without
which is to require at the Maker's hands a compensation. Thus He gives
in a lower form the trick of money-making, the rank of birthright, the
cheap distinction of a high place in society; with poverty He joins the
peace of humble content, a solid faith in the bliss of a future state,
and the rough enjoyment of perfect health. But the poetic temperament is
the choicest gift of all; it may have occasional glimpses of the
bottomless pit, but it can make its own heaven, and paint its own
rainbow upon "the storms of life."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Angelina wants to concentrate genius.]

The artistic temperament implies genius--and "there's the rub," for we
others don't understand genius. The Almighty bestowed the blessing; we
have superadded the curse of an ignorant reception. The Genius is the
child of his century. _We_ persist in relegating him to his family. He
asks for materials and room to create. We answer him, "Go to--thou art
idle. Put money in thy purse." We bind him with cords of
conventionality, and deliver him into the hands of the Philistines. We
declare him to be a rational animal who could pay his bills if he
chose--and we County Court him if he does not. We build and maintain
stately edifices for the accommodation of paupers, criminals, and
idiots; but for the Genius there is not even the smallest parish
allowance made to his relatives to pay for a keeper. How _can_ he expand
under present conditions? "_Es bildet ein Talent sich in der stille_,"
says Goethe, and I think you will admit that there is precious little of