"_der stille_" to be found either in ordinary domestic life, or that
refuge of the desperate, a garret in Bloomsbury. Picture to yourself
Orpheus executing frenzied violin _obbligati_ to the family baby
(teething)--or Apollo hastily descending the slopes of Olympus to argue
with a tax collector, or irate landlady! Alas! few survive this sort of
thing. What I would propose is a Grand National Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Genius--including a National Asylum for its
reception and maintenance. Geniuses would be fed and clothed, and have
their hair cut by the State, who would adopt and cherish them during
life, and bequeath them to posterity at death. In this blissful retreat
they would be preserved from the chilling influences of the outer world,
liberally supplied with foolscap, musical instruments, and padded cells,
and protected from all that had hitherto oppressed them--including cats,
organ-grinders, creditors, and matrimony. Worshippers of the opposite
sex would be allowed to express their appreciation sensibly, by
contributions to the box at the door. Just think of the enormous
advantage which would be gained by thus concentrating our Genius as we
do our other illuminating forces; the saving of brain power by avoiding
outside friction. Why there need be absolutely _no_ waste! Genius could
be "laid on," at a fixed rate, and "lions" supplied by annual
subscription.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Florence Marryat believes it to be a blessing.]

Surely--without a manner of doubt--a Blessing--the greatest blessing
ever bestowed by Heaven on Man--the best panacea for the troubles of
this life--the magic wand that, for the time being, opens the door of a
Paradise of our own creation. And in order to procure this enjoyment, it
is not necessary that the artist should be successful. Disappointment
may be the issue of his attempt, but the attempt itself--the knowledge
that he _can_ attempt--is so delightful. The work may never reach the
artistic ideal--it seldom does--but no artist believes in failure,
whilst the child of his brain is germinating. It looks so promising--it
grows so fast--the ideas which are to render it immortal press so
quickly one upon the other, that he has hardly time to grasp
them--whilst his breast heaves and his eye sparkles, and his whole frame
quivers with the sense of power to conceive and to bring to the birth.
No fear enters his mind then that his offspring will