in literature. So subtle is the connexion between the two that it
is equally possible to call language the form given to the matter
of thought, or, inverting the application of the figure, to speak
of thought as the formal principle that shapes the raw material of
language. It is not until the two become one that they can be
known for two. The idea to be expressed is a kind of mutual
recognition between thought and language, which here meet and claim
each other for the first time, just as in the first glance
exchanged by lovers, the unborn child opens its eyes on the world,
and pleads for life. But thought, although it may indulge itself
with the fancy of a predestined affiance, is not confined to one
mate, but roves free and is the father of many children. A belief
in the inevitable word is the last refuge of that stubborn
mechanical theory of the universe which has been slowly driven from
science, politics, and history. Amidst so much that is undulating,
it has pleased writers to imagine that truth persists and is
provided by heavenly munificence with an imperishable garb of
language. But this also is vanity, there is one end appointed
alike to all, fact goes the way of fiction, and what is known is no
more perdurable than what is made. Not words nor works, but only
that which is formless endures, the vitality that is another name
for change, the breath that fills and shatters the bubbles of good
and evil, of beauty and deformity, of truth and untruth.

No art is easy, least of all the art of letters. Apply the musical
analogy once more to the instrument whereon literature performs its
voluntaries. With a living keyboard of notes which are all
incessantly changing in value, so that what rang true under Dr.
Johnson's hand may sound flat or sharp now, with a range of a
myriad strings, some falling mute and others being added from day