himself to a destination. The principle of self-denial seems at
first sight a treason done to genius, which was always privileged
to be wilful. In this view literature is a fortuitous series of
happy thoughts and heaven-sent findings. But the end of that plan
is beggary. Sprightly talk about the first object that meets the
eye and the indulgence of vagabond habits soon degenerate to a
professional garrulity, a forced face of dismal cheer, and a
settled dislike of strenuous exercise. The economies and
abstinences of discipline promise a kinder fate than this. They
test and strengthen purpose, without which no great work comes into
being. They save the expenditure of energy on those pastimes and
diversions which lead no nearer to the goal. To reject the images
and arguments that proffer a casual assistance yet are not to be
brought under the perfect control of the main theme is difficult;
how should it be otherwise, for if they were not already dear to
the writer they would not have volunteered their aid.

It is the more difficult, in that to refuse the unfit is no warrant
of better help to come. But to accept them is to fall back for
good upon a makeshift, and to hazard the enterprise in a hubbub of
disorderly claims. No train of thought is strengthened by the
addition of those arguments that, like camp-followers, swell the
number and the noise, without bearing a part in the organisation.
The danger that comes in with the employment of figures of speech,
similes, and comparisons is greater still. The clearest of them
may be attended by some element of grotesque or paltry association,
so that while they illumine the subject they cannot truly be said
to illustrate it. The noblest, including those time-honoured
metaphors that draw their patent of nobility from war, love,
religion, or the chase, in proportion as they are strong and of a