the great painters who work for Manchester or New York millionaires,
these novelists produce stuff which is only shoddy; they lower their
high calling, and they prepare themselves to pass away into the ranks
of the nameless millions whose works are ranged along miles of
untouched shelves in the great public libraries. Fame may not be
greatly worth trying for; but at least a man may try to turn out the
very best work of which he is capable. Some of our brightest refuse to
aim at the highest, and they land in the dim masses of the
written-out.




III.

THE DECLINE OF LITERATURE.


It may seem almost an impertinence to use such a word as "decline" in
connection with literature at a date when every crossing-sweeper can
read, when free libraries are multiplied, when a new novel is
published every day all the year round, and when thousands and tens of
thousands of books--scientific, historical, critical--are poured out
from the presses. We have several weekly journals devoted almost
entirely to the work of criticising the new volumes which appear, and
the literary caste in society is both numerous and powerful. In the
face of all this I assert that the true literary spirit is declining,
and that the pure enthusiasm of other days is passing away.

I emphatically deny that the actual literary artists in any line are