tossing up two brass balls, which is what any of us could do, and
concludes with keeping up four at the same time, which is what none of
us could do to save our lives." ... You remember Hazlitt's essay on
the Indian Jugglers, and how their performance shook his self-conceit.
"It makes me ashamed of myself. I ask what there is that I can do as
well as this. Nothing..... Is there no one thing in which I can
challenge competition, that I can bring as an instance of exact
perfection, in which others cannot find a flaw? The utmost I can
pretend to is to write a description of what this fellow can do. I can
write a book; so can many others who have not even learned to spell.
What abortions are these essays! What errors, what ill-pieced
transitions, what crooked reasons, what lame conclusions! How little
is made out, and that little how ill! Yet they are the best I can do."

Nevertheless a play of Shakespeare's, or a painting by Reynolds, or an
essay by Hazlitt, imperfect though it be, is of more rarity and worth
than the correctest juggling or tight-rope walking. Hazlitt proceeds
to examine why this should be, and discovers a number of good reasons.
But there is one reason, omitted by him, or perhaps left for the
reader to infer, on which we may profitably spend a few minutes. It
forms part of a big subject, and tempts to much abstract talk on the
universality of the Fine Arts; but I think we shall be putting it
simply enough if we say that an artist is superior to an "artiste"
because he does well what ninety-nine people in a hundred are doing
poorly all their lives.


Selection.

When people compare fiction with "real life," they start with