anything to do with it. But it is a curious coincidence how the last
decade of modern centuries seems to die down in creative fertility.
The hundred millions who speak our English tongue have now no accepted
living master of the first rank, either in verse or in prose. In 1793
there was not one in all Europe. In 1693, though Dryden lingered in
his decline, it was one of the most barren moments in English
literature. And so in 1593, though the _Faery Queen_ was just printed,
and Shakespeare had begun to write, there were nothing but the first
streaks which herald the dawn. But this is obviously a mere
coincidence; nor can an artificial division of time affect the rise or
fall of genius. It may be that, in these latter days, when our age is
the victim of self-conscious introspection, the close of a century
which has shown such energy may affect us in some unconscious way.
Perhaps there is a vague impression that the world is about to turn
over a new page in the mighty ledger of mankind, that it is now too
late to do much with the nineteenth century, and that we will make a
new start with the twentieth.

The world is growing less interesting, less mysterious, less manifold,
at any rate to the outer eye. The _mise-en-scène_ of external life is
less rich in colour and in contrast. Magnificence, squalor, oddity,
historic survivals, and picturesque personalities grow rarer year by
year. Everybody writes a grammatical letter in conventional style,
wears the clothes in fashion, and conforms to the courtesies of life.
It is right, good, and wise: but a little dull. It is the lady-like
age, the epoch of the dress-coat, of the prize lad and the girl of the
period. Mr. Charles Pearson, in his remarkable forecast of _National
Life and Character_, warned us how the universal levelling of modern
democracy must end in a certain monotony and a lowered vitality. We
live longer, but in quiet, comfortable, orderly ways. This is not at