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And often romantic！ 。 。 。 The matter in hand； however； is to
keep these reminiscences from turning into confessions； a form of
literary activity discredited by Jean Jacques Rousseau on account
of the extreme thoroughness he brought to the work of justifying
his own existence； for that such was his purpose is palpably；
even grossly； visible to an unprejudiced eye。 But then； you see；
the man was not a writer of fiction。 He was an artless moralist；
as is clearly demonstrated by his anniversaries being celebrated
with marked emphasis by the heirs of the French Revolution； which
was not a political movement at all； but a great outburst of
morality。 He had no imagination； as the most casual perusal of
〃Emile〃 will prove。 He was no novelist； whose first virtue is
the exact understanding of the limits traced by the reality of
his time to the play of his invention。 Inspiration comes from
the earth； which has a past； a history； a future； not from the
cold and immutable heaven。 A writer of imaginative prose （even
more than any other sort of artist） stands confessed in his
works。 His conscience； his deeper sense of things； lawful and
unlawful； gives him his attitude before the world。 Indeed；
everyone who puts pen to paper for the reading of strangers
（unless a moralist； who； generally speaking； has no conscience
except the one he is at pains to produce for the use of others）
can speak of nothing else。 It is M。 Anatole France； the most
eloquent and just of French prose…writers； who says that we must
recognize at last that； 〃failing the resolution to hold our
peace； we can only talk of ourselves。〃
This remark； if I remember rightly； was made in the course of a
sparring match with the late Ferdinand Brunetiere over the
principles and rules of literary criticism。 As was fitting for a
man to whom we owe the memorable saying； 〃The good critic is he
who relates the adventures of his soul among masterpieces；〃 M。
Anatole France maintained that there were no rules and no
principles。 And that may be very true。 Rules； principles； and
standards die and vanish every day。 Perhaps they are all dead
and vanished by this time。 These； if ever； are the brave； free
days of destroyed landmarks； while the ingenious minds are busy
inventing the forms of the new beacons which； it is consoling to
think； will be set up presently in the old places。 But what is
interesting to a writer is the possession of an inward certitude
that literary criticism will never die； for man （so variously
defined） is； before everything else； a critical animal。 And as
long as distinguished minds are ready to treat it in the spirit
of high adventure literary criticism shall appeal to us with all
the charm and wisdom of a well…told tale of personal experience。
For Englishmen especially； of all the races of the earth； a task；
any task； undertaken in an adventurous spirit acquires the merit
of romance。 But the critics as a rule exhibit but little of an
adventurous spirit。 They take risks； of courseone can hardly
live with out that。 The daily bread is served out to us （however
sparingly） with a pinch of salt。 Otherwise one would get sick of
the diet one prays for； and that would be not only improper； but
impious。 From impiety of that or any other kindsave us！ An
ideal of reserved manner； adhered to from a sense of proprieties；
from shyness； perhaps； or caution； or simply from weariness；
induces； I suspect； some writers of criticism to conceal the
adventurous side of their calling； and then the criticism becomes
a mere 〃notice；〃 as it were； the relation of a journey where
nothing but the distances and the geology of a new country should
be set down； the glimpses of strange beasts； the dangers of flood
and field； the hairbreadth escapes； and the sufferings （oh； the
sufferings； too！ I have no doubt of the sufferings） of the
traveller being carefully kept out； no shady spot； no fruitful
plant being ever mentioned either； so that the whole performance
looks like a mere feat of agility on the part of a trained pen
running in a desert。 A cruel spectaclea most deplorable
adventure！ 〃Life；〃 in the words of an immortal thinker of； I
should say； bucolic origin； but whose perishable name is lost to
the worship of posterity〃life is not all beer and skittles。〃
Neither is the writing of novels。 It isn't； really。 Je vous
donne ma parole d'honneur that itisnot。 Not ALL。 I am thus
emphatic because some years ago； I remember； the daughter of a
general。 。 。 。
Sudden revelations of the profane world must have come now and
then to hermits in their cells； to the cloistered monks of middle
ages； to lonely sages； men of science； reformers； the revelations
of the world's superficial judgment； shocking to the souls
concentrated upon their own bitter labour in the cause of
sanctity； or of knowledge； or of temperance； let us say； or of
art； if only the art of cracking jokes or playing the flute。 And
thus this general's daughter came to meor I should say one of
the general's daughters did。 There were three of these bachelor
ladies； of nicely graduated ages； who held a neighbouring
farm…house in a united and more or less military occupation。 The
eldest warred against the decay of manners in the village
children； and executed frontal attacks upon the village mothers
for the conquest of courtesies。 It sounds futile； but it was
really a war for an idea。 The second skirmished and scouted all
over the country； and it was that one who pushed a reconnaissance
right to my very tableI mean the one who wore stand…up collars。
She was really calling upon my wife in the soft spirit of
afternoon friendliness； but with her usual martial determination。
She marched into my room swinging her stick 。 。 。 but noI
mustn't exaggerate。 It is not my specialty。 I am not a
humoristic writer。 In all soberness； then； all I am certain of
is that she had a stick to swing。
No ditch or wall encompassed my abode。 The window was open； the
door； too； stood open to that best friend of my work； the warm；
still sunshine of the wide fields。 They lay around me infinitely
helpful； but； truth to say； I had not known for weeks whether the
sun shone upon the earth and whether the stars above still moved
on their appointed courses。 I was just then giving up some days
of my allotted span to the last chapters of the novel 〃Nostromo；〃
a tale of an imaginary （but true） seaboard； which is still
mentioned now and again； and indeed kindly； sometimes in
connection with t