Such prose as I mean must be serious, liquid, profound. It must
probably eschew all broad effects of humour; it must eschew narrative;
it must be in its essence lyrical, an outburst like the song of the
lark or the voice of the waterfall. It must deal with beauty, not only
the beauty of natural things, but the beauty of human relations, though
not trenching upon drama; and, above all, it must take into itself the
mystery of philosophical and scientific thought. Science and philosophy
are deeply and essentially poetical, in that they are attempts to build
bridges into the abyss of the unknown. The work of the new lyrist must
be to see in things and emotions the quality of beauty, and to discern
and express the magic quickening thrill that creeps like a flame
through the material form, and passes out beyond the invisible horizon,
leaping from star to star, and from the furthest star into the depths
of the ancient environing night.
XXVIII
A few days ago an old friend of mine, who has been a good friend to me,
who is more careful of my reputation even than myself, gave me some
serious advice. He said, speaking with affectionate partiality, that I
had considerable literary gifts, but that I was tending to devote
myself too much to ephemeral and imaginative literature, and that I
ought to take up a task more worthy of my powers, write a historical
biography such as a Life of Canning, or produce a complete annotated
edition of the works of Pope, with a biography and appendices.
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