Literature is a phase of life: if

      one is afraid of it, the situation is irremediable; if

    one approaches it familiarly,

      what one says of it is worthless. Words are constructive

    when they are true; the opaque allusion—the simulated flight

    upward—accomplishes nothing. Why cloud the fact

      that Shaw is selfconscious in the field of sentiment but is

      otherwise re-

    warding? that James is all that has been

      said of him but is not profound? It is not Hardy

    the distinguished novelist and Hardy the poet, but one man

    “interpreting life through the medium of the

      emotions.” If he must give an opinion, it is permissible that the

    critic should know what he likes. Gordon

      Craig with his “this is I” and “this is mine,” with his three

    wise men, his “sad French greens” and his Chinese cherries—Gordon

      Craig, so

    inclinational and unashamed—has carried

      the precept of being a good critic, to the last extreme. And Burke

      is a

    psychologist—of acute, raccoon-

      like curiosity. Summa diligentia;

    to the humbug, whose name is so amusing—very young and ve-

    ry rushed, Cæsar crossed the Alps on the “top of a

      diligence.” We are not daft about the meaning but this familiarity

    with wrong meanings puzzles one. Humming-

      bug, the candles are not wired for electricity.

    Small dog, going over the lawn, nipping the linen and saying

    that you have a badger—remember Xenophon;

      only the most rudimentary sort of behaviour is necessary

    to put us on the scent; a “right good

      salvo of barks,” a few “strong wrinkles” puckering the

    skin between the ears, are all we ask.