which (after some brief discourse of fires and frying-pans) elucidates the inexpediency of publishing this book, as well as the necessity of writing it: and thence passes to a modest defense of more vital themes.
the desire to write perfectly of beautiful happenings is, as the saying runs, old as the hills—and as immortal. questionless, there was many a serviceable brick wasted in nineveh because finicky persons must needs be deleting here and there a phrase in favor of its cuneatic synonym; and it is not improbable that when the outworn sun expires in clinkers its final ray will gild such zealots tinkering with their "style." some few there must be in every age and every land of whom life claims nothing very insistently save that they write perfectly of beautiful happenings.
yet, that the work of a man of letters is almost always a congenial product of his day and environment, is a contention as lacking in novelty as it is in the need of any upholding here. nor is the rationality of that axiom far to seek; for a man of genuine literary genius, since he possesses a temperament whose susceptibilities are of wider area than those of any other, is inevitably of all people the one most variously affected by his surroundings. and it is he, in consequence, who of all people most faithfully and compactly exhibits the impress of his times and his times' tendencies, not merely in his writings—where it conceivably might be just predetermined affectation—but in his personality.
such being the assumption upon which this volume is builded, it appears only equitable for the architect frankly to indicate his cornerstone. hereinafter you have an attempt to depict a special temperament—one in essence "literary"—as very variously molded by diverse eras and as responding in proportion with its ability to the demands of a certain hour.
in proportion with its ability, be it repeated, since its ability is singularly hampered. for, apart from any ticklish temporal considerations, be it remembered, life is always claiming of this temperament's possessor that he write perfectly of beautiful happenings.
to disregard this vital longing, and flatly to stifle the innate striving toward artistic creation, is to become (as with wycherley and sheridan) a man who waives, however laughingly, his sole apology for existence. the proceeding is paltry enough, in all conscience; and yet, upon the other side, there is much positive danger in giving to the instinct a loose rein. for in that event the familiar circumstances of sedate and wholesome living cannot but seem, like paintings viewed too near, to lose in gusto and winsomeness. desire, perhaps a craving hunger, awakens for the impossible. no emotion, whatever be its sincerity, is endured without a side-glance toward its capabilities for being written about. the world, in short, inclines to appear an ill-lit mine, wherein one quarries gingerly amidst an abiding loneliness (as with pope and ufford and sire raimbaut)—and wherein one very often is allured into unsavory alleys (as with herrick and alessandro de medici)—in search of that raw material which loving labor will transshape into comeliness.
such, if it be allowed to shift the metaphor, are the treacherous by-paths of that admirably policed highway whereon the well-groomed and well-bitted pegasi of vanderhoffen and charteris (in his later manner) trot stolidly and safely toward oblivion. and the result of wandering afield is of necessity a tragedy, in that the deviator's life, if not as an artist's quite certainly as a human being's, must in the outcome be adjudged a failure.
hereinafter, then, you have an attempt to depict a special temperament—one in essence "literary"—as very variously molded by diverse eras and as responding in proportion with its ability to the demands of a certain hour.
