From a College Window | Page 6

it is the attitude of the cynic. I believe with all my
soul in romance: that is, in a certain high-hearted, eager dealing with
life. I think that one ought to expect to find things beautiful and people
interesting, not to take delight in detecting meannesses and failures.
And there is yet another class of temperament for which I have a deep

detestation. I mean the assured, the positive, the Pharisaical temper,
that believes itself to be impregnably in the right and its opponents
indubitably in the wrong; the people who deal in axioms and certainties,
who think that compromise is weak and originality vulgar. I detest
authority in every form; I am a sincere republican. In literature, in art,
in life, I think that the only conclusions worth coming to are one's own
conclusions. If they march with the verdict of the connoisseurs, so
much the better for the connoisseurs; if they do not so march, so much
the better for oneself. Every one cannot admire and love everything;
but let a man look at things fairly and without prejudice, and make his
own selection, holding to it firmly, but not endeavouring to impose his
taste upon others; defending, if needs be, his preferences, but making
no claim to authority.
The time of my life that I consider to have been wasted, from the
intellectual point of view, was the time when I tried, in a spirit of dumb
loyalty, to admire all the things that were said to be admirable. Better
spent was the time when I was finding out that much that had received
the stamp of the world's approval was not to be approved, at least by
me; best of all was the time when I was learning to appraise the value
of things to myself, and learning to love them for their own sake and
mine.
Respect of a deferential and constitutional type is out of place in art and
literature. It is a good enough guide to begin one's pilgrimage with, if
one soon parts company from it. Rather one must learn to give honour
where honour is due, to bow down in true reverence before all spirits
that are noble and adorable, whether they wear crowns and bear titles of
honour, or whether they are simple and unnoted persons, who wear no
gold on their garments.
Sincerity and simplicity! if I could only say how I reverence them, how
I desire to mould my life in accordance with them! And I would learn,
too, swiftly to detect the living spirits, whether they be young or old, in
which these great qualities reign.
For I believe that there is in life a great and guarded city, of which we
may be worthy to be citizens. We may, if we are blest, be always of the

happy number, by some kindly gift of God; but we may also, through
misadventure and pain, through errors and blunders, learn the way
thither. And sometimes we discern the city afar off, with her radiant
spires and towers, her walls of strength, her gates of pearl; and there
may come a day, too, when we have found the way thither, and enter in;
happy if we go no more out, but happy, too, even if we may not rest
there, because we know that, however far we wander, there is always a
hearth for us and welcoming smiles.
I speak in a parable, but those who are finding the way will understand
me, however dimly; and those who have found the way, and seen a
little of the glory of the place, will smile at the page and say: "So he,
too, is of the city."
The city is known by many names, and wears different aspects to
different hearts. But one thing is certain--that no one who has entered
there is ever in any doubt again. He may wander far from the walls, he
may visit it but rarely, but it stands there in peace and glory, the one
true and real thing for him in mortal time and in whatever lies beyond.

II
ON GROWING OLDER

The sun flares red behind leafless elms and battlemented towers as I
come in from a lonely walk beside the river; above the chimney- tops
hangs a thin veil of drifting smoke, blue in the golden light. The games
in the Common are just coming to an end; a stream of long-coated
spectators sets towards the town, mingled with the parti-coloured,
muddied figures of the players. I have been strolling half the afternoon
along the river bank, watching the boats passing up and down; hearing
the shrill cries of coxes, the measured plash of oars, the rhythmical
rattle of rowlocks, intermingled at intervals with the harsh grinding of
the chain- ferries.