The sentence from Ruskin, quoted just now, will guard against the misconception that a writer, because told to rely on his own experience, is enjoined to forego the glory and delight of creation even of fantastic types.  He is only told never to pretend to see what he has not seen.  He is urged to follow Imagination in her most erratic course, though like a will-o’-wisp she lead over marsh and fen away from the haunts of mortals; but not to pretend that he is following a will-o’-wisp when his vagrant fancy never was allured by one.  It is idle to paint fairies and goblins unless you have a genuine vision of them which forces you to paint them.  They are poetical objects, but only to poetic minds.  “Be a plain photographer if you possibly can,” says Ruskin, “if Nature meant you for anything else she will force you to it; but never try to be a prophet; go on quietly with your hard camp work, and the spirit will come to you as it did to Eldad and Medad if you are appointed to it.”  Yes:  if you are appointed to it; if your faculties are such that this high success is possible, it will come, provided the faculties are employed with sincerity.  Otherwise it cannot come.  No insincere effort can secure it.

If the advice I give to reject every insincerity in writing seem cruel, because it robs the writer of so many of his effects—–­if it seem disheartening to earnestly warn a man not to try to be eloquent, but only to be eloquent when his thoughts move with an impassioned Largo—­if throwing a writer back upon his naked faculty seem especially distasteful to those who have a painful misgiving that their faculty is small, and that the uttermost of their own power would be far from impressive, my answer is that I have no hope of dissuading feeble writers from the practice of insincerity, but as under no circumstances can they become good writers and achieve success, my analysis has no reference to them, my advice has no aim at them.  It is to the young and strong, to the ambitious and the earnest, that my words are addressed.  It is to wipe the film from their eyes, and make them see, as they will see directly the truth is placed before them, how easily we are all seduced into greater or less insincerity of thought, of feeling, and of style, either by reliance on other writers, from whom we catch the trick of thought and turn of phrase, or from some preconceived view of what the public will prefer.  It is to the young and strong I say:  Watch vigilantly every phrase you write, and assure yourself that it expresses what you mean; watch vigilantly every thought you express, and assure yourself that it is yours, not another’s; you may share it with another, but you must not adopt it from him for the nonce.  Of course, if you are writing humorously or dramatically, you will not be expected to write your own serious opinions.  Humour may take its utmost licence, yet be sincere.  The dramatic genius may incarnate itself in a hundred shapes, yet in each it will speak