or possibly Greek, when there occurred a scene with a Greek philosopher on a visit to Rome or resident there as a teacher.  In this way Pepin would do in fiction what had never been done before:  something not at all like ‘Rienzi’ or ‘Notre Dame de Paris,’ or any other attempt of that kind; but something at once more penetrating and more magnificent, more passionate and more philosophical, more panoramic yet more select:  something that would present a conception of a gigantic period; in short something truly Roman and world-historical.

When Pepin gave me this programme to read he was much younger than at present.  Some slight success in another vein diverted him from the production of panoramic and select romance, and the experience of not having tried to carry out his programme has naturally made him more biting and sarcastic on the failures of those who have actually written romances without apparently having had a glimpse of a conception equal to his.  Indeed, I am often comparing his rather touchingly inflated naivete as of a small young person walking on tiptoe while he is talking of elevated things, at the time when he felt himself the author of that unwritten romance, with his present epigrammatic curtness and affectation of power kept strictly in reserve.  His paragraphs now seem to have a bitter smile in them, from the consciousness of a mind too penetrating to accept any other man’s ideas, and too equally competent in all directions to seclude his power in any one form of creation, but rather fitted to hang over them all as a lamp of guidance to the stumblers below.  You perceive how proud he is of not being indebted to any writer:  even with the dead he is on the creditor’s side, for he is doing them the service of letting the world know what they meant better than those poor pre-Pepinians themselves had any means of doing, and he treats the mighty shades very cavalierly.

Is this fellow—­citizen of ours, considered simply in the light of a baptised Christian and tax-paying Englishman, really as madly conceited, as empty of reverential feeling, as unveracious and careless of justice, as full of catch-penny devices and stagey attitudinising as on examination his writing shows itself to be?  By no means.  He has arrived at his present pass in “the literary calling” through the self-imposed obligation to give himself a manner which would convey the impression of superior knowledge and ability.  He is much worthier and more admirable than his written productions, because the moral aspects exhibited in his writing are felt to be ridiculous or disgraceful in the personal relations of life.  In blaming Pepin’s writing we are accusing the public conscience, which is so lax and ill informed on the momentous bearings of authorship that it sanctions the total absence of scruple in undertaking and prosecuting what should be the best warranted of vocations.