some delicate successes in continuing something of the literature of England, something of the art of France; he was more eager for the applause that stimulated him to write poems in prose form and to paint panoramic landscape, after brief training in academies of native inspiration.  Even now English voices are constantly calling upon America to begin—­to begin, for the world is expectant.  Whereas there is no beginning for her, but instead a fine and admirable continuity which only a constant care can guide into sustained advance.

But decivilized man is not peculiar to new soil.  The English town, too, knows him in all his dailiness.  In England, too, he has a literature, an art, a music, all his own—­derived from many and various things of price.  Trash, in the fullness of its insimplicity and cheapness, is impossible without a beautiful past.  Its chief characteristic—­which is futility, not failure—­could not be achieved but by the long abuse, the rotatory reproduction, the quotidian disgrace, of the utterances of Art, especially the utterance by words.  Gaiety, vigour, vitality, the organic quality, purity, simplicity, precision—­all these are among the antecedents of trash.  It is after them; it is also, alas, because of them.  And nothing can be much sadder that such a proof of what may possibly be the failure of derivation.

Evidently we cannot choose our posterity.  Reversing the steps of time, we may, indeed choose backwards.  We may give our thoughts noble forefathers.  Well begotten, well born our fancies must be; they shall be also well derived.  We have a voice in decreeing our inheritance, and not our inheritance only, but our heredity.  Our minds may trace upwards and follow their ways to the best well-heads of the arts.  The very habit of our thoughts may be persuaded one way unawares by their antenatal history.  Their companions must be lovely, but need be no lovelier than their ancestors; and being so fathered and so husbanded, our thoughts may be intrusted to keep the counsels of literature.

Such is our confidence in a descent we know.  But, of a sequel which of us is sure?  Which of us is secured against the dangers of subsequent depreciation?  And, moreover, which of us shall trace the contemporary tendencies, the one towards honour, the other towards dishonour?  Or who shall discover why derivation becomes degeneration, and where and when and how the bastardy befalls?  The decivilized have every grace as the antecedent of their vulgarities, every distinction as the precedent of their mediocrities.  No ballad-concert song, feign it sigh, frolic, or laugh, but has the excuse that the feint was suggested, was made easy, by some living sweetness once.  Nor are the decivilized to blame as having in their own persons possessed civilization and marred it.  They did not possess it; they were born into some tendency to derogation, into an inclination for things mentally inexpensive.  And the tendency can hardly do other than continue.