It follows then that Literature, being by its nature personal, must be by its nature almost infinitely various.  ’Two persons cannot be the authors of the sounds which strike our ear; and as they cannot be speaking one and the same speech, neither can they be writing one and the same lecture or discourse.’ Quot homines tot sententiae. You may translate that, if you will, ‘Every man of us constructs his sentence differently’; and if there be indeed any quarrel between Literature and Science (as I never can see why there should be), I for one will readily grant Science all her cold superiority, her ease in Sion with universal facts, so it be mine to serve among the multifarious race who have to adjust, as best they may, Science’s cold conclusions (and much else) to the brotherly give-and-take of human life.

Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas... Is it possible, Gentlemen, that you can have read one, two, three or more of the acknowledged masterpieces of literature without having it borne in on you that they are great because they are alive, and traffic not with cold celestial certainties, but with men’s hopes, aspirations, doubts, loves, hates, breakings of the heart; the glory and vanity of human endeavour, the transience of beauty, the capricious uncertain lease on which you and I hold life, the dark coast to which we inevitably steer; all that amuses or vexes, all that gladdens, saddens, maddens us men and women on this brief and mutable traject which yet must be home for a while, the anchorage of our hearts?  For an instance:—­

Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she: 
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country. 
But beauty vanishes, beauty passes,
However rare, rare it be;
And when I crumble who shall remember
That lady of the West Country?

(Walter de la Mare.)

Or take a critic—­a literary critic—­such as Samuel Johnson, of whom we are used to think as of a man artificial in phrase and pedantic in judgment.  He lives, and why?  Because, if you test his criticism, he never saw literature but as a part of life, nor would allow in literature what was false to life, as he saw it.  He could be wrong-headed, perverse; could damn Milton because he hated Milton’s politics; on any question of passion or prejudice could make injustice his daily food.  But he could not, even in a friend’s epitaph, let pass a phrase (however well turned) which struck him as empty of life or false to it.  All Boswell testifies to this:  and this is why Samuel Johnson survives.

Now let me carry this contention—­that all Literature is personal and therefore various—­into a field much exploited by the pedant, and fenced about with many notice-boards and public warnings. ’Neologisms not allowed here,’ ’All persons using slang, or trespassing in pursuit of originality....’