What the critics say is that I have uttered truisms in the baldest, least attractive diction.

Here I find myself to be judged, and not unjustly.  In the pursuit of truth, I said what I had to say bluntly—­and it seems I had nothing but commonplaces to give forth.  In the search for sincerity of style, I reduced every proposition to its barest form of language.  And that abnegation of rhetoric has revealed the nudity of my commonplaces.

I know that I have no wand, that I cannot conjure, that I cannot draw the ears of men to listen to my words.

So, when I finally withdraw from further appeals to the public, as I mean to do, I cannot pose as a Prospero who breaks his staff.  I am only a somewhat sturdy, highly nervous varlet in the sphere of art, who has sought to wear the robe of the magician—­and being now disrobed, takes his place quietly where God appointed him, and means to hold his tongue in future, since his proper function has been shown him.

Thus it is with me.  And I should not, my dear friend, have inflicted so much of myself upon you, if I had not, unluckily, and in gross miscalculation of my powers, connected your name with the book which proves my incompetence.

Yes, the Master [Footnote:  Dr. Jowett, Master of Balliol.] is right:  make as much of your life as you can:  use it to the best and noblest purpose:  do not, when you are old and broken like me, sit in the middle of the ruins of Carthage you have vainly conquered, as I am doing now.

Now good bye.  Keep any of my letters which seem to you worth keeping.  This will make me write better.  I keep a great many of yours.  You will never lose a warm corner in the centre of the heart of your friend

J. A. Symonds.

P.S.  Live well.  Live happy.  Do not forget me.  I like to think of you in plenitude of life and activity.  I should not be sorry for you if you broke your neck in the hunting field.  But, like the Master, I want you to make sure of the young, powerful life you have—­before the inevitable, dolorous, long, dark night draws nigh.

Later on, a propos of his translation of the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, he wrote: 

I am so glad that you like my Cellini.  The book has been a success; and I am pleased, though I am not interested in its sale.  The publisher paid me L210 for my work, which I thought very good wages.

My dear Margot,

I wrote to you in a great hurry yesterday, and with some bothering thoughts in the background of my head.

So I did not tell you how much I appreciated your critical insight into the points of my Introduction to Cellini.  I do not rate that piece of writing quite as highly as you do.  But you “spotted” the best thing in it—­the syllogism describing Cellini’s state of mind as to Bourbon’s death.