callous contemporary critic, who will call his cherished creations mean and insignificant, will assign him an ignoble place in the ranks of writers who have insulted humanity, will attribute to him the qualities of his heroes, will strip him of heart and soul and the divine fire of talent. For the contemporary critic does not recognise that the telescope through which we behold the sun and the microscope which unfolds to us the movements of unnoticed insects are equally marvellous. For the contemporary critic does not recognise that great spiritual depth is needed to light up a picture of ignoble life and transform it into a gem of creative art. For the contemporary critic does not admit that the laughter of lofty delight is worthy to stand beside exalted lyrical emotion, and that there is all the world of difference between it and the antics of clowns at a fair! All this the critic of to-day does not admit, and he will turn it all into the censure and dishonour of the unrecognised writer. Without sympathy, without response, without compassion, he is left by the roadside like the traveller without a family. Hard is his lot and bitterly he feels his loneliness.
And for long years to come I am destined by some strange fate to walk hand in hand with my odd heroes, to gaze at life in its vast movement, to gaze upon it through laughter seen by the world and tears unseen and unknown by it! And far away still is the time when the terrible storm of inspiration will burst into another
