fading into night. Return to the consideration of the nature and purposes of Art! And recognize that you will seem, on the face of it, a heretic to the school whose doctrine was incarnated by Oscar Wilde in that admirable apotheosis of half truths, The Decay of the Art of Lying. Did he not there say, "No great artist ever sees things as they really are"; while you have put it thus: The seeing of things as they really are the seeing of a proportion veiled from other eyes (together with the power of expression), is what makes a man an artist. What makes him a great artist is that high fervor of spirit which produces a superlative, instead of a comparative, clarity of vision.

Close to this house of mine there are some pines with gnarled red limbs flanked by beech trees. And there is often a very deep blue sky behind. Generally, that is all I see. But once in a way, in those trees against that sky I seem to see all the passionate life and glow that Titian painted into his Pagan pictures. I have a vision of mysterious meaning, of a mysterious relation between that sky and those trees with their gnarled red limbs, and Life as I know it. When I have had that vision I always feel that it is reality, and all those other times, when I am not so blessed, simple unreality; and if I were a painter, it is for such fervent feeling I should wait before moving brush. This, so intimate, inner vision of reality, seems in duller moments well-nigh grotesque; and hence that other glib half-truth: "Art

is greater than Life itself." Art is greater than Life in the sense that the power of Art is the disengagement from Life of its real spirit and significance. But in any other sense, to say that Art is greater than Life from which it emerges, and into which it must remerge, can but suspend the artist over Life, with his feet in the air and his

head in the clouds-Prig masquerading as Demi-god. "Nature is no great Mother who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life." Such is the highest hyperbole of the æsthetic creed. But what is creative instinct if not an incessant living sympathy with Nature, a constant craving like that of Nature's own, to fashion something new out of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties with which Nature has endowed us? The qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative power, are no more divorced from Nature than are the qualities of common sense and courage. They are rarer, that is all. But, in truth, no one holds such views. Not even those who utter them. They are the rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such as wish to condemn what they call "Realism," without being temperamentally capable of appreciating what "Realism" really is.

And what-I thought-is Realism? What is the meaning of that word so wildly used? Is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the spirit of the artist, or both, or neither? Was Turgenev a realist? No greater poet ever wrote in prose, nor anyone who more closely brought the actual shapes of men and things before us. Was he a realist? No more fervent idealists than Ibsen and Tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their people real. Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic writer can I conceive than Dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations more vividly. Was he a realist? The late Stephen Crane was called a novelist. Than whom no more impressionistic writer ever painted with words. What then is the heart of this term still often used as an expression almost of abuse? To me, at all events-I thought --the words realism, realistic, have no longer reference to technique, for

which the words naturalism, naturalistic serve far better. Nor do they imply a lack of imaginative power-which is as much demanded by realism as by romanticism. A realist, as I understand the word, may be naturalistic, poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic, anything, indeed, except romantic; that, in so far as he is realistic, he cannot be. The word, to me, characterizes that artist who invents tale or design revealing the actual inter-relating spirit of life, character, and thought, with a primary view to enlighten; as distinguished from that artist-whom I call romantic-who invents tale or design with a primary view to delight. It is a question of temperamental antecedent motive in the artist, and nothing more.

Realist Romanticist! Enlightenment-Amusement! That is the true apposition. To make a revelation-to tell a fairy-tale! And either of these artists may use what form he likesnaturalistic, fantastic, poetic, impressionistic. For it is not by the form, but by the purpose and mood of his art that he shall be known, as one or as the other. Realists, we know, including the half of Shakespeare that was realist, not being primarily concerned to amuse their audience, are still comparatively unpopular in a world made up for the greater part of men of action, who instinctively reject all art that does not distract them without causing them to think. For thought makes demands on an energy already in full use; thought causes introspection; and introspection causes discomfort, and disturbs the grooves of action. But to say that the object of the realist is to enlighten rather than to delight, is not to say that in his art the realist is not amusing himself as much as ever is the teller of a fairytale, though he does not deliberately start out to do so; he is amusing, too, a large part of mankind. For, admit

ted that the object and the test of Art is the awakening of vibration, of impersonal emotion, it is still usually forgotten that men fall, roughly speaking, into two flocks-those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the face of Art, and does not demand to be appeased before their emotions can be stirred; and those who, having a speculative bent of mind, must first be satisfied by the enlightening quality in a work of Art before that work of Art can make them feel at all. The audience of the realist is drawn from this latter type of man; the much larger audience of the romantic artist from the former; together with, in both cases, those fastidious few for whom all Art is style and only style, and who welcome either kind so long as it is good enough.

To me, then-I thought-this division into Realism and Romance, so understood, is the main cleavage in all the Arts; but it is hard to find pure examples of either kind. For even the most determined realist has more than a streak in him of the romanticist, and the most resolute romanticist finds it impossible at times to be quite unreal. Correggio, Guido Reni, Watteau, Leighton-were they not perhaps somewhat pure romanticists; Leonardo, Rembrandt, Hogarth, Watts-mainly realist; and Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, a blend of both. Dumas père, and Scott, surely romantic; Flaubert and Tolstoy as surely realists; Dickens and Cervantes, blended. Keats and Swinburne-romantic; Browning and Whit

when due expression is not attained. One man may not care for a RemErandt portrait of a plain old woman; a graceful Watteau decoration may leave another cold; but foolish will he be who denies that both are faithful to their conceiving moods, and so proportioned part to part, and part to whole, as to have, each in its own way, that inherent rhythm or vitality which is the hallmark of Art. He is but a poor philosopher who holds a view so narrow as to exclude forms not to his personal taste. No realist can love romantic Art so much as he loves his own, but when that Art fulfils the laws of its peculiar being, if he would be no blind partisan, he must admit it. The romanticist will never be amused by realism, but let him not for that reason be so parochial as to think that realism, when it achieves vitality, is not Art. Art is but the perfected expression of self in contact with the world; whether that self be of enlightening, or of fairytelling temperament, is of no moment whatever. The tossing of abuse from realist to romanticist and back is but the sword-play of two one-eyed men with their blind side turned towards each other. Shall not each attempt at Art be judged on its own merits? found not shoddy, faked, or forced, but true to itself, true to its conceiving mood, and fair-proportioned part to whole, so that it lives-then, realistic or romantic, in the name of fairness let it pass! For of all kinds of human energy, Art is the most free, the least parochial, and demands of us an essential tolerance of all its forms. Shall we, then, waste breath and ink in conThe Fortnightly Review.

If

demnation of artists because their temperaments are not our own?

But the shapes and colors of the day were now all blurred; every tree and stone entangled in the dusk. How different the world seemed from that in which I had first sat down, with the swallows flirting past. And my mood was different, for each of those worlds had brought to my heart its proper feeling—painted on my eyes the just picture. And Night, that was coming, would bring me yet another mood that would frame itself with consciousness at its own fair moment, and hang before me. A quiet owl stole by in the field below and vanished into the heart of a tree. And suddenly above the moor-line I saw the large moon rising. Cinnamon-colored, it made all things swim, made me uncertain of my thoughts, vague with a mazy feeling. Shapes seemed but drifts of moon-dust, and true reality nothing save a sort of still listening to the wind. And for long I sat, just watching the moon creep up, and hearing the thin, dry rustle of the leaves along the holly hedge. And there came to me this thought: What is this Universe-that never had beginning and will never have an end-but a myriad striving to perfect pictures never the same, so blending and fading one into another that all form one great perfected picture. And what are we-ripples on the tides of a birthless, deathless, equipoised Creative Purpose-but little works of Art?

But trying to record that thought, I noticed that my notebook was damp with dew. The cattle were lying down. It was too dark to see.

John Galsworthy.

III.

I rather doubt whether people at home quite realize the difficulties of administering justice in uncivilized countries. Take a murder trial, for instance. Are many people in England aware of the undoubted fact that the task of an English magistrate, trying a man for his life in Africa, is infinitely more difficult and complicated, and entails a far higher degree of responsibility, than that imposed on a judge trying a man for murder in England? The judge in England presides over a great and most admirable machine for ascertaining the truth; a capable and trustworthy police force has investigated the matter with the utmost thoroughness; the case is put on both sides as well as experienced counsel can put it; the witnesses mostly speak the truth, so far as they know it; and the decision which means life or death does not, after all, rest with the judge himself, but with the jury. Above all, everybody concerned is English. Judge and jury alike are dealing with people whose habits, customs, and methods of thought they perfectly well know.

Compare with this our position in the wilds. We are bound, in practice, to conduct all the investigations ourselves, because there is no one else who can do it. We have no barristers to assist us. There is no certainty that any witness, however straightforward he may seem, is telling the truth. The final decision rests with us; assessors may be of some assistance, but their advice in no way diminishes our responsibility. Each of us, when the occasion arises, has to decide, practically without assistance, whether a man is to live or die. And how much do any of us know about the working of the native mind?

We sit through long hot days.

We

strain every nerve not to let a word of evidence escape us; if we miss a point there is no one else to seize it. The mental strain and fatigue of such a trial is much greater than any other I have ever known. In the end we must come to a decision, one way or another; and, except for the confirming power of the Governor, our decision means life or death. The chief wonder is, to my mind, that we don't always acquit, or at most find a verdict of manslaughter.

But this case was worse even than the ordinary trial on the capital charge, because Akso Wad Dok was not only my servant, but, in a sense, my friend; among other things, he had saved my life at the risk of his own. I wanted, naturally, to find he was innocent; I was determined, naturally, not to be influenced by my personal liking for the man. I can't tell you how I hated the whole business.

Meanwhile the papers were sent off by special messenger to Headquarters, and Akso Wad Dok was lodged in the lock-up, which stood in the corner of my compound. That is another disadvantage of our position in these matters--you haven't done with your prisoner when you have sentenced him, like an English judge; you are practically his jailor too, and if you don't superintend his execution, it will pretty certainly be muddled. It isn't so easy to hang a man quickly as you might think. So I had the pleasant prospect, if the sentence was confirmed, of assisting at Akso's hanging.

Meanwhile he couldn't be kept in the stuffy little lockup all day, so I gave orders that he should be allowed out in the compound under guard. About half this compound was supposed to be a garden: it was looked after by an idiotic old gentleman named (approxi

upbraided him on the subject, his only suggestion was that something might be done if I would raise his wages and give him a man and a boy to help him. This I naturally refused to think of until he had something to show, and he used to go sadly back to his gardening. His method was to pump up water from a little well in the corner of the compound, and conduct it by channels over his domain; but every green thing died with startling rapidity, and my seeds, which were sent regularly from England, never by any chance came up.

The day after the trial, when I came out after my siesta, I found Akso, the sergeant, and the gardener engaged in a heated controversy. Akso and the sergeant were holding forth in turn to the gardener, who was almost in tears. On inquiry it appeared that the energetic Akso had sampled the garden well and found it was as salt as brine.

"Of course it's salt," said the sergeant.

"Why did you never tell me?" said I. "Your Excellency never asked," said the sergeant.

"Is it my fault the well is salt?" asked poor old Quatso. "I bring the water to the land. That is the work of a gardener. How shall I make salt water fresh?" He wept miserably.

"Silence, old fool," said Akso. "Go and sit in the shade and let me be gardener. Is it permitted?"

Well, you know, it seems rather odd for the judge to turn on a man he has just condemned to death to cultivate his garden. But it might be months before I got the confirmation of his sentence, and it would not be good for him to be idle all that time. I didn't be lieve he would do any good with it, but at least it would keep him occupied. So I told him he might do as he liked

about it. I didn't think he would stick to it very long.

It turned out, however, that my old sergeant, who was a Hausa from Katsena, knew all that there was to be known about irrigation and the cultivation of gardens-I believe they all do in those parts; and he took Akso in hand and found him an apt pupil. In a few days they had contrived between them to bring water from a spring just outside the compound, and they began by giving the ground a thorough soaking to get the salt out. I didn't follow all their manoeuvres very closely, but I know that in about a month's time things began to grow, and that in two months I was in a fair way to have a flourishing garden. Akso was one of those blacks we occasionally meet who give some hope of the future of their race: though he was a simple enough fellow, he had a head on his shoulders, and could set his mind to a job like a white man. He was immensely proud of his garden, and might have been seen, in the cool of the evening, personally conducting parties of his friends round his domain. He was still locked up at night; but his wife was a good deal about the place, and I think she was generally locked in with him by mistake; and altogether, you know, my prisoner awaiting execution came to be generally considered as my gardener, and the jail as the gardener's cottage. Everybody except myself had pretty well forgotten poor Mackay's murder: there were times when I almost forgot it myself.

I remember the sort of sick feeling with which I opened the post-bag, expecting to find Akso's sentence confirmed. Instead, I got an acid official letter from the Attorney-General asking why no sworn interpreter had been appointed. Good Lord! When there wasn't a single soul in all Yambo who knew anything but the local dialects except myself and some of the Maa