where they lived in poverty, cherishes the smallest records and
souvenirs of them. The names of statesmen and generals become dim
except to professed historians, while the memories of great
romancers and lyrists, and even of lesser writers still, go on
being revived and redecorated. What would Keats have thought, as he
lay dying in his high, hot, noisy room at Rome, if he had known
that a century later every smallest detail of his life, his most
careless letters, would be scanned by eager eyes, when few save
historians would be able to name a single member of the cabinet in
power at the time of his death?

There is a charming story told by Lord Morley, of how he once met
Rossetti in the street at Chelsea when a general parliamentary
election was going on, and it transpired, after a few remarks, that
Rossetti was not even aware that this was the case. When he was
informed, he said with some hesitation that he supposed that one
side or other would get in, and that, after all, it did not very
much matter. Lord Morley, telling the anecdote, said that he
himself had forgotten which side DID get in, from which he
concluded that it had not very much mattered.

The truth is that national life has to go on, and that very
elaborate arrangements are made by statesmen and politicians for
its administration. But it is in reality very unimportant. The
wisest statesman in the world cannot affect it very much; he can
only take advantage of the trend of public opinion. If he outruns
it, he is instantly stranded; and perhaps the most he can do is to
foresee how people will be thinking some six weeks ahead. But
meanwhile the writer is speaking from the soul and to the soul; he
is suggesting, inspiring, stimulating; he is presenting thoughts in