cunningest anticipations; and as it is peculiarly the quality of literature to be thus perturbed and regenerated, we must not even attempt to predict what schools the literature of the future will pass through. The only thing we can be certain of is that from time to time some epoch-making mind will express itself. Acquainted with all the devices of the schools it will brush them all aside, and half unconsciously, half a-dream, as if indeed it were literally "inspired," it will establish new standards, engender new methods, and endow the time with new delights. Criticism will dissect, examine and explain, until the creative mind is almost persuaded that it has all along understood itself; but the one thing by which criticism must ever be eluded, the one thing which must ever elude prophecy, is genius itself. When all is said that man can say, and all is said in vain, the best explanation of the unexplainable is perhaps the old one, that genius brings in some way a message from outside the world. Perhaps, since there is always a demand for something which man can worship, this inspiration may be the subject of the conscious adoration of the new age. Perhaps we have here the subject of the religion of the future; for inspiration, as we may most conveniently name this mystery, has just that character of the unknowable half-seized, which is precisely what the soul of man is ever yearning for.
