tation of an infinite variety of spiritual implications.
Wholly apart from this interpretative criticism, it is to be remembered that one of the highest of the substantive values of literature belongs to interpretation itself—that is, to those works of the human imagination which are interpretative of man and nature. As the highest manifestation of imaginative sensibility, interpretation is essentially poetic; indeed, we almost might reverse this proposition, and say that the greatest poetry is essentially interpretative; at least we may say this of the best modern poetry, beginning with Shakespeare. The field of interpretation in prose literature is occupied by such writers as Sir Thomas Browne, De Quincey, Emerson, Symonds, and Pater, the works of John Fiske and Professor William James just falling outside, though so imaginatively coordinative. Every eminent interpreter has his individual note and that native quality which inevitably makes for the spirit an artistic embodiment.
The more closely we consider this thing called the literary art the more we seem compelled to regard it as some special technique, quite detached from all the substantive values which belong to a living and lasting literature. It is unfortunate that the term which ought to designate the manner native to the individual genius should be so degraded as to be applicable only to a form which is achieved by conscious effort—a garment rather than an embodiment, respectable it may be, or even splendid, but never natural, never truly begotten.
Art has no mean, but Nature made that mean.
Art is contradistinguished from physical nature, not from the psychical, and when we speak of it as natural we mean that it is native to the spirit.
Modern prose in its rich development has been protestant against technique in a sense that poetry could not be. More and more it has sought freedom from every obligation not native to the individual spirit. Therefore it is that prose has been cultivated at the expense of poetry and cherished by writers of great imaginative power, so that only in rare instances does the distinctively poetic destiny resume its ancient control of an individual genius, imposing upon it time-honored obligations, and leading it in the old and austere ways.
What we should most insist upon as a corollary of these considerations of literary study is that the writer hold to his destiny, to his individual note.
An old-time subscriber to this Magazine writes, regretting the loss of its old-time cover. It is pleasant to know that the Magazine is endeared by association to so many of its readers, so that any change, even in its outward appearance, is the occasion of such feeling as is expressed by our correspondent. We like to think, however, that the attachment of years is not due merely to association with external appearances. Association with what, then? Our correspondent would probably answer, "With the best things in literature and art, with stories, essays, poems, sketches of travel and adventure, and beautiful illustrations, that have for more than a generation given me delight and satisfaction"; but there would still be the insistence that all these things must be bound up, in a harmony not to be broken, with certain features easily catching the eye from month to month, and so promoting friendly recognition.
The editor well remembers, as belonging to the period of his own association with the Magazine, when a much smaller type was used, the absence of which we are sure is not an occasion of regret to our correspondent. One reads small type more easily at fifteen than at sixty. Besides, the present type is not only larger, but more beautiful. Until twenty years ago the columns on each page were separated by a visible line, and the page headings were in the same way marked off from the text. The present open page is undoubtedly preferred by every reader. These changes met the eye, of course, not only in each number, but in the bound half-yearly volumes. Changes in the cover are not thus registered.
The cover is only the temporary outside tegument. So, it might be said in reply, is the human face. Well! But this face—of the boy or the girl—cherish its features as we may, changes past all casual recognition with the advancing
