The Happiness Even Of The Naturalist Depends

W. B. Yeats Has Created, If Not A New World, A New Star. He Is Not A Reporter Of Life As It Is, To The Extent That Shakespeare Or Browning Is. One Is Not Quite Certain That His Kingdom Is Of The Green Earth. He Is Like A Man Who Has Seen The Earth Not Directly But In A Crystal.

No Man Is Uninteresting When His Hat Is Blown Off And He Has To Scuttle After It Down The Street.

On The Whole, However, The Critic Is Far Less Of A Professional Faultfinder Than Is Sometimes Imagined. He Is First Of All A Virtue-finder, A Singer Of Praise. He Is Not Concerned With Getting Rid Of Dross Except In So Far As It Hides The Gold. In Other Words, The Destructive Side Of Criticism Is Purely A Subsidiary Affair. None Of The Best Critics Have Been Men Of Destructive Minds. They Are Like Gardeners Whose Business Is More With The Flowers Than With The Weeds.

Mystery Lies Over The Sea. Every Ship Is Bound For Thule.

There Are Travelers Who Fear To Own Delicate Hands More Than To Meet A Lion, And Soldiers Who Would Rather Lose A Limb Than Gain A Beautiful Nose By Artificial Methods.