Although the distinction between journalism and literature is likely to define itself more and more sharply--periodicals growing more literary, and newspapers less literary--it is here convenient to pause for a moment on the question of the direction in which literature is likely to develop--meaning especially imaginative literature and poetry. The past of this development, widely considered, has been, of course, since the close of the eighteenth century, from the classical, through the romantic, to the realistic school; and the last has been associated with a greatly-increased and minute consideration of language as an implement of exact and elegant expression. Literature has become, and will no doubt continue to be, increasingly self-conscious. Happy effects are deliberately sought for. Felicity of phrase is no longer a matter of unconscious, almost accidental, accomplishment; it is purposefully and deliberately obtained. We no longer expect inspiration from the Muses, but climb Parnassus with arduous consciousness of our meritorious pedestrianism. The methodical, scientific orderliness of modern thought has, in short, invaded even the field of art, and we have sometimes an air of trying to make of literature an exact process. Perhaps very great literature, and certainly, according to all precedent, very great poetry, cannot be produced in that way. There is something of mystery about them, something of the instinctive, of the elemental, or, to speak with a more critical exactness, of the spiritual. And the development and circumstances of very elaborate civilisation do not wholly favour the spiritual. But to conclude from this that great poetry will never again be written would be to overlook one of the disturbing, the cataclysmal factors of human life. This factor is one of the greatest pitfalls of the would-be prophet. By examining the past, one could predict almost unfailingly the future, if there were not always, and in every department of life, the strange, incalculable thing which, for want of a better name, we call genius, to be reckoned with, to be almost alarmed by. We may examine, we may reason, we may reckon up almost anything; but athwart all our conjectures, charm we never so wisely, comes genius, and revolutionises everything! It is the one thing which no formula can embrace. Not in the realms of literature and art alone will it break in and stultify our best prevision. In every department of life we must tread cautiously, aware that no one who would forecast the future can afford to neglect its disturbing possibilities. We must prayerfully and joyously expect that from time to time genius will suddenly arrive and pass across the stage, changing everything, bringing to naught our 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.