Thus it would seem that there is nothing new under the sun to that “dainty Ariel” of the mind, Imagination. It sees all present things at a glance, and foretells what is yet to come. It may well be called the Sun-dial of the Soul; but it is a Dial that must be kept sound and clean. There must be no crack in it,--it must not be allowed to get overgrown with the slimy mosses and rank weeds of selfishness and personal prejudice,--the index hand must be firmly set,--and none of the numeral figures must be missing! So, perchance, shall God flash the true time of day upon it, for such as will hold themselves free to mark the Hour according to His will. And for those who do thus hold themselves free,--for those who care to keep this precious Sun-dial clear and clean in their souls, there shall always be light and love,--and such clear reflections of divine beauty and peace as are described by the “Ettrick Shepherd” in his story of _Kilmeny in Fairyland_: For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven played round her tongue! THE POWER OF THE PEN The dignity of Literature is, or used to be, something more than a mere phrase. Days there were in the long-ago, when the thinkers and writers of a nation were held to be worthy of higher honour than trade-kings and stock-jobbers,--when each one that shone out was “a bright particular star” of genius, as frankly owned as an object of admiration in the literary firmament. At that time there was no “syndicated” press. The followers and disciples of Literature were not all herded together, as it were, in a kind of scribbling trades-union. The poet, the novelist, the essayist,--each one of these moved in his or her own appointed orbit, and their differing special ways of handling the topics of their time served to interest, charm and stimulate the intelligences of people who were cultured and appreciative enough to understand and honour their efforts. But now things are greatly changed. What has been generally understood as “cultured” society is rapidly deteriorating into baseness and voluntary ignorance. The profession of letters is so little understood, and so far from being seriously appreciated, that responsible editors will accept and publish magazine articles by women of “title” and “fashion,” who prove themselves as ignorant of grammar as they are of spelling. The printer’s reader corrects the spelling, but the grammar is generally left as its “aristocratic” writer penned it, in majestic incompleteness. The newspapers are full, not of thoughtful, honestly expressed public opinion on the affairs of the nation, but of vapid “personalities,” interesting to none save gossips and busy-bodies. A lamentable lack of strength is apparent in the whole “tone” of modern Literature, together with a still more lamentable lack of wit. All topics, say the pessimists, are exhausted.