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of failure。 This is time。 To gain time requires so little wit
that； except for competition； every one could be first at the game。
In fact； time gains itself。 The actor is really not called upon to
do anything。 There is nothing； accordingly； for which our actors
and actresses do not rely upon time。 For humour even； when the
humour occurs in tragedy； they appeal to time。 They give blanks to
their audiences to be filled up。
It might be possible to have tragedies written from beginning to end
for the service of the present kind of 〃art。〃 But the tragedies we
have are not so written。 And being what they are； it is not
vivacity that they lose by this length of pause； this length of
phrasing； this illimitable tiresomeness； it is life itself。 For the
life of a scene conceived directly is its directness； the life of a
scene created simply is its simplicity。 And simplicity； directness；
impetus； emotion； nature fall out of the trailing； loose； long
dialogue； like fish from the loose meshes of a net … they fall out；
they drift off； they are lost。
The universal slowness； moreover； is not good for metre。 Even when
an actress speaks her lines as lines； and does not drop into prose
by slipping here and there a syllable； she spoils the tempo by
inordinate length of pronunciation。 Verse cannot keep upon the wing
without a certain measure in the movement of the pinion。 Verse is a
flight。
GRASS
Now and then； at regular intervals of the summer； the Suburb springs
for a time from its mediocrity； but an inattentive eye might not see
why； or might not seize the cause of the bloom and of the new look
of humility and dignity that makes the Road； the Rise； and the
Villas seem suddenly gentle； gay and rather shy。
It is no change in the gardens。 These are； as usual； full；
abundant； fragrant； and quite uninteresting； keeping the traditional
secret by which the suburban rose； magnolia； clematis； and all other
flowers grow dull … not in colour； but in spirit … between the
yellow brick house…front and the iron railings。 Nor is there
anything altered for the better in the houses themselves。
Nevertheless； the little； common； prosperous road； has bloomed； you
cannot tell how。 It is unexpectedly liberal； fresh； and innocent。
The soft garden…winds that rustle its shrubs are； for the moment；
genuine。
Another day and all is undone。 The Rise is its daily self again … a
road of flowers and foliage that is less pleasant than a fairly
well…built street。 And if you happen to find the men at work on the
re…transformation； you become aware of the accident that made all
this difference。 It lay in the little border of wayside grass which
a row of public servants … men with spades and a cart … are in the
act of tidying up。 Their way of tidying it up is to lay its little
corpse all along the suburban roadside； and then to carry it away to
some parochial dust…heap。
But for the vigilance of Vestries； grass would reconcile everything。
When the first heat of the summer was over； a few nights of rain
altered all the colour of the world。 It had been the brown and
russet of drought … very beautiful in landscape； but lifeless； it
became a translucent； profound； and eager green。 The citizen does
not spend attention on it。
Why； then； is his vestry so alert； so apprehensive； so swift； in
perception so instant； in execution so prompt； so silent in action；
so punctual in destruction？ The vestry keeps； as it were； a tryst
with the grass。 The 〃sunny spots of greenery〃 are given just time
enough to grow and be conspicuous； and the barrow is there； true to
time； and the spade。 （To call that spade a spade hardly seems
enough。）
For the gracious grass of the summer has not been content within
enclosures。 It has … or would have … cheered up and sweetened
everything。 Over asphalte it could not prevail； and it has prettily
yielded to asphalte； taking leave to live and let live。 It has
taken the little strip of ground next to the asphalte； between this
and the kerb； and again the refuse of ground between the kerb and
the roadway。 The man of business walking to the station with a bag
could have his asphalte all unbroken； and the butcher's boy in his
cart was not annoyed。 The grass seemed to respect everybody's
views； and to take only what nobody wanted。 But these gay and lowly
ways will not escape a vestry。
There is no wall so impregnable or so vulgar； but a summer's grass
will attempt it。 It will try to persuade the yellow brick； to win
the purple slate； to reconcile stucco。 Outside the authority of the
suburbs it has put a luminous touch everywhere。 The thatch of
cottages has given it an opportunity。 It has perched and alighted
in showers and flocks。 It has crept and crawled； and stolen its
hour。 It has made haste between the ruts of cart wheels； so they
were not too frequent。 It has been stealthy in a good cause； and
bold out of reach。 It has been the most defiant runaway； and the
meekest lingerer。 It has been universal； ready and potential in
every place； so that the happy country … village and field alike …
has been all grass； with mere exceptions。
And all this the grass does in spite of the ill…treatment it suffers
at the hands； and mowing…machines； and vestries of man。 His ideal
of grass is growth that shall never be allowed to come to its flower
and completion。 He proves this in his lawns。 Not only does he cut
the coming grass…flower off by the stalk； but he does not allow the
mere leaf … the blade … to perfect itself。 He will not have it a
〃blade〃 at all； he cuts its top away as never sword or sabre was
shaped。 All the beauty of a blade of grass is that the organic
shape has the intention of ending in a point。 Surely no one at all
aware of the beauty of lines ought to be ignorant of the
significance and grace of manifest intention； which rules a living
line from its beginning； even though the intention be towards a
point while the first spring of the line is towards an opening
curve。 But man does not care for intention； he mows it。 Nor does
he care for attitude； he rolls it。 In a word； he proves to the
grass； as plainly as deeds can do so； that it is not to his mind。
The rolling； especially； seems to be a violent way of showing that
the universal grass interrupted by the life of the Englishman is not
as he would have it。 Besides； when he wishes to deride a city； he
calls it grass…grown。
But his suburbs shall not； if he can help it； be grass…grown。 They
shall not be like a mere Pisa。 Highgate shall not so； nor Peckham。
A WOMAN IN GREY
The mothers of Professors were indulged in the practice of jumping
at conclusions； and were praised for their impatience of the slow
process of reason。
Professors have written of the mental habits of women as though they
accumulated generation by generation upon women； and passed over
their sons。 Professors take it for granted； obviously by some
process other than the slow process of reason； that women derive
from their mothers and grandmothers； and men from their fathers and
grandfathers。 This； for instance； was written lately： 〃This power
＇it matters not what＇ would be about equal in the two sexes but for
the influence of heredity； which turns the scale in favour of the
woman； as for long generations the surroundings and conditions of
life of the female sex have developed in her a greater degree of the
power in question than circumstances have required from men。〃 〃Long
generations〃 of subjection are； strangely enough； held to excuse the
timorousness and the shifts of women to…day。 But the world；
unknowing； tampers with the courage of its sons by such a slovenly
indulgence。 It tampers with their intelligence by fostering the
ignorance of women。
And yet Shakespeare confessed the participation of man and woman in
their common heritage。 It is Cassius who speaks：
〃Have you not love enough to bear with me
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful？〃
And Brutus who replies：
〃Yes； Cassius； and from henceforth
When you are over…earnest with your Brutus
He'll think your mother chides； and leave you so。〃
Dryden confessed it also in his praises of Anne Killigrew：
〃If by traduction came thy mind；
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good。
Thy father was transfused into thy blood。〃
The winning of Waterloo upon the Eton playgrounds is very well； but
there have been some other； and happily minor； fields that were not
won … that were more or less lost。 Where did this loss take place；
if the gains were secured at football？ This inquiry is not quite so
cheerful as the other。 But while the victories were once going
forward in the playground； the defeats or disasters were once going
forward in some other pl