I will tell you what literature is! No—I only wish I could. But I cant. Gleams can be thro

wn on the secret, inklings given, but no more. I will try to give you an inkling. And, to do so, I will take you back into your history, or forward onto it. That evening when you went for a walk with your faithful friend, the friend from whom you hid nothing—or almost nothing...! You were, in truth, somewhat inclined to hide from him the particular matter which monopolized your mind that evening, but somehow you contrived to get on to it, drawn by an overpowering fascination. And as your friend was sympathetic and discreet, and flattered you by a respectful curiosity, you proceeded further and further into the said matter, growing more and more confidential, until at last you cried out, in a terrific whisper: "My boy, she is simply miraculous!" At that moment you were in the domain of literature.