his way through them will be aware, in the retrospect, of something like
this relation and this allegiance. 

For my own part, if I am to identify myself with the writer who is here
on his defence, I have never been able to see much difference between
what seemed to me Literature and what seemed to me Life.  If I did not
find life in what professed to be literature, I disabled its profession,
and possibly from this habit, now inveterate with me, I am never quite
sure of life unless I find literature in it.  Unless the thing seen
reveals to me an intrinsic poetry, and puts on phrases that clothe it
pleasingly to the imagination, I do not much care for it; but if it will
do this, I do not mind how poor or common or squalid it shows at first
glance: it challenges my curiosity and keeps my sympathy.  Instantly I
love it and wish to share my pleasure in it with some one else, or as
many ones else as I can get to look or listen.  If the thing is something
read, rather than seen, I am not anxious about the matter: if it is like
life, I know that it is poetry, and take it to my heart.  There can be no
offence in it for which its truth will not make me amends. 

Out of this way of thinking and feeling about these two great things,