There are artists like Byron, like Goethe, like Shelley, who have impressive personalities, active wills and all their faculties at the service of the will; but he beloo those who like Wordsworth, like Ce, like Goldsmith, like Keats, have little personality, so far as the casual eye see, little personal will, but fiery and brooding imagination. I agine him anxious to impress, or vin any pany, or saying more than was suffit to keep the talk cirg. Such men have the advahat all they write is a part of knowledge, but they are powerless before events and have often but one visible strength, the strength to reject from life and thought all that would mar their work, or deafen them in the doing of it; and only this so long as it is a passive act. If Synge had married young or taken some profession, I doubt if he would have written books or beely ied in a movement like ours; but he refused various opportunities of making money in what must have been an almost unscious preparation. He had no life outside his imagination, little i in anything that was not its chosen subject. He hardly seemed aware of the existence of other writers. I never knew if he cared for work of mine, and do not remember that I had from him even a ventional pliment, a he had the most perfect modesty and simplicity in daily intercourse, self?assertion was impossible to him. Oher hand, he was useless amidst suddes. He was much shaken by the Playboy riot; on the first night fused aed, knowing not what to do, and ill before many days, but it made no differen his work. He her exaggerated out of defianor softened out of timidity. He wrote on as if nothing had happened, altering The Tinkers Wedding to a more unpopular form, but writing a beautiful serene Deirdre, with, for the first time since his Riders to the Sea, no touch of sarcasm or defiance. Misfortune shook his physiature while it left his intelled his moral nature untroubled. The external self, the mask, the persona was a shadow, character was all.