It is
the stimulus of sound natures; and as the weight of his wife's arm makes a
man's body proud, so the sense of his usefulness to the world does but
warm and indurate his soul. It is something when a man comes to this mind,
and with all his capacity to err, is abreast of life at last. He shall not
regret the infrequency of his inspirations, for he will know that the day
of his strength has set in. And if, for poesy, some grave Virgilian line
should pause on his memory, or some tongue of Hebrew fire leap from the
ashes of his godly youth, it will be enough. But if cold duck await--why,
then, to supper!"
UGLINESS IN FICTION
[_9 May '08_]
In the _Edinburgh Review_ there is a disquisition on "Ugliness in
Fiction." Probably the author of it has read "Liza of Lambeth," and said
Faugh! The article, peculiarly inept, is one of those outpourings which
every generation of artists has to suffer with what tranquillity it can.
According to the Reviewer, ugliness is specially rife "just now." It is
always "just now." It was "just now" when George Eliot wrote "Adam Bede,"
when George Moore wrote "A Mummer's Wife," when Thomas Hardy wrote "Jude
the Obscure." As sure as ever a novelist endeavours to paint a complete
picture of life in this honest, hypocritical country of bad restaurants
and good women; as sure as ever he hints that all is not for the best in
the best of all possible islands, some witling is bound to come forward
and point out with wise finger that life is not all black.
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