I once resided
near a young noodle of a Methodist pastor who had the pious habit of
reading novels aloud to his father and mother. He began to read one of
mine to them, but half-way through decided that something of Charlotte M.
Yonge would be less unsuitable for the parental ear. He then called and
lectured me. Among other aphorisms of his which I have treasured up was
this: "Life, my dear friend, is like an April day--sunshine and shadow
chasing each other over the plain." That he is not dead is a great tribute
to my singular self-control. I suspect him to be the _Edinburgh_ Reviewer.
At any rate, the article moves on the plane of his plain.
* * * * *
The Reviewer has the strange effrontery to select Mr. Joseph Conrad's
"Secret Agent" as an example of modern ugliness in fiction: a novel that
is simply steeped in the finest beauty from end to end. I do not suppose
that the _Edinburgh Review_ has any moulding influence upon the evolution
of the art of fiction in this country. But such nonsense may, after all,
do harm by confusing the minds of people who really are anxious to
encourage what is best, strongest, and most sane. The Reviewer in this
instance, for example, classes, as serious, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad,
and John Galsworthy, who are genuine creative forces, with mere dignified
unimportant sentimentalizers like Mr.
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