Austin Dobson, who,
by the way, is very good in a very limited sphere. Perhaps Austin Dobson
is as good as we have. Compare his low flight with the terrific sweeping
range of a Sainte-Beuve or a Taine. I wish that some greatly gifted youth
now aged about seventeen would make up his mind to be a literary critic
and nothing else.
MRS. ELINOR GLYN
_10 Nov. '10_
After all, the world does move. I never thought to be able to congratulate
the Circulating Libraries on their attitude towards a work of art; and
here in common fairness I, who have so often animadverted upon their
cowardice, am obliged to laud their courage. The instant cause of this is
Mrs. Elinor Glyn's new novel, "His Hour" (Duckworth, 6s.) Everybody who
cares for literature knows, or should know, Mrs. Glyn's fine carelessness
of popular opinion (either here or in the States), and the singleness of
her regard for the art which she practises and which she honours.
Troubling herself about naught but splendour of subject and elevation of
style, she goes on her career indifferent alike to the praise and to the
blame of the mob. (I use the word "mob" in Fielding's sense--as meaning
persons, in no matter what rank of life, capable of "low" feelings.)
Perhaps Mrs. Glyn's latest book is the supreme example of her genius and
of her conscientiousness.
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