Mr. Trevena ought to have dedicated his wretched provincial novel
to the Queen of Montenegro. He painfully lacks _savoir-vivre_. In the
early part of this year certain mysterious meetings took place, apropos of
the Censorship, between a sub-committee of the Society of Authors and a
sub-committee of the Publishers' Association. But nothing was done. I am
told that the Authors' Society is now about to take the matter up again.
But why?
W.H. HUDSON
[_24 Nov. '10_]
I suppose that there are few writers less "literary" than Mr. W.H. Hudson,
and few among the living more likely to be regarded, a hundred years
hence, as having produced "literature." He is so unassuming, so mild, so
intensely and unconsciously original in the expression of his naive
emotions before the spectacle of life, that a hasty inquirer into his
idiosyncrasy might be excused for entirely missing the point of him. His
new book (which helps to redeem the enormous vulgarity of a booming
season), "A Shepherd's Life: Impressions of the South Wiltshire Downs"
(Methuen), is soberly of a piece with his long and deliberate career. A
large volume, yet one arrives at the end of it with surprising quickness,
because the pages seem to slip over of themselves. Everything connected
with the Wiltshire downs is in it, together with a good deal not
immediately therewith connected.
Pages:
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239