* * * * *

“A Set of Six” will not count among Mr. Conrad’s major works.  But in the mere use of English it shows an advance upon all his previous books.  In some of his finest chapters there is scarcely a page without a phrase that no Englishman would have written, and in nearly every one of his books slight positive errors in the use of English are fairly common.  In “A Set of Six” I have detected no error and extremely few questionable terms.  The influence of his deep acquaintance with French is shown in the position of the adverb in “I saw again somebody in the porch.”  It cannot be called bad English, but it is queer.  “Inasmuch that” could certainly be defended (compare “in so much that"), but an Englishman would not, I think, have written it.  Nor would an Englishman be likely to write “that sort of adventures.”

Mr. Conrad still maintains his preference for indirect narrative through the mouths of persons who witnessed the events to be described.  I dare say that he would justify the device with great skill and convincingness.  But it undoubtedly gives an effect of clumsiness.  The first story in the volume, “Gaspar Ruiz,” is a striking instance of complicated narrative machinery.  This peculiarity also detracts from the realistic authority of the work.  For by the time you have got to the end of “A Set of Six” you have met a whole series of men who all talk just as well as Mr. Conrad writes, and upon calm reflection the existence of a whole series of such men must seem to you very improbable.  The best pages in the book are those devoted to the ironical contemplation of a young lady anarchist.  They are tremendous.

THE PROFESSORS

[26 Sep. ’08]

The death of Professor Churton Collins appears to have been attended by painful circumstances, and one may be permitted to regret the disappearance from the literary arena of this vigorous pundit.  He had an agreeable face, with pendant hair and the chin of a fighter.  His industry must have been terrific, and personally I can forgive anything to him who consistently and violently works.  He had also acquired much learning.  Indeed, I should suppose that on the subject of literature he was the most learned man in Britain.  Unfortunately, he was quite bereft of original taste.  The root of the matter was not in him.  The frowning structure of his vast knowledge overawed many people, but it never overawed an artist—­unless the artist was excessively young and naive.  A man may heap up facts and facts on a given topic, and assort and label them, and have the trick of producing any particular fact at an instant’s notice, and yet, despite all his efforts and honest toil, rest hopelessly among the profane.  Churton Collins was such a man.  He had no artistic feeling.  Apart from the display of learning, which is always pleasant to the man of letters, his essays were arid and tedious.  I never