That a considerable social importance still attaches to the publication of a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward may be judged from the fact that the Manchester Guardian specially reviewed the book on its leader page.  This strange phenomenon deserves to be studied, because the Manchester Guardian’s reviewing easily surpasses that of any other daily paper, except, possibly, the Times in its Literary Supplement.  The Guardian relies on mere, sheer intellectual power, and as a rule it does not respect persons.  Its theatrical critics, for example, take joy in speaking the exact truth—­never whispered in London—­concerning the mandarins of the stage.  Now it is remarkable that the only strictly first-class morning daily in these isles should have printed the Guardian’s review of “Diana Mallory” (signed “B.S."); for the article respected persons.  I do not object to Mrs. Humphry Ward being reviewed with splendid prominence.  I am quite willing to concede that a new book from her constitutes the matter of a piece of news, since it undoubtedly interests a large number of respectable and correct persons.  A novel by Miss Marie Corelli, however, constitutes the matter of a greater piece of news; yet I have seen no review of “Holy Orders,” even in a corner, in the Guardian.  Surely the Guardian was not prevented from dealing faithfully with “Holy Orders” by the fact that it received no review copy, or by the fact that Miss Corelli desired no review.  Its news department in general is conducted without reference to the desires of Miss Marie Corelli, and it does not usually boggle at an expenditure of four-and-sixpence.  Why, then, Mrs. Humphry Ward being reviewed specially, is not Miss Marie Corelli reviewed specially?  If the answer be that Mrs. Humphry Ward’s novels are better, as literature, than Miss Corelli’s, I submit that the answer is insufficient, and lacking in Manchester sincerity.

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Let me duly respect Mrs. Humphry Ward.  She knows her business.  She is an expert in narrative.  She can dress up even the silliest incidents of sentimental fiction—­such as that in which the virgin heroine, in company with a young man, misses the last train home (see “Helbeck of Bannisdale")—­in a costume of plausibility.  She is a conscientious worker.  She does not make a spectacle of herself in illustrated interviews.  Even in agitating against votes for women she can maintain her dignity. (She would be an ideal President of the Authors’ Society.) But, then, similar remarks apply, say, to Mr. W.E.  Norris.  Mr. W.E.  Norris is as accomplished an expert as Mrs. Humphry Ward.  He is in possession of a much better style.  He has humour.  He is much more true to life.  He has never compromised the dignity of his vocation.  Nevertheless, the prospect of the Guardian reviewing Mr. W.E.  Norris on its leader page is remote, for the reason that though he pleases respectable