(speaking, of course, in a sense strictly artistic) is not.  That he is dishonest in the cause of moral progress does not mitigate his crime.  Zealots may deny this as loudly as they please.  Nothing can keep Brieux’s plays alive; they are bound to go precisely where the plays of Dumas fils have gone, because they are false to life.  I do not expect to kill the oncoming craze, but I will give it no quarter.

C.E.  MONTAGUE

[10 Mar. ’10]

I have read Mr. C.E.  Montague’s “A Hind Let Loose” (Methuen, 6s.), and I am not going to advise any one to follow my example.  I do not desire to prejudice his circulation, but I have my conscience to consider.  This is not a book for the intelligent masses; it would be folly to recommend it to them.  It is for the secretly arrogant few, those who really do “know that they are august” within, whatever garment of diffident and mild modesty they may offer to the world.  Only those few can understand it.  All admiration other than theirs will be either ignorant or dog-like—­or both.  Everybody on the Press will say that “A Hind Let Loose” is a novel about journalism.  It is not.  Journalism is merely the cloak hanging windily about it, as her cloak hung about Mrs. Colum Fay.  It is a novel about the pride of the Ego.  It is the fearful and yet haughty cry of originality against the vast tendency of the age, which tendency is that people should live in the age as in an intellectual barracks.  Hedlum, the conversational clubman and successful barrister, is the real villain of the story, though he appears but for a moment, “Hedlum would take up all that was current, trim it and pare its nails, and give it his blessing and send it out into the world to get on, and it did famously.  You felt that if it was not true then the fault was truth’s; there must be some upper order of truth, not universally known, to which he had conformed and to which the facts, in the vulgar sense, could not have been loyal.  All of him helped the effect.  He was of the settled age—­fifty or so—­handsome, with the controlled benignity, the mellowed precision, the happy, distinguished melancholy sometimes united in a good-looking judge....  You watched the weighing of each word at its exit from the shaved, working lips, and the closure of their inexorable adamant behind its heels.  As the last commonplace of club gossip, smoke-room heroics, and music-hall sentiment issued from these portals, transfigured by the moderate discount that made it twice itself, you not only saw it was final truth, or virility’s quintessential emotion; you felt he had done something decisive, even gallant, and that you were in it—­a fine fellow, too, in your way; and you quickened; you lived back and forward, back to the blithe days at school when they first taught you never to think your own thoughts or take what came in a way of your own, but to pool your brains with the rest and ’throw yourself into the life of the school,’ and on to your early manhood’s deeper training in resemblance to others, and so to the good day, always coming and always here, always to be had by him who wills it with his might, when the imitative shall inherit the earth.”