when he is not a master
    Responsibility of finding him all we have been told he is
    Secretly admires the splendors he affects to despise
    Self-flattered scorn, his showy sighs, his facile satire
    Self-satisfied, intolerant, and hypocritical provinciality
    Should probably have wasted the time if I had not read them
    Slave-based freedom
    So long as we have social inequality we shall have snobs
    Society, as we have it, was necessarily a sham
    Somehow expressed the feelings of his day
    Somewhat too studied grace
    Speaks it is not with words and blood, but with words and ink
    Spit some hapless victim:  make him suffer and the reader laugh
    Style is the man, and he cannot hide himself in any garb
    Surcharge all imitations of life and character
    Surcharged in the serious moods, and caricatured in the comic
    Swedenborg
    Tales of the Alhambra
    The great doctor’s orotundity and ronderosity
    To be for good or evil whatsoever I really was
    Toiled, and I suppose no work is wasted
    Trace no discrepancy between reading his plays and seeing them
    Tried to like whatever they bade me like
    Truth is beyond invention
    Unmeet for ladies
    Vicar of Wakefield
    Vices and foibles which are inherent in the system of things
    We did not know that we were poor
    We see nothing whole, neither life nor art
    What I had not I could hope for without unreason
    What we thought ruin, but what was really release
    When was love ever reasoned? 
    Wide leisure of a country village
    Women who snub and crawl
    Words of learned length and thundering sound
    World’s memory is equally bad for failure and success
    Worst came it was not half so bad as what had gone before
    You cannot be at perfect ease with a friend who does not joke
    You may do a great deal (of work), and not get on

CRITICISM AND FICTION

By William Dean Howells

The question of a final criterion for the appreciation of art is one that perpetually recurs to those interested in any sort of aesthetic endeavor.  Mr. John Addington Symonds, in a chapter of ‘The Renaissance in Italy’ treating of the Bolognese school of painting, which once had so great cry, and was vaunted the supreme exemplar of the grand style, but which he now believes fallen into lasting contempt for its emptiness and soullessness, seeks to determine whether there can be an enduring criterion or not; and his conclusion is applicable to literature as to the other arts.  “Our hope,” he says, “with regard to the unity of taste in the future then is, that all sentimental or academical seekings after the ideal having been abandoned, momentary theories founded upon idiosyncratic or temporary partialities exploded, and nothing accepted but what is solid and positive, the