But the glory of Mrs. Taine's God was not declared by the mountains. She
sat by the window, indeed, but her eyes were upon the open pages of a
book--a popular novel that by some strange legal lapse of the governmental
conscience was--and is still--permitted in print.
The author of the story that so engrossed Mrs. Taine was--in her
opinion--almost as great in literature as Conrad Lagrange, himself. By
those in authority who pronounce upon the worthiness or the unworthiness
of writer folk, he is, to-day, said to be one of the greatest writers of
his generation. He is a realist--a modern of the moderns. His pen has
never been debased by an inartistic and antiquated idealism. His claim to
genius rests securely upon the fact that he has no ideals. He writes for
that select circle of leaders who, like the Taines and the Rutlidges, are
capable of appreciating his art. All of which means that he tells filthy
stories in good English. That his stories are identical in material and
motive with the vile yarns that are permitted only in the lowest class
barber shops and in disreputable bar-rooms, in no way detracts from the
admiring praise of his critics, the generosity of his publishers, or the
appreciation of those for whom he writes.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68