adroitly concealed
the measure of Greek, whether great or small, which is in his
possession. To put the matter in another form, though Hardy may have
drunk in large quantity 'the spirit breathed from dead men to their
kind,' he has not allowed his potations to intoxicate him.

This paragraph is not likely to be misinterpreted unless by some
honest soul who has yet to learn that 'literature is not sworn
testimony.' Therefore it may be well to add that Mr. Hardy undoubtedly
owns a collection of books, and has upon his shelves dictionaries and
encyclopedias, together with a decent representation of those works
which people call 'standard.' But it is of importance to remember
this: That while he may be a well-read man, as the phrase goes, he is
not and never has been of that class which Emerson describes with pale
sarcasm as 'meek young men in libraries.' It is clear that Hardy has
not 'weakened his eyesight over books,' and it is equally clear that
he has 'sharpened his eyesight on men and women.' Let us consider a
few of his virtues.

II

In the first place he tells a good story. No extravagant praise is due
him for this; it is his business, his trade. He ought to do it, and
therefore he does it. The 'first morality' of a novelist is to be able
to tell a story, as the first morality of a painter is to be able to
handle his brush skillfully and make it do his brain's intending.
After all, telling stories in an admirable fashion is rather a
familiar accomplishment nowadays. Many men, many women are able to
make stories of considerable ingenuity as to plot, and of thrilling
interest in the unrolling of a scheme of events. Numberless writers
are shrewd and clever in constructing their 'fable,' but they are
unable to do much beyond this. Walter Besant writes good stories;
Robert Buchanan writes good stories; Grant Allen and David Christie
Murray are acceptable to many readers. But unless I mistake greatly
and do these men an injustice I should be sorry to do them, their
ability ceases just at this point. They tell good stories and do
nothing else. They write books and do not make literature. They are
authors by their own will and not by grace of God. It may be said of
them as Augustine Birrell said of Professor Freeman and the Bishop of
Chester, that they are horny-handed sons of toil and worthy of their
wage. But one would like to say a little more. Granting that this is
praise, it is so faint as to be almost inaudible