other in Rome, could easily be kept apart. But in
a tale of modern life no trick could well be stagier. Besides the
incomparable Margaret--of whom it does one good to hear Mr. Besant
say, "No heroine in fiction is more dear to me"--Reade drew some
admirable portraits of women; but his men, to tell the truth--and
especially his priggish young heroes--seem remarkably ill invented.
Again, of course, I except _The Cloister_. Omit that book, and you
would say that such a character as Bailie Nicol Jarvie or Dugald
Dalgetty were altogether beyond Reade's range. Open _The Cloister_ and
you find in Denis the Burgundian a character as good as the Bailie and
Dalgetty rolled into one.

Other authors have been lifted above themselves. But was there ever a
case of one sustained at such an unusual height throughout a long,
intricate and arduous work?

HENRY KINGSLEY

Feb. 9, 1895. Henry Kingsley.

Mr. Shorter begins his Memoir of the author of _Ravenshoe_ with this
paragraph:--

"The story of Henry Kingsley's life may well be told in a few
words, because that life was on the whole a failure. The world
will not listen very tolerantly to a narrative of failure
unaccompanied by the halo of remoteness. To write the life of
Charles Kingsley would be a quite different task. Here was
success, victorious success, sufficient indeed to gladden the
heart even of Dr. Smiles--success in the way of Church
preferment, success in the way of public veneration, success,
above all, as a popular novelist, poet, and preacher. Canon
Kingsley's life has been written in two substantial volumes
containing abundant letters and no indiscretions. In this
biography the name of Henry Kingsley is absolutely ignored. And
yet it is not too much to say that, when time has softened his
memory for us, as it has softened for us the memories of Marlowe
and Burns and many another, the public interest in Henry Kingsley
will be stronger than in his now more famous brother."[A]

A prejudice confessed.

I almost wish I could believe this. If one cannot get rid of a
prejudice, the wisest course is to acknowledge it candidly: and
therefore I confess myself as capable of jumping over the moon as of
writing fair criticism on Charles or Henry Kingsley. As for Henry, I
worshipped his books as a boy; to-day I find them full of
faults--often preposterous, usually ill-constructed, at time