ain to the anecdote of the musician. No
one who had the least glimmering of an individual vision of what style
truly is could possibly have tolerated the too fearfully ingenious mess of
words that Professor Raleigh courageously calls a book on "Style." The
whole thing is a flagrant contradiction of every notion of style. It may
not be generally known (and I do not state it as a truth) that Professor
Raleigh is a distant connexion of the celebrated family of Pains,
pyrotechnicians. I would begin to go to the Empire again if I could see on
the programme: "10.20. Professor Raleigh, in his unique prestidigitatory
performance with words." Yes, I would stroll once more into the hallowed
Promenade to see that. It would be amusing. But it would have no connexion
with literature.

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD'S HEROINES

[_3 Oct. '08_]

It was the commercial genius of Mr. Hall Caine that invented the idea of
publishing important novels during the "off" season. Miss Marie Corelli,
by a sure instinct, followed suit. And now all sorts of stars, from
genuine artists to mere successful artisans, take care to publish in the
off season. Thus within the last few weeks we have had novels from Eden
Phillpotts, Miss Beatrice Harraden, Anthony Hope, Mrs. Humphry Ward, and
Miss Marie Corelli. At this rate the autumn will soon become the slack
time; August will burn and throb with a six-shilling activity; publishers'
clerks will form a union; and the Rt. Hon. W.F.D. Smith, M.P., who has
always opposed an eight hours day, will bring in a Bill for an eight
months year.

* * * * *

That a considerable social importance still attaches to the publication of
a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward may be judged from the fact that the
_Manchester Guardian_ specially reviewed the book on its leader page. This
strange phenomenon deserves to be studied, because the _Manchester
Guardian_'s reviewing easily surpasses that of any other daily paper,
except, possibly, the _Times_ in its Literary Supplement. The _Guardian_
relies on mere, sheer intellectual power, and as a rule it does not
respect persons. Its theatrical critics, for example, take joy in speaking
the exact truth--never whispered in London--concerning the mandarins of
the stage. Now it is remarkable that the only strictly first-class morning
daily in these isles should have printed the _Guardian_'s review of "Diana
Mallory" (signed "B.S."); for the article respected pers