ence
is closer to the Nottingham collier than to the rustic who made hay
while others played Bach. But it does not matter very much whether he be
one or the other; it is not his physical self he puts into his books,
but the adventures of his temperament. It is a curious temperament, a
mixture of Northern brutality with wistful Northern melancholy. His
characters, and this applies to George and Lettice in _The White
Peacock_, to Sigmund, in _The Trespasser_, to Paul Morel, Mrs Morel, and
Miriam, in _Sons and Lovers_, are always battling with adversity for the
sake of their fine hopes, are held up by their pride, and divorced a
little from commoner folk by the taste that takes them to Verlaine and
Lulli. If it is Mr Lawrence to whom every flower of the hedge and every
feather of the strutting cock cries colour and passionate life, if it is
for him that the water-meadows are fragrant and the star-lit nights
endless deep, it is not for him that the characters live, but for us: he
takes his share, he leaves us ours; he inflames his characters, then
allows them to act. Indeed, if no fault were to be found with him on
mere literary score, Mr Lawrence would be more than a man of promise: he
would have arrived. But his passion carries him away; he sees too much,
shows too much, he analyses too fully, discovers too many elements. It
may be urged that no artist can see or analyse too fully. But he can, if
he discovers that which is not there. Mr Lawrence, having found gold in
the dross of common men and women, is inclined to infer that there is
too much gold in the vulgar. Being convinced of this, he becomes hectic;
his people are as flames, feeding upon mortal bodies and burning them
up. His peril is excessive sensation. He needs some better knowledge of
affairs, more intercourse with the cruder rich, with the drab
middle-class, so that his brilliant vision may by its dulling become
tolerable to meaner eyes. He needs to discover those for whom music hath
no charms, and yet are not base in attitude.

Mr Lawrence, who exploits his life not over much, affords us a necessary
transition between those who are interested in little else and the
second group, Mr Mackenzie, Mr Onions, and Mr Swinnerton, who have, with
more or less success, tried to stand back as they write. Of these, Mr
Compton Mackenzie is the most interesting because, in three volumes, he
has made three new departures: _The Passionate Elopement_, a tale of
powder and pat