oubtless, I lack most of those qualities that make
his book a positive pleasure to read, I lack also his indiscrimination.
Partly, this comes of my not being what he calls himself--"a creative
artist," just as it results in my not using that term when I mean "an
intelligent person"; but chiefly it is that I am, I believe, almost free
from that "provincialism in time"--if I may coin a phrase--which is what
is most amiss with Mr. Bennett's critical apparatus. It is a great pity
Mr. Bennett should be provincial in any sense, for in the common he is
not; on the contrary, he is one who has lived in France, even as
Frenchmen live there, without being more than a little shocked. He has
read a good many books, both old and new; he is one who cares for
literature manifestly: then why does he call Mr. H. G. Wells a great
imaginative artist? I will not swear to the epithets--I have not his
book by me--but I am sure he is too candid to deny that if he has not
used them he has used their equivalents. This much I know he has
said--for I made a note when I read the essay--"astounding width of
observation, a marvellously true perspective, an extraordinary grasp of
the real significance of innumerable phenomena utterly diverse, profound
emotional power, dazzling verbal skill." Now, my dear Whitworth, if I
were to say that sort of thing about Marivaux you would raise your
eyebrows--you know you would. Yet I suppose no competent judge of
literature will pretend that the novels of Marivaux--to say nothing of
the comedies--are inferior to those of Mr. Wells. Pray read again "Le
Paysan Parvenu"--all except the eighth and last part, about which I
can't help thinking there is some mystery--and then try "Mr. Britling."
But if by Mr. Bennett's standards we are to give Marivaux his due, what
is there left to say about Shakespeare?

Provincialism in time is as fatal to judgment as the more notorious
sort, and a defective sense of proportion is at the root of both.
Consider English novelists of the last hundred years. Who but a fool
dare predict confidently for any living Englishman, save Hardy, so much
immortality as belongs to Galt's "Annals of the Parish," or Mrs.
Oliphant's "Beleagured City"? Now what figure, think you, would a critic
cut who besprinkled these writers with such compliments as Mr. Bennett
peppers his contemporaries withal? You need not answer. Mr. Bennett is a
friend of the firm.

Had Mr. Bennett lost his head about contemporar