There has been much doubt among many worthy
people concerning Mr. Reade's management of the moralities and the
proprieties, but no question at all, we think, as to the wonderful power
he has shown, and the interest he has awakened. Even those who have
blamed him have followed him eagerly,--without doubt to see what
crowning insult he would put upon decency, and to be confirmed in their
virtuous abhorrence of his work. It is to be hoped that these have been
disappointed, for it must be confessed that, in the _denouement_ of the
novel, others who totally differed from them in purpose and opinion have
been brought to some confusion.
It is not as a moralist that we have primarily to find fault with Mr.
Reade, but as an artist, for his moral would have been good if his art
had been true. The work, up to the conclusion of Catharine Gaunt's
trial, is in all respects too fine and high to provoke any reproach from
us; after that, we can only admire it as a piece of literary gallantry
and desperate resolution. "C'est magnifique; mais ce n'est pas la
guerre." It is courageous, but it is not art. It is because of the
splendid _elan_ in all Mr. Reade writes, that in his failure he does not
fall flat upon the compassion of his reader, as Mr.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346