one may perhaps express the wish that Mr. Hueffer's restless egotism had been checked slightly before he allowed himself to write the recently published personal impression of Mr. Conrad. Mr. Conrad can hardly have been in his grave when Mr. Hueffer had finished his disagreeable portrait, and while Mr. Hueffer might have lost sales by delaying for a short time his impressionist sketch, he would almost certainly have made the book more worthy of Mr. Conrad and of himself. For in spite of a sort of vividness Mr. Hueffer always improvises rather brilliantly the book is not a satisfactory piece of work. In the first place, it is in deplorable taste. I do not know why it is, but with all his gifts Mr. Hueffer has always shown a lack of sensitiveness in the saying of delicate things. His touch, whatever the skill of his pen, is a heavy one. With extraordinary taste in literature, he has no taste in taste. “The English Review" as it was under his editorship - remains a monument to the literary effort of its era and to Mr. Hueffer's ability as a connoisseur. Some of Mr. Hueffer's own critical writing is extremely distinguished, and would be more distinguished still if it were true. This book on Mr. Conrad is the work of a man with great talents. And yet, whether it is that Mr. Hueffer has some overweening estimate of those talents, and of the rights which talents give their possessor; whether he is merely bad mannered, and wishes to be bad mannered, under the common but mistaken impression that bad manners are a mark of genius, the fact remains that Mr. Hueffer is at times an insufferable writer. This I say after some admiring experience of Mr. Hueffer as a writer, and quite disinterestedly, since I am able to read him with interest (at times pathological

interest) even when he is being insufferable, and since I am sure many people justifiably find my own writing at times insufferable and wanting in good taste. good taste. There is a coarseness somewhere in Mr. Hueffer's mind which prevents him from being quite the great writer he is always promising to be. He has written many books, and I constantly meet people who tell me that this or that book of his is the real thing. Now I have never read a book by Mr. Hueffer which seemed to me the real thing. He may have a lazy imagination; he may be not always sincere (I mean artistically sincere); or he may be careless when he ought to be most scrupulous I cannot tell. But he has a longer list of disabled masterpieces behind him than any other writer I can recall at this moment. And I hazard the guess that what is wrong with Mr. Hueffer's talent is that Mr. Hueffer is not really an artist at all. If he had been an artist he would not have been guilty of this little book about Mr. Conrad, which will be forgotten (but not forgiven) in a month. It is the work of a journalist of unusual felicity. One catches occasional glimpses in it of a portrait, of a real Conrad. But these glimpses are not enough to redeem the impression one gets of a great sprawling Ford Madox Ford, like a fat patronizing slug upon the Conradian lettuce. Even this large figure figure so benignly drawn - cannot obscure the tastelessness of the whole. For while Mr. Hueffer seems to exult in his own rudeness, he has no truly humorous appreciation of himself. He gives the impression of being boastful of the dislike of others, of taking it as proof of his merit; but he does not seem to try to cure himself of faults, and he is not amusing in his references to himself, as a really humorous egoist

customarily is. On the subject of Conrad he may be malicious, but on the subject of Ford he is always quite solemn. Moreover, like so many men who emphasize their own qualities, he does this with some anxiety. Possibly that is one of the reasons which make me suspect that Mr. Hueffer is not an artist; for the writer who is not an artist is invariably one who tries to convince others of something which he does not himself believe.

Another brilliant journalist is just dead, and he will be missed, although it is long since he did anything particularly memorable. I refer to T. W. H. Crosland. When I first heard of Crosland he was making "The Outlook" the most startlingly candid critical review in London. This must be something like twenty two or three years ago. Crosland used to be the literary editor of "The Outlook", and he used to write a "First Glance at New Books" similar in scope to that which appears each week in "The Times Literary Supplement". Crosland's glance, however, was quite different from the glance of any other literary journalist of whom I ever heard. It was a glance that took the skin off a book. It blistered more books than it blessed. It was penetrating, and it was savage. "The Outlook" at that time had the habit of circulating this first glance to the booksellers in a single sheet. The same thing used to be done, and for all I know is still done, by the Chicago "Daily News". Booksellers exhibited the sheet issued by "The Outlook", and it was a good advertisement for books, because the books destroyed and the books maimed and the books extolled were made by Crosland's process part of a live literature. More

over, when literary journalism is well done, as if opinion mattered, literary journalism is read first for its own sake and then for its recommendations. Crosland showed that there was something to criticize. He also showed that there was a mind engaged upon current literature which was alert, well informed, and merciless. If a book was praised in "The Outlook", there was every prospect that it was a good book. This was a better state of things than that in vogue at present, when a series of good reviews no longer makes a reputation or draws attention to an exceptional book, so free are reviewers with praise of the "right" authors. Crosland left "The Outlook", which continued the feature with less vigor, and presently dropped it. In the meantime Crosland had gone to the office of Grant Richards (where one of his colleagues was John Masefield); and here, in the intervals of literary editorship and, I think, a general control of that unsurpassed series of reprints, "The World's Classics", he wrote several works of a sensational character, such as "The Unspeakable Scot" and "Lovely Woman". These books were of the type known as "provocative", and they admirably fulfilled their aim. They caused much indignation, and were very widely read. At a later period, after he had started several periodicals such as "The Tiger", the lives of which were brief, Crosland was associated with Lord Alfred Douglas in the control of "The Academy". Here the old trenchancy was again. seen, but it was coarsened and noisy. Never again did Crosland as a journalist show the genius of his early days. He remained a poet, and during the war his collected poems were published in a single volume. Strangely enough, and characteristically, this book bore

upon its title page a Spanish motto, the wording of which I forget (having parted with my copy to a staunch admirer of the author), but the purport of which was that "as fast as one door closes, another opens". The words might apply to any roving journalist such as Crosland, but they were especially applicable to him. He was what would be described as "improvident", in that he took no heed for the morrow. He had always loyal friends, who helped him in time of need, and I have seen it stated that when he was thus supplied with ready money his first thought (and act) was always to hurry to Monte Carlo or some other gambling resort, armed with the money and an infallible system which infallibly lost him his money. I think of Crosland's life as a wasted one, but only because it seems to me that he never got the best out of his talent. He was a poet and journalist of quite exceptional power, whose command of language - particularly the language of invective was out of the ordinary. Yet he wasted these gifts upon books which are of no value and of no serious interest. The one monument to his power is the volume of collected poems, and even here, amid much that is excellent, there is such a quantity of second and third rate stuff, and so much that is already out of date, that I do not feel confident of the lasting interest of the whole.

*

I spoke just now of "The World's Classics" as being under the editorship of Crosland. I am not sure that this was ever the case, and Mr. Richards may correct me. The editorship, after all, is a small matter to the book lover. What is much more to the point is that this series, which, in the hands of Humphrey Milford and the Oxford

University Press, is still very much alive, contains a large number of books which are not otherwise obtainable in so handy and simple a form. To me, their plainness is an additional charm, for I must admit that I do not care for the fancifully dressed books which are now the vogue. I have recently acquired three volumes of "The World's Classics", and I already possess between thirty and forty others. While we all owe great debts to Bohn, to "The Temple Classics", "The King's Classics", and "Everyman's Library", I find in "The World's Classics" a practical and unpretentious collection of great value. The books range from Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations" and Hume's "Essays", through a larger selection of Hazlitt's works than any other series affords, to a six volume edition of Burke, a nine volume Shakespeare, delightful volumes of selections from the letters of Cowper and Southey, a new edition of Tolstoy, an apparently complete Mrs. Gaskell and Sisters Brontë, to exceptional pieces like Nekrassov's "Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia", the three remarkable autobiographical works of Aksakov, and so through ancient and modern classics to that venture which at this moment is the cause of my particular commendation. This is nothing less than the publication of several of the lesser known works of Anthony Trollope. The Barsetshire novels we can get in various editions, but the notion of reprinting Trollope's Autobiography, and such novels as "The Belton Estate" and "The Claverings", is distinctly good and original. I hope the support given to these books will encourage the publishers to go on with the excellent work. At present the only edition of Trollope which contains any books of less fame than the Barset

shire series is that which was so bravely begun some years ago by John Lane in his "New Pocket Library". In that edition were published eleven volumes, including, besides the obvious selection, "Castle Richmond" and "The MacDermotts of Ballycloran". (The latter is now unfortunately out of print.) What I want to get hold of is a readable edition of the political novels of Trollope-"Phineas Finn", "Can You Forgive Her?", "Phineas Redux", and "The Prime Minister".

The death recently of William Archer means a loss to the theatre. He was at all times a devoted servant of the theatre; and although he had been a dramatic critic for so many years he never lost interest in going to see plays. He went to see them when he had not to do so. I cannot imagine any greater sign of devotion to the stage than this. I was myself at one time a dramatic critic, and although the length of my service was not above two or three years at the utmost, it is now with the greatest difficulty that I drag myself to the theatre. Archer, on the other hand, was a devotee. When I saw him about ten days before his death, he was looking forward eagerly to a visit that same afternoon to "Fratricide Punished", the old German play upon the theme of Hamlet which has recently been given in London for a few matinée performances. He was full of interest in this play, and during a part of our lunch talked about it with a freshness and vigor which gave no hint of his illness. Any dramatic critic of Archer's keenness and integrity H. G. Wells at one time committed himself to the description of Archer's integrity as "unscrupulous", so terribly immanent was it in his every act and speech

would be a loss to the community, but Archer was much more than a dramatic critic. His activities were immense. He had translated and established Ibsen in this country; he had done as much as any man except Mr. Shaw himself - to establish Shaw in the modern theatre. He had entered upon schemes for the practical improvement of the theatre, had done good work in connection with the determining of the nature of the Elizabethan stage, had been a prominent member of the Rationalist Press Association, and contributed to the number of its publications; and he had found time to write many plays, of which one only, "The Green Goddess", as far as I know, was ever produced. The surprising thing about "The Green Goddess" is that nobody expected such a play from Archer. Yet it appears that, like so many more of us, he had a passion for detective stories, and the wild play of sensation was as natural to him as the translation of Ibsen or the writing of replies to H. G. Wells upon the nature of God, or the composition of serious works upon the problems engaging the attention of the American people. It is a fact that when the notion of "The Green Goddess" occurred to Archer he applied to both Sir Arthur Pinero and Mr. Shaw with the suggestion that they should collaborate with him in writing the play. Both declined. He undertook the task himself, with the results that are well known. All his friends rejoiced at the comparative affluence which this play assured to Archer for the rest of his life. He immediately gave up writing dramatic criticism, stating that a dramatist should not express in print his views upon the works of other dramatists. The decision was characteristic. I believe he refused to accept any royalties upon

his translations of Ibsen when they were performed. Had he accepted Had he accepted

such royalties he would have been a rich man; but he preferred to go his honorable way, doing for what he regarded as the truth's sake such work as appealed to him. In person very austere, unaffected, and reserved, Archer was never what would be called a lively companion; but he was always ready to talk and to listen with patience and gravity. He was also very sweet tempered. When I last saw him he was speaking about the experiments which only recently have been attracting so much attention in England, although they have long been known by those who were abreast of such matters, in the course of which Professor Gilbert Murray, from his place in another room, was able to repeat a large proportion of test speeches or allusions made by his friends in secret conclave. As is now known, Professor Murray disliked and dislikes giving these performances, but they have interest and importance for all who care for various aspects of psychology, telepathy, and other matters of which I have no understanding. Professor Murray attributes his gift to hyperæsthesia. Lord Balfour says this is absurd. A scientist who wrote to the "Times" alleged that an explanation was to be found in the transmission of sound waves; and was promptly contradicted by a fellow scientist. Whatever the explanation, it would seem that Professor Murray is a very dangerous fellow to have in the next room if one is discussing secrets. Archer would not commit him

self to any explanation. He was content, with his cautious mind, to await developments. Meanwhile, there is some reason to suppose that Archer himself had a gift perhaps the most valuable gift a dramatic critic could

have. He is said to have possessed the power of going to sleep in any stall in any theatre, and of waking up infallibly whenever anything of moment was said upon the stage. In the intervals of the play, instead of leaving his stall and as so many dramatic critics do – going to see what all the other dramatic critics think of the play (this is one explanation of the unanimity of the London press regarding all plays), Archer used to pull a book out of his pocket and read it until the curtain rose again. The book, it is alleged, was always a detective story. I do not believe this. But it serves to show that Archer was one of those who waste not a minute of the day.

Two months ago I spoke here of the discovery of a "lost" work by Charles Lamb. At that time I had not seen the book, and I was unaware that E. V. Lucas questioned its authenticity. I learn now that Mr. Lucas is still unconvinced that this book is by Lamb. From every other source, moreover, although I have had no opportunity of examining the book for myself, I hear that there is no trace whatever of Lamb's hand in the production. I think some reference to these facts is due, because, as far as I can tell, Mr. Shorter, the literary sponsor of the book, stands somewhat alone in attributing it to Lamb. It is still believed by several experts, including T. J. Wise, that Lamb wrote such a book, and it is to be hoped that if this is not the one the real Simon Pure will presently turn up. Meanwhile, the new book of "Ranks and Dignities" will not oust "The King and Queen of Hearts" as the prime authentic find among missing Lamb treasures. SIMON PURE