The Angel and the Author, and Others

and the Mid

Peerage-gilt-edged and bound in red, a tasteful-looking volume-ever has been and ever will remain a drawing-room ornament and not a social necessity. Now what is to become of these writers-of us, if for the moment I may be allowed to speak as representative of this rapidly-diminishing yet nevertheless still numerous section of the world of Art and Letters? Formerly, provided we were master

which George Eliot and Dickens drew their characters no longer interests the great B. P. Hetty Sorre

in lady who lived in a semi-detached villa in a by-street of Hammersmith. Is Art merely a question of geography, and if so what is the exact limit? Is it the four-mile cab radius from Charing Cross? Is the c

to him, "and there is an end to the mat

ook likely to appeal to the class that inhabits

elligence live,

ell aware, at Forest Gate which is Epping way, and entertains you on Kakemonos whenever you call upon him. You know what I mean, of course. I think 'Kakemono' is right. They are long things; they look like coloured hieroglyphics printed on brown paper. He gets behind them and holds them up above his head on the end of a stick so that y

ry caricatures, the Rowlandson and Gilray school of things. I don't call them artistic myself; they make me ill to look

torted my critical friend, a

urned. "It is what

in the suburbs," he admitted. "B

ested, "they sing with the Scotch bard: 'My heart is in

that way if you

I agreed. "It makes life easier fo

heroine of which resided in Onslow Gardens. An eminent critic observed of it that: "It fell short only by a little way of being a serious contribution to English literature." Consultation with the keeper of the cabman's shelter at Hyde Park Corner suggested to me that the "little way" the critic had in mind meas

or writer whose temperament will prompt him to make respectful study of his betters. A reasonable supply of high-class novels might always have been depended upon; the trouble is that the public now demands that all stories must be of the upper ten thousand. Auld Robin Grey must be Sir Robert Grey, South African millionaire; and Jamie, the youngest son of the ol

lton Hotel. The villain is a Russian Prince. The Baronet of a simpler age has been unable, poor fellow, to keep pace with the times. What self-respecting heroine would abandon her husband and children f

e would have been called a farce. It is now a "drawing-room comedietta. All rights reserved." The dramatis person? consist of the Earl of Danbury, the Marquis of Rotte

story worth consideration was the life of great men and women, and Tennyson that we "needs must love the highest." So literature, striving ever upward, ignores plain Romola fo

describe as-"desirable town mansions, suitable for gentlemen of means." A living dramatist, who should know, tells us that drama does not occur in the bac

ing play: they always say that. I waited, wondering to what other manager he would recommen

"Your hero is a barrister: my public take no interest

g," I argued. "A Solicitor

nt. "Let him be Solicitor Gene

a not

ings. Why not the daughter of an hotel proprietor? Even that will be risky, but we might venture it." An inspiration came

vanced. The doors of the British Drama were closed for the time being on all but members of the aristocracy, and I did

rts we regard them fondly: the folding-doors thrown back, they make rather a fine apartment. The only drama that we know takes place in such rooms: the hero sitting in the gentleman's easy chair, of green repp: the heroine in the lady

we lay bare the souls of Duchesses, explain the heart-throbs of peers of the realm? Some of my friends who, being Conservative, attend Primrose "tourneys" (or is it "Courts of love"? I speak as an outsider. Something medi?val, I know it is) do, it is true, occasionally converse with titled ladies. But the period for conversation is always limited owing to the impatience of the man behind; and I doubt if the interview is ever of much practical use to them, as conveying knowledge of the workings of the aristocratic mind.

no more from them regarding the middle-classes. At once they set to work to describe the mental sufferings of Grooms of the Bed-chamber, the hidden emot

e public grows more impatient of literature dealing merely with the m

ithout conscience, counsel me in fli

efending their conversation either as regards style or matter: I am merely quoting.) "And even

ow. I want to mix with the aristocracy, study them, understand them; so that I may earn my living in

know how t