There was in the nineties, the late nineties and during the early years
of this century, and still is, a writer named George S. Street. He has
written some of the best things that have been thought concerning Lord
Byron, he has written them not as a romanticist, not as a Presbyterian,
but as a man of good sense. They are worthy of commendation. He has
written charmingly in criticism of eighteenth century writers, and of
the ghosts of an earlier Piccadilly. He has written tales of
contemporary life with a suavity, wherefrom the present writer at least
has learned a good deal, even if he has not yet put it into scriptorial
practice. (I haste to state this indebtedness.)
The writers of _mœurs contemporaines_ are so few, or rather there are
so few of them who can be treated under the heading "literature," that
the discovery or circulation of any such writer is no mean critical
action. Mr. Street is "quite as amusing as Stockton," with the infinite
difference that Mr. Street has made literature. Essays upon him are not
infrequent in volumes of English essays dealing with contemporary
authors. My impression is that he is not widely read in America (his
publishers will doubtless put me right if this impression is erroneous);
I can only conclude that the possession of a style, the use of a suave
and pellucid English has erected some sort of barrier.
"The Trials of the Bantocks," "The Wise and the Wayward," "The Ghosts of
Piccadilly," "Books of Essays," "The Autobiography of a Boy," "Quales
Ego," "Miniatures and Moods," are among his works, and in them the rare
but intelligent reader may take refuge from the imbecilities of the
multitude.