[_10 Mar. '10_]
I have read Mr. C.E. Montague's "A Hind Let Loose" (Methuen, 6s.), and I
am not going to advise any one to follow my example. I do not desire to
prejudice his circulation, but I have my conscience to consider. This is
not a book for the intelligent masses; it would be folly to recommend it
to them. It is for the secretly arrogant few, those who really do "know
that they are august" within, whatever garment of diffident and mild
modesty they may offer to the world. Only those few can understand it. All
admiration other than theirs will be either ignorant or dog-like--or both.
Everybody on the Press will say that "A Hind Let Loose" is a novel about
journalism. It is not. Journalism is merely the cloak hanging windily
about it, as her cloak hung about Mrs. Colum Fay. It is a novel about the
pride of the Ego. It is the fearful and yet haughty cry of originality
against the vast tendency of the age, which tendency is that people should
live in the age as in an intellectual barracks. Hedlum, the conversational
clubman and successful barrister, is the real villain of the story, though
he appears but for a moment, "Hedlum would take up all that was current,
trim it and pare its nails, and give it his blessing and send it out into
the world to get on, and it did famously. You felt that if it was not true
then the fault was truth's; there must be some upper order of truth, not
universally known, to which he had conformed and to which the facts, in
the vulgar sense, could not have been loyal. All of him helped the effect.
He was of the settled age--fifty or so--handsome, with the controlled
benignity, the mellowed precision, the happy, distinguished melancholy
sometimes united in a good-looking judge.... You watched the weighing of
each word at its exit from the shaved, working lips, and the closure of
their inexorable adamant behind its heels. As the last commonplace of club
gossip, smoke-room heroics, and music-hall sentiment issued from these
portals, transfigured by the moderate discount that made it twice itself,
you not only saw it was final truth, or virility's quintessential emotion;
you felt he had done something decisive, even gallant, and that you were
in it--a fine fellow, too, in your way; and you quickened; you lived back
and forward, back to the blithe days at school when they first taught you
never to think your own thoughts or take what came in a way of your own,
but to pool your brains with the rest and 'throw yourself into the life of
the school,' and on to your early manhood's deeper training in resemblance
to others, and so to the good day, always coming and always here, always
to be had by him who wills it with his might, when the imitative shall
inherit the earth."
* * * * *
I quote this, the very essence of the work, in order to choke off the
feeble, the kind, and the altruistic. I would not hawk this book. If I had
foreknown what it was I would never have mentioned it. I would have
mentioned it to none, sure that, by the strange force of gravity which
inevitably draws together a book and its fit reader, the novel would in
the end reach the only audience worthy of it. I say no more about it.