who enjoy hypnotic fiction,
or whose prejudices have been effectively subdued by Mr. du Maurier's
tact and talent. Must we then confess that our instinct has been
unjust and unreasonable, and give it up? Or--since we _must_ like
_Trilby_, and there is no help for it--shall we enjoy the tale under
protest and in spite of its hypnotism?

Analysis of an Aversion.

I think my first objection to these hypnotic tales is the terror they
inspire. I am not talking of ordinary human terror, which, of course,
is the basis of much of the best tragedy. We are terrified by the
story of Macbeth; but it is with a rational and a salutary terror. We
are aware all the while that the moral laws are at work. We see a
hideous calamity looming, approaching, imminent: but we can see that
it is the effect of causes which have been duly exhibited to us. We
can reason it out: we know where we stand: our conscience approves the
punishment even while our pity calls out against it. And when the blow
falls, it shakes away none of our belief in the advantages of virtuous
conduct. It leaves the good old impregnable position, "Be virtuous and
you will be happy," stronger than ever. But the terror of these
hypnotic stories resembles that of a child in a dark room. For
artistic reasons too obvious to need pointing out, the hypnotizer in
these stories is always the villain of the piece. For the same or
similar reasons, the "subject" is always a person worthy of our
sympathy, and is usually a woman. Let us suppose it to be a good and
beautiful woman--for that is the commonest case. The gives us to
understand that by hypnotism this good and beautiful woman is for a
while completely in the power of a man who is _ex hypothesi_ a beast,
and who _ex hypothesi_ can make her commit any excesses that his
beastliness may suggest. Obviously we are removed outside the moral
order altogether; and in its place we are presented with a state of
things in which innocence, honesty, love, and the rest are entirely at
the disposal and under the rule of malevolent brutality; the result,
as presented to us, being qualified only by such tact as the author
may choose to display. That Mr. du Maurier has displayed great tact is
extremely creditable to Mr. du Maurier, and might have been predicted
of him. But it does not alter the fact that a form of fiction which
leaves us at the mercy of an author's tact is a very dangerous form in
a world which contains so few Du Mauriers. I