vein of literary capacity, who never did more than tremble upon
the verge of success, and hardly, if at all, went beyond promise. He was
unlucky in marrying Amy, a rather heartless woman, whose ambition was far
in excess of her insight, for economic position Reardon had none. He writes
books to please a small group. The books fail to please. Jasper in the main
is right--there is only a precarious place for any creative litterateur
between the genius and the swarm of ephemera or journalists. A man writes
either to please the hour or to produce something to last, relatively a
long time, several generations--what we call 'permanent.' The intermediate
position is necessarily insecure. It is not really wanted. What is lost by
society when one of these mediocre masterpieces is overlooked? A sensation,
a single ray in a sunset, missed by a small literary coterie! The circle is
perhaps eclectic. It may seem hard that good work is overwhelmed in the
cataract of production, while relatively bad, garish work is rewarded. But
so it must be. 'The growing flood of literature swamps every thing but
works of primary genius.' Good taste is valuable, especially when it takes
the form of good criticism. The best critics of contemporary books (and
these are by no means identical with the best critics of the past and its
work) are those who settle intuitively upon the writing that is going to
appeal more largely to a future generation, when the attraction of novelty
and topicality has subsided. The same work is done by great men. They
anticipate lines of action; philosophers generally follow (Machiavelli's
theories the practice of Louis XI., Nietzsche's that of Napoleon I.). The
critic recognises the tentative steps of genius in letters. The work of
fine delicacy and reserve, the work that follows, lacking the real
originality, is liable to neglect, and _may_ become the victim of ill-luck,
unfair influence, or other extraneous factors. Yet on the whole, so
numerous are the publics of to-day, there never, perhaps, was a time when
supreme genius or even supreme talent was so sure of recognition. Those who
rail against these conditions, as Gissing seems here to have done, are
actuated consciously or unconsciously by a personal or sectional
disappointment. It is akin to the crocodile lament of the publisher that
good modern literature is neglected by the public, or the impressionist's
lament about the great unpaid greatness of the great unknown--th