ment
on either side. But in the limits to which I am now restricted it is
impossible to do justice to the discussion, and it would, indeed, be
barely possible to state even the whole of its terms.

I am forced to content myself, therefore, with a temperamental
expression of opinion in place of a judicial one, pleading only that the
arguments against me are recognised and respected, although I have no
present opportunity of recapitulating and disputing them. It appears,
then--to speak merely as an advocate _ex parte_--to us of the old school
that an essential part of the fiction writer's duty is to be harmless.
That, of course, to the men of the cayenne-pepper-caster creed seems
a very milky sort of proclamation, but to us it is a matter of grave
moment. I have always thought, for my own part, that the novelist might
well take for his motto the last five words of that passage in 'The
Tempest' where we read: 'This isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet
airs, which _give delight and hurt not!_ Simple as the motto seems, it
will be found to offer a fairly wide range. When Reade tilted against
prison abuses and the abuses of private asyla, or when Dickens rode down
on the law of Chancery as administered in his day, or when Thackeray
scourged snobbery and selfishness in society, they were all well within
the limits of this rule. We experience a delight which hurts not, but
on the contrary is entirely tonic and inspiring, when Satire swings his
lash on the bared back of Hypocrisy or cruel and intentioned Vice. We
experience a delight which hurts not, but on the contrary freshens the
whole flood of feeling within us, when a true artist deals truly with
the sorrows and infirmities of our kind. To offer it as our intent
to give delight and hurt not is no mere profession of an artistic
Grundyism. It is the proclamation of what is to our minds the simple
truth, that fiction should be a joyful, an inspiring, a sympathetic,
and a helpful art. There are certain questions the public discussion of
which we purposely avoid. There are certain manifestations of character
the exhibition of which we hold to be something like a crime.

Mr. Hardy would plead, and with perfectly apparent propriety, that he
does not choose to write for 'the young person.' But I answer that he
cannot help himself. He cannot choose his audience. Fiction appeals to
everybody, and fiction so robust, so delicate and charming as his own
finds its way into all hands