r-villes' from being wholly nauseous, is absent from 'A Modern
Lover' and 'A Drama in Muslin,' and its flavour is but faintly
perceptible in 'Esther Waters.' Except on the distinct understanding
that Thomas Hardy and George Moore are bracketed here, for the sake of
convenience, as being both 'under French encouragement,' it would be a
gross critical injustice to couple their names together at all. It is
not one man of letters in a hundred who has Mr. Hardy's mere literary
faculty, which is native and brilliant, whilst Mr. Moore's has been
painstakingly hunted for and brought from afar, and is, after much
polishing, still a trifle dull. Mr. Thomas Hardy is distinctly one of
those men who see things through an atmosphere of their own. Mr. George
Moore has borrowed his atmosphere. The one is a man of genius as well as
labour, and the other is a man of labour only.

It is very much of a pity that, a year or two ago, somebody's sense
of Mr. Moore's position in the world of letters should have been very
absurdly emphasised. It was solemnly advertised that a certain number of
copies of a book of his might be had on large paper, with the autograph
of the author. This was to be regretted, for Mr. Moore, in his own way,
is worth taking seriously, whilst the trick is one of those which, as a
rule, can only be played by the poorest kind of literary outsider. But
that the author should have permitted himself to be thus made ridiculous
is a characteristic thing, and one not to be passed in silence if we
wish to understand him.

Consulting the critics, one of the first things we find about Mr. Moore
is that he is an observer. As a matter of fact, that is absolutely
what he is not. He is so far from being an observer that he is that
diametrically opposite person, a man with a notebook. The man who
amongst men of letters deserves to be ranked as an observer is he who
naturally and without effort sees things in their just place, aspect,
proportion, and perspective. The man who is often falsely described
by the title which expresses this faculty is a careful and painstaking
soul, who is strenuously on the watch for detail, and who takes much
trouble to fill his pages with it.

Let me offer a concrete illustration. In 'Esther Waters' Mr. Moore is
curiously and meaninglessly emphatic in his description of a certain
room in which the heroine of his action sleeps. Esther, we are told,
slipped on her nightdress and got into bed. It was a bra