ity, and because it substituted the imagination for the
soul. That is a dogmatic objection rather than a literary objection; and
I suppose he really disliked it because it reminded him later on of a
time when he was moving among shadows. But it was the first book in
which he spread his wings, and there is, I think, a fresh and ingenuous
beauty about it, as of a delighted adventure among new faculties and
powers.

I believe that the most beautiful book he ever wrote was _Richard
Raynal, Solitary_; and I know he thought so himself. Of course it is an
archaic book, and written, as musicians say, in a _mode_. It is easier
in some ways to write a book in a style which is not authentically one's
own, and literary imitation is not the highest art; but _Richard Raynal_
has the beauty of a fine tapestry designed on antique lines, yet
replenished and enriched by modern emotion, like Tennyson's _Mort
d'Arthur_. Yet I am sure there is a deep charm of pure beauty in the
book, both of thought and handling, and I believe that he put into it
the best essence of his feeling and imagination.

As to his historical books, I can feel their vigour and vitality, and
their deft use of old hints and fragments. I remember once discussing
one of them with him, and saying that his description of Queen Elizabeth
seemed to me very vivid, but that it reminded me of a not very authentic
picture of that queen, in spangled crimson and lace, which hung in the
hall at Addington. Hugh laughed, and said: "Well, I must confess that
very picture was in my mind!"

With regard to his more modern stories it is impossible not to be
impressed by their lightness and swiftness, their flashes of beauty and
emotion, their quick rippling talk; but it is hard, at times, not to
feel them to be vitiated by their quite unconscious tendency to
represent a point of of view. They were once called by a malign reviewer
"the most detestable kind of tract," and though this is what the French
call a _saugrenu_ criticism, which implies something dull, boorish, and
provincial, yet it is easy to recognise what is meant. It is not unjust
to resent the appearance of the cultivated and sensitive Anglican,
highly bred and graceful, who is sure to turn out hard and
hollow-hearted, or the shabby, trotting, tobacco-scented Roman Catholic
priest, who is going to emerge at a crisis as a man of inspired dignity
and solemnity. Sometimes, undoubtedly, the books are too intent upon
expunging o