is still dealing with him. With his kicks of rage he suddenly mingles a dance of apprehension lest his mother should have tears in her eyes. Even while he is still explicitly impenitent and defiant he tries to pull her round to the light, that he may see her face. It is but a moment before the other passion of remorse comes to make havoc of the helpless child, and the first passion of anger is quelled outright.
Mrs. Meynell has no successors among the writers of to-day; she seems for the moment to be the last of her line. Reasons for this might be found: as, for example, the current revolt against artificiality (which may be good), leading to a contempt for formal discipline (which is bad); or, again, the transformation of the quiet Essay into the alert, immediate Article, timed to catch and please the 8.15 to Town. And catch it, indeed, it does—but how much it leaves behind! Some of the greatest gifts, perhaps, that lie in penmanship. Yet we need not be too concerned. There are permanent elements in life, as permanent as the blue of the sky; they may be clouded for a little, but always they recur; and the art of Mrs. Meynell stands for these. A very little while, and our loss will be discovered, there will be a startled cry of "Halt!"—and with the great grinding and commotion that always accompanies these reactions the movement will begin to reverse. When that day comes let us hope somebody will have the wisdom to remember this book and use it as a guide; for it indicates the farthest point yet reached by English prose along the line of its surest advance; and it is from its last page that its next advance must spring. Meanwhile—here it is for the consolation of readers a little dizzied by the hearty chaos of to-day: a calm centre to the storm—a testing-place for standard—a constant minister and stimulant to that candour, that courtesy, and that honour unafraid, which are the essentials of all "style," in life or letters.
Liverpool Courier, 1914.
