'
A little later, having finished _The Egoist_,--
'I see now that Meredith belongs to that class of novelists with
whom I do not usually get on so well (_e.g._ Dickens), who create
and people worlds of their own so that one approaches the characters
with amusement, admiration, or contempt, not with liking or pity, as
with Hardy's people, into whom the author does not inject his own
exaggerated characteristics.'
The great Russians were unknown to Sorley when he died. What would he
not have found in those mighty seekers, with whom Hardy alone stands
equal? But whatever might have been his vicissitudes in that strange
company, we feel that Hardy could never have been dethroned in his
heart, for other reasons than that the love of the Wessex hills had
crept into his blood. He was killed on October 13, 1915, shot in the
head by a sniper as he led his company at the 'hair-pin' trench near
Hulluch.
[JANUARY, 1920.
_The Cry in the Wilderness_
We have in Mr Irving Babbitt's _Rousseau and Romanticism_ to deal with a
closely argued and copiously documented indictment of the modern mind.
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