This quarterly produced some very admirable
work; its contributors were all, for a year or two, as clever as they
were--young and as cynical as either. The world was dressed in a powder
puff and danced beneath Chinese lanterns and was as wicked as it could be
in artificial rose-gardens. It was all great fun for a year or two....
Then _The Green Volume_ died, people began to whisper about slums and
drainage, and Swedish drill for ten minutes every morning was considered an
admirable thing. On the edge of this new wave came "Reuben Hallard,"
combining as it did a certain amount of affectation with a good deal of
naked truth, and having the rocks of Cornwall as well as its primroses for
its background. It also told a story with a beginning to it and an end to
it, and it contained the beautiful character of Mrs. Poveret, a character
that was undoubtedly inspired by that afternoon that Peter had with his
mother..
In addition to all this it must be remembered that the world was entirely
unprepared for the book's arrival. It had been in no fashion heralded and
until a long review appeared in _The Daily Globe_ no one noticed it in any
way. Then the thing really began. The reviewers were glad to find something
in a dead season, about which a column or two might possibly be written;
the general public was delighted to discover a novel that was considered by
good judges to be literature and that, nevertheless, had as good a story as
though it weren't--its faults were many and some of its virtues accidental,
but it certainly deserved success as thoroughly as did most of its
contemporaries.
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