human
Secret Agent as an example of modern ugliness in fiction: a novel that is simply steeped in the finest beauty from end to end. I do not suppose that the _Edinburgh Review_ has any moulding influence upon the evolution of the art of fiction in this country. But such nonsense may, after all, do harm by confusing the minds of people who really are anxious to encourage what is best, strongest, and most sane. The Reviewer in this instance, for example, classes, as serious, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, and John Galsworthy, who are genuine creative forces, with mere dignified unimportant sentimentalizers like Mr. W.B. Maxwell. While he was on the business of sifting the serious from the unserious I wonder he didn't include the authors of
gpt
Three Weeks and
human
The Heart of a Child among the serious! Perhaps because the latter wrote
gpt
Pigs in Clover and the former was condemned by the booksellers! Nobody could have a lower opinion of
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Three Weeks