THE BEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD Snt,—As an octogenarian and
a Victorian, I am often perplexed by the mentality of the present generation. That is an old recur- ring story, and I hope I am duly humble. I was much pleased, however, to be able to agree heartily with Mr. Maugham and Mr. Verschoyle in most cases when they praised, especially when they praised highly. But why is Mr. Verschoyle so slapdash in condemnation? He owns to a blind spot with regard to Dickens —but, surely, he cultivates blind spots. He has a perfect galaxy of blind spots. Surely some of the eminent writers whom he consigns to the rubbish-heap might be retrieved for further con- sideration. The tendency of modern criticism is to be as exclusive as possible, and wilful and changeable from year to year. I prefer the catholicity of George Saintsbury. It is fashionable nowadays to sneer at Victorian literature. No doubt it had its faults. So has the twentieth century. At any rate, Victorian literature had one characteristic which is worth reflecting on. It had a far wider appeal than the literature of today. The eminent writers of that age were national possessions, and the nation was proud of them. It was not merely a question of conventional homage. Many of them appealed to all sorts and kinds of people, high and low, intellectual and simple. There were never more people who could write good English than today, men and women of fine talent, and one or two of genius, but where are the writers with the old wide appeal? It is music and mathematics rather than literature as such—apart from books about things we want to learn about—that interest people most widely today.—Yours, &c.,
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