don an immense condescension. "Here was the greatest hero in the world," he writes ecstatically, "who had conquered the greatest genius, prostrating his heart and being before his God in his venerable age, and praying for His mercy."
It is the most naïve impression on record. That the Duke and the Duke's scullion might perchance stand equidistant from the Almighty was an idea which failed to present itself to Haydon's ardent mind.
The pious fiction put forward in the interest of dissent was more impressive, more emotional, more belligerent, and, in some odd way, more human than "Cœlebs," or "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain." Miss Grace Kennedy's stories are as absurd as Miss More's, and—though the thing may sound incredible—much duller; but they give one an impression of painful earnestness, and of that heavy atmosphere engendered by too close a contemplation of Hell. A pious Christian lady, with local standards, a narrow intelligence, and a comprehensive ignorance of life, is not by election a novelist. Neither do polemics lend themselves with elasticity
