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Updated: May 14, 2025
If we only see or feel ambition as a petty and sordid thing, in a petty and sordid person, we cannot make a tragic passion of ambition; if jealousy is a little vice with no more than small results it cannot be the theme of imaginative literature; if the religious ideal cannot be conceived as possessing the whole soul, we cannot appreciate the religious passion of a John Inglesant; if revenge is no more than spite there can be no Hamlet, nor a Lear if arrogance is unmixed with love and honour.
There was a certain grotesqueness communicated to the face by large, thin, fly-away whiskers of the kind that used to be known as "weepers" or "Dundrearies." He had then just dawned upon the world as a celebrity. I had myself as an under-graduate read and re-read and revelled in John Inglesant, and I was intensely curious to see him and worship him. But he was not a very worshipful man.
Lord Salisbury is greater than Dean Swift as a political writer; the author of "John Inglesant" is a finer stylist than any man of the last two centuries; as a writer of prose no man known in the world's history can be compared to Mr. Ruskin; with Messrs. Froude, Gardiner, Lecky, Trevelyan, Bishop Stubbs, and Mr.
Most of his characters, however, are so overdrawn and caricatured as to be hardly true to life. In the "Romance of John Inglesant," by J. H. Shorthouse, we have a remarkable picture of an unusually gifted youth, who played an important role in the days of Cromwell and King Charles, and who was long poised in soul between the Church of Rome and the English party.
The rough Puritan Thorne had made her proposals at which she revolted, but she and Inglesant confessed love to each other; she saw, however, that they had a way of life marked out for themselves by an inner impulse and light. This calling they must follow and abandon love, and now John plunged into the war on the side of the King.
May, some charming water-colours for Robina and Ethel, besides various lesser delights for the small fry, his own and the flock at Vale Leston, besides a cushion for Alda's sofa. John Inglesant had been bought by a connoisseur by special commission. He heard at every stall triumphant accounts of the grand outlay of the Travis Underwoods and Rotherwoods, and just the contrary of Mrs.
John Inglesant is not a wholly artistic hook, because it is ill-proportioned and the structure is weak the middle is not in the centre, and it leaves off, not because the writer appears to have come to the end, but because it could not well be longer. There is no balance of episodes.
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