OUGHT STORIES TO BE TRUE?



There was once upon a time a charming young lady, possessed of much
taste, who was asked by her anxious parent, the years passing and
family expenditure not decreasing, which of the numerous and eligible
young men then paying court to her she liked the best. She replied,
that was her difficulty; she could not make up her mind which she
liked the best. They were all so nice. She could not possibly
select one to the exclusion of all the others. What she would have
liked would have been to marry the lot; but that, she presumed, was
impracticable.

I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much in charm and beauty as
in indecision of mind, when the question is that of my favourite
author or my favourite book. It is as if one were asked one's
favourite food. There are times when one fancies an egg with one's
tea. On other occasions one dreams of a kipper. To-day one clamours
for lobsters. To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster
again. One determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet of bread
and milk and rice pudding. Asked suddenly to say whether I preferred
ices to soup, or beef-steak to caviare, I should be completely
nonplussed.

There may be readers who care for only one literary diet. I am a
person of gross appetites, requiring many authors to satisfy me.
There are moods when the savage strength of the Bronte sisters is
companionable to me. One rejoices in the unrelieved gloom of
"Wuthering Heights," as in the lowering skies of a stormy autumn.