To sum up, these are two most entertaining books by one of the writers for whose next book one searches eagerly in the publishers’ lists.  If, however, he will not resent one small word of caution, it is that he should not let us find his name there too often.  As far as we can see, he cannot write too much for us.  But he may very easily write too much for his own health.

“TRILBY”

Sept. 14, 1895.  Hypnotic Fiction.

A number of people—­and I am one—­cannot “abide” hypnotism in fiction.  In my own case the dislike has been merely instinctive, and I have never yet found time to examine the instinct and discover whether or not it is just and reasonable.  The appearance of a one-volume edition of Trilby—­undoubtedly the most successful tale that has ever dealt with hypnotism—­and the success of the dramatic version of Trilby presented a few days ago by Mr. Tree, invite one to apply the test.  Clearly there are large numbers of people who enjoy hypnotic fiction, or whose prejudices have been effectively subdued by Mr. du Maurier’s tact and talent.  Must we then confess that our instinct has been unjust and unreasonable, and give it up?  Or—­since we must like Trilby, and there is no help for it—­shall we enjoy the tale under protest and in spite of its hypnotism?

Analysis of an Aversion.

I think my first objection to these hypnotic tales is the terror they inspire.  I am not talking of ordinary human terror, which, of course, is the basis of much of the best tragedy.  We are terrified by the story of Macbeth; but it is with a rational and a salutary terror.  We are aware all the while that the moral laws are at work.  We see a hideous calamity looming, approaching, imminent:  but we can see that it is the effect of causes which have been duly exhibited to us.  We can reason it out:  we know where we stand:  our conscience approves the punishment even while our pity calls out against it.  And when the blow falls, it shakes away none of our belief in the advantages of virtuous conduct.  It leaves the good old impregnable position, “Be virtuous and you will be happy,” stronger than ever.  But the terror of these hypnotic stories resembles that of a child in a dark room.  For artistic reasons too obvious to need pointing out, the hypnotizer in these stories is always the villain of the piece.  For the same or similar reasons, the “subject” is always a person worthy of our sympathy, and is usually a woman.  Let us suppose it to be a good and beautiful woman—­for that is the commonest case.  The gives us to understand that by hypnotism this good and beautiful woman is for a while completely in the power of a man who is ex hypothesi a beast, and who ex hypothesi can make her commit any excesses that his beastliness may suggest.  Obviously we are removed outside the moral order altogether; and in its place we are presented with a state of things in which innocence,