Sandys called no one's attention to himself;
his subject was an experience common to humanity, to be borne this way
or that; and without vainglory he showed how it should be borne, so
that those looking into the deep waters of the book (made clear by his
pellucid style) might see, not the author, but themselves.
A few of the critics said that if the book added nothing to his
reputation, it detracted nothing from it, but probably their pen added
this mechanically when they were away. What annoyed him more was the
two or three who stated that, much as they liked "Unrequited Love,"
they liked the "Letters" still better. He could not endure hearing a
good word said for the "Letters" now.
The great public, I believe, always preferred the "Letters," but among
important sections of it the new book was a delight, and for various
reasons. For instance, it was no mere story. That got the thoughtful
public. Its style, again, got the public which knows it is the only
public that counts.
Society still held aloof (there was an African traveller on view that
year), but otherwise everything was going on well, when the bolt came,
as ever, from the quarter whence it was least expected.
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