Jones was next so ill-advised as to turn to Miss Hague, and say
with a supercilious air that since they last met he had been trying to
read a novel, which he mentioned by name--a masterpiece of modern
fiction--and really he could not see the good of such works. Miss Hague
and he had disagreed on this subject before. She was an inveterate
novel-reader, and claimed kindred with a star of chief magnitude in the
profession, and to speak lightly of light literature in her presence
always brought her out warmly and vigorously in defence and praise of
it.
"No good in such works, Mr. Jones!" cried she. "My hair is gray, and
this is a solemn fact: for the conduct of life I have found far more
counsel and comfort in novels than in sermons, in week-day books than in
Sunday preachers!"
There was a startled silence. Miss Burleigh extended a gentle hand to
stop the impetuous old lady, but the words were spoken, and she could
only intervene as moderator: "Novels show us ourselves at a distance, as
it were. I think they are good both for instruction and reproof. The
best of them are but the Scripture parables in modern masquerade. Here
is one--the Prodigal Son of the nineteenth century, going out into the
world, wasting his substance with riotous living, suffering, repenting,
returning, and rejoiced over."
"Our Lord made people think: I am not aware that novels make people
think," said Mr. Jones with cool contempt.
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