But rapid consumption supervenes, and relieves
the author from the embarrassing position into which he had brought
himself.
This is all the story that Mary Smith has to tell; and it will be seen,
that, so far as the incidents are concerned, it is commonplace enough.
It is not distinguished by one novel incident, or one fresh character,
except, perhaps, the muscular divine. Even in the grouping and
narration of its old incidents it exhibits no dramatic power, and
little skill of characterization in the portraiture of its personages.
And not only does a matter-of-fact air pervade the narrative, but the
tale is told with such reticence of fact as well as of feeling, that it
reveals but little of the real life of a London courtesan, and leaves
the reader almost as ignorant as he was when he took up the book of
what it is that makes the horror of such existence; all of which might
have been imparted without any violation of the decorum proper to such
a book, and which, therefore, should not have been withheld. The book,
too, is much too goody-goody. There is too much preaching throughout
it, and in certain parts a suddenness in the kneeling down to pray that
is quite startling. This stupid sort of goodness helps much to defeat
the purpose of the work.
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