I confess I am pleased with his temper, which is that of prudence. "I
have not read the books," he says, and immediately he adds, "and if I
have read them I have forgotten." This is excellent caution. And I like
his style: it is unartificial and bears the stamp of manly sincerity. As
a reported piece of prose this declaration is easy to read and not
difficult to believe. Many books have not been read; still more have
been forgotten. As a piece of civic oratory this declaration is
strikingly effective. Calculated to fall in with the bent of the popular
mind, so familiar with all forms of forgetfulness, it has also the power
to stir up a subtle emotion while it starts a train of thought--and what
greater force can be expected from human speech? But it is in
naturalness that this declaration is perfectly delightful, for there is
nothing more natural than for a grave City Father to forget what the
books he has read once--long ago--in his giddy youth maybe--were about.
And the books in question are novels, or, at any rate, were written as
novels. I proceed thus cautiously (following my illustrious example)
because being without fear and desiring to remain as far as possible
without reproach, I confess at once that I have not read them.
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