Interludes being Two Essays, a Story, and Some Verses — A Reader’s Guide

Judgment and Its Abdication

The essay "On Criticism" defines criticism as "the art of judging" and laments that most people find it "too much bother to form a correct judgment." Smith traces the proliferation of bad art and architecture to this widespread apathy: "Bad things continue to be produced in profusion … because a vast number of people do not know that the things are bad, and do not care." He insists that right judgment matters not only in art but in all moral life, invoking the prayer for "a right judgment in all things." Yet the essay itself is a performance of careful judgment—measured, reasoned, and addressed to a society that "desires to form just and proper judgments." The tension lies in Smith's awareness that his audience may already be the converted, while the indifferent majority remains beyond the reach of argument.

Folly in the Margins

The story section shifts abruptly to a group of young men—Glenville, Barton, Thornton—who are meant to be studying mathematics and classics under the timid Mr. Porkington. Instead, they smoke pipes, drink beer at noon, and trade jokes about "the square root of minus three eggs." Glenville quips that Socrates was a fool for accepting death without having done anything to deserve it; nowadays, he says, a man expects to "hit some man on the head, or stab some woman in the breast, first." The humor is cynical and self-aware, but the students' idleness is precisely the kind of lazy judgment the essay condemns. They do not care whether their answers are right or whether their tutor is respected. Smith lets the story's farce speak for itself, offering no authorial comment—a structural irony that leaves readers to judge the gap between precept and practice.

Donkeys, Drags, and Domestic Skirmishes

The story's comic energy comes from petty conflicts: Mrs. Porkington complains that her husband rented a house too far from the beach; the "Drag" (a nickname for an aunt) is called an "irremovable nuisance" who increases the cost of coaching; the two women require separate donkey chaises after squabbling over who needs one. Glenville's mathematical metaphor—that "an irremovable nuisance would diminish the value of an estate"—treats human relationships as problems to be solved by logic, while the actual solution (two chaises) is merely an expense. Smith's dialogue captures the rhythm of banter and complaint, with characters who are never quite as clever as they think. The tutor, Mr. Porkington, retreats from the smoke-filled room "feebly," promising to return "when the air was a little clearer." The detail is small but telling: authority has no force here.

Readers will find that Interludes rewards attention to its structural play. The essay and story do not simply alternate; they interrogate each other. Smith never resolves the contradiction between the ideal of critical judgment and the reality of cheerful negligence. Instead, he leaves the reader to hold both modes in mind—a fitting exercise for anyone who takes seriously the art of judging.

In Interludes, Horace Smith gently mocks our longing for high ideals while indulging in life’s chuckle-filled messes—that same tender patience appears in the quiet, unrushed letters Hearn wrote to Watkin, where friendship outlasts every disagreement. Both books whisper that our contradictions are not failures, but the very texture of a well-lived life. Letters from the Raven: Correspondence of L. Hearn with Henry Watkin — Story, Setting & Ideas holds that same warm, forgiving light.