But with Sister Teresa the case is different. She is Huysmansized. Yet Mr. Moore has only used Huysmans as a spring-board—to employ a favorite expression of the French writer—for his narration of Sister Teresa’s doings in conventual seclusion. He knew, of course, that he could never hope to rival Huysmans’s matchless, if somewhat florid and machicolated, style, and it may be confessed at once that Sister Teresa is not so intense or so sincere a book as En Route. Nowhere, despite the exquisite resignation and Mozartean sweetness of Mr. Moore’s thirty-eighth chapter, is there anything that approaches the power of the wonderful first chapter in En Route, with its thundering symphonic description of the singing of the De Profundis. Nor are Teresa’s raptures and agonies to be compared to Durtal’s in that awful first night at La Trappe, though the Irish writer follows the French one closely enough. But Moore is tenderer, more poetic, than Huysmans. He has so highly individualized, so completely transposed, his character, that to him must only praise be awarded. As Russell Jacobus writes, in The Blessedness of Egoism, the secret of Goethe’s self-culture is “the faculty of drawing from everything—experience, books, and art—just the element required at that stage of one’s growth, and the faculty of obtaining, by a clairvoyant instinct, the experience, the book, the work of art which contains that needed element.” This Mr. Moore has always done—he confesses to it, to the “echo auguries” of his young manhood. The color of his mind is ever changing. It often displays the reverberating tints of a flying-fish in full flight.