The Pace That Kills

A review from Belford's Magazine, Volume 4: "The Pace that Kills," Edgar Saltus has depicted the truth as he sees it. He has created a character entirely bad. There is in Roland Mistrial not one good or admirable trait, and in this the author's idealism manifests itself. He has conceived a personage absolutely Satanic-a being more devilish than Eugene Sue's monsters. While such creatures may exist among men, common experience proves that the worst of mankind possess...
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A review from Belford's Magazine, Volume 4:

"The Pace that Kills," Edgar Saltus has depicted the truth as he sees it. He has created a character entirely bad. There is in Roland Mistrial not one good or admirable trait, and in this the author's idealism manifests itself. He has conceived a personage absolutely Satanic-a being more devilish than Eugene Sue's monsters. While such creatures may exist among men, common experience proves that the worst of mankind possess some redeeming traits. Couthon, who could demand from the French Revolutionary Tribunal a hundred human lives for his fournée, could yet fondle a spaniel and shed tears over the broken leg of a pet cat. Robespierre, that atrabilious chimera of the Terror, loved his vixen sister with the one soft spot in that adamantine heart.

But grant the truth of Roland Mistrial as an artistic conception, and the creation is a powerful one. Grant the Laocoön, and the writhing serpents and the boys with the anatomy of grown men are wonders of technique. Having sketched his outline, Mr. Saltus fills it in with masterly touches. His handicraft is well-nigh perfect; no detail is missing, no tint is too weak or too brilliant, all is harmonious. There never was stronger or more clever writing; and, it may be added, never was art so superb devoted to the production of more unpleasant results.

Mr. Saltus leaps fully armed into the midst of his subject, like Minerva from the head of loves He grasps his situation firmly, like a skilful strategist, without hesitation or doubt. "The Pace that Kills" is a model of keen, cold, uncompromising and ungentle art. The author does not advertise himself in the prologue, after the manner of the school of Hugo. He exhibits no manifest of the goods he is laden with, and prepares no sounding index to that which is to come after. Without the hint of prophecy, ho plunges into the middle of things, and with a dozen sweeping cuts of the tool presents you a Roland Mistrial: a figure which shall stun and amaze, a creature you may abhor and deny, but which you must recognize. We admire the rugged Torso, and linger over the Raising of Lazarus. Mr. Saltus's creations compel your attention while they repulse your sympathies. "This is horrible," you exclaim, "but it is great;'' and you are compelled to admit its greatness, while you qualify your criticism with abundant epithets of dislike and abhorrence.