Reading the article about Mrs. Ros made me think of W. Somerset Maugham’s short story The Creative Impulse, and his character Mrs. Forester, a fictional contender for the title.
I believe the word you’re looking for here is Scripture…
You’re scaring me. I thought that was reserved for Dianetics…
The Victorian novelist Ouida came in for some stick, so much do that she was credited with the line (in a tale about a dashing young hero who also rowed at Oxford):
“All rowed fast, but none so fast as stroke”.
Actually it seems this was a character in someone else’s novel, making a rude remark about her, but it tells you how she was seen.
And then there’s Mrs Henry Wood, whose “East Lynne” climaxes on a deathbed scene and the line “Dead! Dead! And never called me ‘Mother’!”
But could Mrs. Ros ever use a semicolon with the wit and subtlety that Mrs. Forester did? I very much doubt it.
The Eye of Argon has been briefly mentioned, but I can’t resist quoting the opening paragraphs. 
Full text here
From The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole (1764) - young Conrad is crushed by a mysterious giant helmet on his wedding day:
And yet this is the novel that established the Gothic tradition. It’s still in print. I have a copy, but I’ve never been able to finish it. Heck, it was even adapted as a comic book, back in the 1940s.
She laughed merrily at his wit, her soft brown lashes sweeping demurely over her startling gray blue eyes. She wiped away a tear of mirth, and he was encouraged as her left eyebrow arced delicately, as if she knew enough not to take him seriously…yet.
“Monsieur Cousteau promised me that seal!”
- anguished Calypso crewman in a Robert Klein routine
As another Brit, I’m inclined to come in with a word or two in defence of our compatriot, old Dennis. He wasn’t a giant of serious prose literature, and I’m sure never claimed to be; but he was IMO re the “form” of his writings, definitely a competent literary craftsman, who produced some for-sure readable stuff. As for his illiberal side – well, as you allude to, he was a man of his time; again IMO, with more tolerance and compassion than a good many of his writing contemporaries.
My chief turn-off with Wheatley, is that in his works with a “historical” (recent, or not-so-recent) setting: his self-imposed secondary purpose with these, to teach “history without tears”; can fail of that purpose, and occasion a certain number of tears. Shows up particularly in his Roger Brook (Napoleonic Wars era), and his 1930s-and-World War II, books. His “history-lessons” device here, often involves breaking off from the action, for characters in the novels to discuss at length, the political and social background to what’s going on at that time and place – and sometimes, even more blatant “instructive insertions” in the narrative, than that. His intentions may have been excellent; but it’s an awkward and clunky procedure, and has at times had me wanting to yell, “All right, Dennis, enough with the sodding history lesson ! If I’m curious enough about the whys-and-wherefores, I’ll read an actual history book: please, get on with the exciting stuff.”
Yep, that’s it, thank you.
I have never heard of any middle school assigning that book. Or any book that size. Or that badly written.
I was assigned Faulkner’s The Bear as an example of “stream of consciousness.” Couldn’t make it past the first couple of pages.
I have always heard it was Harry Stephen Keeler, but I’ve never read him.
The worst I’ve read was definitely James Patterson.
Faulkner is never an easy read, but it’s not fair to call his work bad. I always blame myself.
Also, he did Intruder in the Dust (1948), a brilliant mystery novel with an astonishing black man main character, which is not hard to read at all. And was made into an excellent movie.
Homecoming: Cynthia Voight. I enjoyed it and the sequel Dicey’s Song won a Newberry medal. I think you might be in a minority here 
Her novels are noted for [1] purple passages of description, of places that are occasionally well-known enough to make you think ‘hold on, that can’t be right’ and [2] sketchy grasp of technical detail. This parody by Erskine Childers, written to while away a troopship voyage to Capetown, gives a fair flavour of her style:
*OUR ARRIVAL IN CAPETOWN.
(With Apologies to “Ouida.”)
"It was sunset in Table Bay—Phœbus’ last lingering rays were empurpling the beetling crags of Table Mountain’s snowy peak—the great ship Montfort, big with the hopes of an Empire (on which the sun never sets), was gliding majestically to her moorings. Countless craft, manned by lissome blacks or tawny Hottentots, instantly shot forth from the crowded quays, and surged in picturesque disorder round the great hull, scarred by the ordure of ten-score pure Arab chargers. ‘Who goes there?’ cried the ever-watchful sentry on the ship, as he ran out the ready-primed Vickers-Maxim from the port-hole. ‘Speak, or I fire ten shots a minute.’ ‘God save the Queen,’ was the ready response sent up from a thousand throats. ‘Pass, friends,’ said the sentry, as he unhitched the port companion-ladder. In a twinkling the snowy deck of the great transport was swarming with the dusky figures of the native bearers, who swiftly transferred the cargo from the groaning hold into the nimble bum-boats, and carried the large-limbed Anglo-Saxon heroes into luxurious barges, stuffed with cushions soft enough to satisfy the most jaded voluptuary. At shore, a sight awaited them calculated to stir every instinct of patriotism in their noble bosoms. On a richly chased ebon throne sat the viceroy in person, clad in all the panoply of power. A delicate edge of starched white linen, a sight which had not met their eyes for many a weary week, peeped from beneath his gaudier accoutrements; the vice-regal diadem, blazing with the recovered Kimberley diamond, encircled his brow, while his finely chiselled hand grasped the great sword of state. Around him were gathered a dazzling bevy of all the wit and beauty of South Africa; great chieftains from the fabled East, Zulus, Matabeles, Limpopos and Umslopogaas, clad in gorgeous scarlet feathers gave piquancy to the proud throng. Most of England’s wit and manhood scintillated in the sunlight, while British matrons and England’s fairest maids lit up with looks of proud affection; bosoms heaved in sympathetic unison with the measured tramp of the ammunition boots; bright eyes caught a sympathetic fire from the clanking spurs of the corporal rough-rider, while the bombardier in command of the composite squadron of artillery, horse-marines, and ambulance, could hardly pick his way through the heaps of rose leaves scattered before him by lily-white hands. But the scene was quickly changed, as if by enchantment. At a touch of the button by the viceroy’s youngest child, an urchin of three, thousands of Boer prisoners, heavily laden with chains, brought forward tables groaning with every conceivable dainty. The heroes set to with famished jaws, and after the coffee, each negligently lit up his priceless cigar with a bank-note, with the careless and open-handed improvidence so charming and so characteristic of their profession. But suddenly their ease was rudely broken. A single drum-tap made known to all that the enemy was at the gates. In a moment the commander had thrown away three parts of his costly cigar, had sprung to his feet, and with the heart of a lion and the voice of a dove, had shouted the magical battle-cry, ‘Attention!’ Then with a yell of stern resolve, and the answering cry of ‘Stand easy, boys,’ the whole squadron, gunners and adjutants, ambulance and bombardiers, yeomen and gentlemen farmers, marched forth into the night.
“That very night the bloody battle was fought which sealed the fate of the Transvaal—and the dashing colour-sergeant nailed England’s proud banner on the citadel of Pretoria.” *
These words actually come from one of the many stage adaptations by other people. They do not occur in the novel
I did enjoy A Rose for Emily. I’ll have to check out Intruder in the Dust.
Just because you have to put a little effort into something doesn’t mean it’s poorly written.