Transcriber's Note: Brief Greek phrases appear in the original text in three places. They have been transliterated and placed between +marks+. 

ADVENTURES IN CRITICISM

by

A. T. QUILLER-COUCH

New YorkCharles Scribner's SonsCopyright, 1896Trow Directory Printing and Bookbinding CompanyNew York

 To

 A. B. WALKLEY

 MY DEAR A. B. W. 

 The short papers which follow have been reprinted, with a few alterations, from _The Speaker_. Possibly you knew this without my telling you. Possibly, too, you have sat in a theatre before now and seen the curtain rise on two characters exchanging information which must have been their common property for years. So this dedication is partly designed to save me the trouble of writing a formal preface. 

 As I remember then, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed us by destiny to write side by side in _The Speaker_ every week, you about Plays and I about Books. Three years ago you found time to arrange a few of your writings in a notable volume of _Playhouse Impressions_. Some months ago I searched the files of the paper with a similar design, and read my way through an astonishing amount of my own composition. Noble edifice of toil! It stretched away in imposing proportions and vanishing perspective--week upon week--two columns to the week! The mischief was, it did not appear to lead to anything: and for the first mile or two even the casual graces of the colonnade were hopelessly marred through that besetting fault of the young journalist, who finds no satisfaction in his business of making bricks without straw unless he can go straightway and heave them at somebody. 

 Still (to drop metaphor), I have chosen some papers which I hope may be worth a second reading. They are fragmentary, by force of the conditions under which they were produced: but perhaps the fragments may here and there suggest the outline of a first principle. And I dedicate the book to you because it would be strange if the time during which we have appeared in print side by side had brought no sense of comradeship. Though, in fact, we live far apart and seldom get speech together, more than one of these papers--ostensibly addressed to anybody whom they might concern--has been privately, if but sub-consciously, intended for you. 

 A. T. Q. C. 

 CONTENTS

 CHAUCER 1 "THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM" 29 SHAKESPEARE'S LYRICS 39 SAMUEL DANIEL 48 WILLIAM BROWNE 59 THOMAS CAREW 67 "ROBINSON CRUSOE" 75 LAWRENCE STERNE 90 SCOTT AND BURNS 103 CHARLES READE 124 HENRY KINGSLEY 131 ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE 141 C. S. C. AND J. K. S 147 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 156 M. ZOLA 192 SELECTION 198 EXTERNALS 204 CLUB TALK 222 EXCURSIONISTS IN POETRY 229 THE POPULAR CONCEPTION OF A POET 235 POETS ON THEIR OWN ART 245 THE ATTITUDE OF THE PUBLIC TOWARDS LETTERS 254 A CASE OF BOOKSTALL CENSORSHIP 267 THE POOR LITTLE PENNY DREADFUL 276 IBSEN'S "PEER GYNT" 283 MR. SWINBURNE'S LATER MANNER 297 A MORNING WITH A BOOK 306 MR. JOHN DAVIDSON 314 BJÖRNSTERNE BJÖRNSON 332 MR. GEORGE MOORE 341 MRS. MARGARET L. WOODS 349 MR. HALL CAINE 368 MR. ANTHONY HOPE 377 "TRILBY" 384 MR. STOCKTON 391 BOW-WOW 399 OF SEASONABLE NUMBERS 404

ADVENTURES IN CRITICISM

CHAUCER

March 17, 1894. Professor Skeat's Chaucer. 

After twenty-five years of close toil, Professor Skeat has completedhis great edition of Chaucer. [A] It is obviously easier to bedithyrambic than critical in chronicling this event; to which indeeddithyrambs are more appropriate than criticism. For when a man writes_Opus vitæ meæ_ at the conclusion of such a task as this, and so laysdown his pen, he must be a churl (even if he be also a competentcritic) who will allow no pause for admiration. And where, churl or nochurl, is the competent critic to be found? The Professor has herecompiled an entirely new text of Chaucer, founded solely on themanuscripts and the earliest printed editions that are accessible. Where Chaucer has translated, the originals have been carefullystudied: "the requirements of metre and grammar have been carefullyconsidered throughout": and "the phonology and spelling of every wordhave received particular attention. " We may add that all the materialsfor a Life of Chaucer have been sought out, examined, and piecedtogether with exemplary care. 

All this has taken Professor Skeat twenty-five years, and in order topass competent judgment on his conclusions the critic must follow himstep by step through his researches--which will take the critic (evenif we are charitable enough to suppose his mental equipment equal toProfessor Skeat's) another ten years at least. For our time, then, andprobably for many generations after, this edition of Chaucer will beaccepted as final. 

 * * * * *

And the Clarendon Press. 

And I seem to see in this edition of Chaucer the beginning of therealization of a dream which I have cherished since first I stoodwithin the quadrangle of the Clarendon Press--that fine combination ofthe factory and the palace. The aspect of the Press itself repeats, asit were, the characteristics of its government, which is conducted byan elected body as an honorable trust. Its delegates are not intentonly on money-getting. And yet the Clarendon Press makes money, andthe University can depend upon it for handsome subsidies. It may welldepend upon it for much more. As the Bank of England--to which in itssystem of government it may be likened--is the focus of all the otherbanks, private or joint-stock, in the kingdom, and the treasure-house, not only of the nation's gold, but of its commercial honor, so theClarendon Press--traditionally careful in its selections andmunificent in its rewards--might become the academy or central templeof English literature. If it would but follow up Professor Skeat'sChaucer with a resolution to publish, at a pace suitable to so largean undertaking, _all the great English classics_, edited with all thescholarship its wealth can command, I believe that before long theClarendon Press would be found to be exercising an influence onEnglish letters which is at present lacking, and the lack of whichdrives many to call, from time to time, for the institution in thiscountry of something corresponding to the French Academy. I need onlycite the examples of the Royal Society and the Marylebone CricketClub to show that to create an authority in this manner is consonantwith our national practice. We should have that centre of correctinformation, correct judgment, correct taste--that intellectualmetropolis, in short--which is the surest check upon provinciality inliterature; we should have a standard of English scholarship and anauthoritative dictionary of the English language; and at the same timewe should escape all that business of the green coat and palm brancheswhich has at times exposed the French Academy to much vulgar intrigue. 

Also, I may add, we should have the books. Where now is the greatedition of Bunyan, of Defoe, of Gibbon? The Oxford Press did oncepublish an edition of Gibbon, worthy enough as far as type and papercould make it worthy. But this is only to be found in second-handbook-shops. Why are two rival London houses now publishing editions ofScott, the better illustrated with silly pictures "out of the artists'heads"? Where is the final edition of Ben Jonson?

These and the rest are to come, perhaps. Of late we have had fromOxford a great Boswell and a great Chaucer, and the magnificentDictionary is under weigh. So that it may be the dream is in processof being realized, though none of us shall live to see its fullrealization. Meanwhile such a work as Professor Skeat's Chaucer is notonly an answer to much chatter that goes up from time to time aboutnine-tenths of the work on English literature being done out ofEngland. This and similar works are the best of all possible answersto those gentlemen who so often interrupt their own chrematisticpursuits to point out in the monthly magazines the short-comings ofour two great Universities as nurseries of chrematistic youth. In thiscase it is Oxford that publishes, while Cambridge supplies thelearning: and from a natural affection I had rather it were alwaysOxford that published, attracting to her service the learning, scholarship, intelligence of all parts of the kingdom, or, for thatmatter, of the world. So might she securely found new Schools ofEnglish Literature--were she so minded, a dozen every year. They woulddo no particular harm; and meanwhile, in Walton Street, out of earshotof the New Schools, the Clarendon Press would go on serenelyperforming its great work. 

 * * * * *

March 23, 1895. Essentials and Accidents of Poetry. 

A work such as Professor Skeat's Chaucer puts the critic into a frameof mind that lies about midway between modesty and cowardice. Oneasks--"What right have I, who have given but a very few hours of mylife to the enjoying of Chaucer; who have never collated his MSS. ; whohave taken the events of his life on trust from his biographers; whoam no authority on his spelling, his rhythms, his inflections, or thespelling, rhythms, inflections of his age; who have read him only as Ihave read other great poets, for the pleasure of reading--what righthave I to express any opinion on a work of this character, with itsimposing commentary, its patient research, its enormous accumulationof special information?"

Nevertheless, this diffidence, I am sure, may be carried too far. After all is said and done, we, with our average life of three-scoreyears and ten, are the heirs of all the poetry of all the ages. Wemust do our best in our allotted time, and Chaucer is but one of thepoets. He did not write for specialists in his own age, and his mainvalue for succeeding ages resides, not in his vocabulary, nor in hisinflections, nor in his indebtedness to foreign originals, nor in themetrical uniformities or anomalies that may be discovered in his poems;but in his _poetry_. Other things are accidental; his poetry isessential. Other interests--historical, philological, antiquarian--mustbe recognized; but the poetical, or (let us say) the spiritual, intereststands first and far ahead of all others. By virtue of it Chaucer, nowas always, makes his chief and his convincing appeal to that which isspiritual in men. He appeals by the poetical quality of such lines asthese, from Emilia's prayer to Diana:

 "Chaste goddesse, wel wostow that I Desire to been a mayden al my lyf, Ne never wol I be no love ne wyf. 

 I am, thou woost, yet of thy companye, A mayde, and love hunting and venerye, And for to walken in the wodes wilde, And noght to been a wyf, and be with childe. .. "

Or of these two from the Prioresses' Prologue:

 "O moder mayde! O mayde moder free! O bush unbrent, brenninge in Moyses sighte. .. "

Or of these from the general Prologue--also thoroughly poetical, though the quality differs:

 "Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir gretteste ooth was but by sëynt Loy; And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. .. "

Now the essential quality of this and of all very great poetry is alsowhat we may call a _universal_ quality; it appeals to those sympathieswhich, unequally distributed and often distorted or suppressed, areyet the common possessions of our species. This quality is the realantiseptic of poetry: this it is that keeps a line of Homerperennially fresh and in bloom:--

 +"Hôs phato tous d' êdê katechen physizoos aia en Lakedaimoni authi, philê en patridi gaiê. "+

These lines live because they contain something which is alsopermanent in man: they depend confidently on us, and will asconfidently depend on our great-grandchildren. I was glad to see thispoint very courageously put the other day by Professor Hiram Corson, of Cornell University, in an address on "The Aims of LiteraryStudy"--an address which Messrs. Macmillan have printed and publishedhere and in America. "All works of genius, " says Mr. Corson, "renderthe best service, in literary education, when they are firstassimilated in their absolute character. It is, of course, importantto know their relations to the several times and places in which theywere produced; but such knowledge is not for the tyro in literarystudy. He must first know literature, if he is constituted so to knowit, in its absolute character. He can go into the philosophy of itsrelationships later, if he like, when he has a true literaryeducation, and when the 'years that bring the philosophic mind' havebeen reached. Every great production of genius is, in fact, in itsessential character, no more related to one age than to another. It isonly in its phenomenal character (its outward manifestations) that ithas a _special_ relationship. " And Mr. Corson very appositely quotesMr. Ruskin on Shakespeare's historical plays--

 "If it be said that Shakespeare wrote perfect historical plays on subjects belonging to the preceding centuries, I answer that they _are_ perfect plays just because there is no care about centuries in them, but a life which all men recognize for the human life of all time; and this it is, not because Shakespeare sought to give universal truth, but because, painting honestly and completely from the men about him, he painted that human nature which is, indeed, constant enough--a rogue in the fifteenth century being _at heart_ what a rogue is in the nineteenth century and was in the twelfth; and an honest or knightly man being, in like manner, very similar to other such at any other time. And the work of these great idealists is, therefore, always universal: not because it is _not portrait_, but because it is _complete_ portrait down to the heart, which is the same in all ages; and the work of the mean idealists is _not_ universal, not because it is portrait, but because it is _half_ portrait--of the outside, the manners and the dress, not of the heart. Thus Tintoret and Shakespeare paint, both of them, simply Venetian and English nature as they saw it in their time, down to the root; and it does for _all_ time; but as for any care to cast themselves into the particular ways of thought, or custom, of past time in their historical work, you will find it in neither of them, nor in any other perfectly great man that I know of. "--_Modern Painters. _

It will be observed that Mr. Corson, whose address deals primarilywith literary training, speaks of these absolute qualities of thegreat masterpieces as the _first_ object of study. But his words, andRuskin's words, fairly support my further contention that they remainthe _most important_ object of study, no matter how far one's literarytraining may have proceeded. To the most erudite student of Chaucer inthe wide world Chaucer's poetry should be the dominant object ofinterest in connection with Chaucer. 

But when the elaborate specialist confronts us, we are apt to forgetthat poetry is meant for mankind, and that its appeal is, or shouldbe, universal. We pay tribute to the unusual: and so far as thisimplies respect for protracted industry and indefatigable learning, wedo right. But in so far as it implies even a momentary confusion ofthe essentials with the accidentals of poetry, we do wrong. And thespecialist himself continues admirable only so long as he keeps themdistinct. 

I hasten to add that Professor Skeat _does_ keep them distinct verysuccessfully. In a single sentence of admirable brevity he tells usthat of Chaucer's poetical excellence "it is superfluous to speak;Lowell's essay on Chaucer in 'My Study Windows' gives a just estimateof his powers. " And with this, taking the poetical excellence forgranted, he proceeds upon his really invaluable work of preparing astandard text of Chaucer and illustrating it out of the stores of hisapparently inexhaustible learning. The result is a monument toChaucer's memory such as never yet was reared to English poet. DouglasJerrold assured Mrs. Cowden Clarke that, when her time came to enterHeaven, Shakespeare would advance and greet her with the first kiss ofwelcome, "_even_ should her husband happen to be present. " One canhardly with decorum imagine Professor Skeat being kissed; but Chaucerassuredly will greet him with a transcendent smile. 

The Professor's genuine admiration, however, for the poeticalexcellence of his poet needs to be insisted upon, not only because thenature of his task keeps him reticent, but because his extraordinarylearning seems now and then to stand between him and the naturalappreciation of a passage. It was not quite at haphazard that I chosejust now the famous description of the Prioresse as an illustration ofChaucer's poetical quality. The Professor has a long note upon theFrench of Stratford atte Bowe. Most of us have hitherto believed thepassage to be an example, and a very pretty one, of Chaucer'splayfulness. The Professor almost loses his temper over this: hespeaks of it as a view "commonly adopted by newspaper-writers who knowonly this one line of Chaucer, and cannot forbear to use it in jest. ""Even Tyrwhitt and Wright, " he adds more in sorrow than in anger, "have thoughtlessly given currency to this idea. " "Chaucer, " theProfessor explains, "merely states a _fact_" (the italics are hisown), "viz. , that the Prioress spoke the usual Anglo-French of theEnglish Court, of the English law-courts, and of the Englishecclesiastics of higher ranks. The poet, however, had been himself inFrance, and knew precisely the difference between the two dialects;but he had no special reason for thinking _more highly_" (theProfessor's italics again) "of the Parisian than of theAnglo-French. .. . Warton's note on the line is quite sane. He showsthat Queen Philippa wrote business letters in French (doubtlessAnglo-French) with 'great propriety'" . .. And so on. You see, therewas a Benedictine nunnery at Stratford-le-Bow; and as "Mr. Cutts says, very justly, 'She spoke French correctly, though with an accent whichsavored of the Benedictine Convent at Stratford-le-Bow, where she hadbeen educated, rather than of Paris. '" So there you have a fact. 

And, now you have it, doesn't it look rather like Bitzer's horse?

 "Bitzer, " said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse?"

 "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries sheds hoofs too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth. " Thus (and much more) Bitzer. 

 * * * * *

March 30, 1895. The Texts of the "Canterbury Tales. "

It follows, I hope, from what I said last week, that by far the mostimportant service an editor can render to Chaucer and to us is to giveus a pure text, through which the native beauty of the poetry may bestshine. Such a text Professor Skeat has been able to prepare, in partby his own great industry, in part because he has entered into thefruit of other men's labors. The epoch-making event in the history ofthe Canterbury Tales (with which alone we are concerned here) was Dr. Furnivall's publication for the Chaucer Society of the famous"Six-Text Edition. " Dr. Furnivall set to work upon this in 1868. 

The Six Texts were these:--

 1. The great "Ellesmere" MS. (so called after its owner, the Earl of Ellesmere). "The finest and best of all the MSS. Now extant. "

 2. The "Hengwrt" MS. , belonging to Mr. William W. E. Wynne, of Peniarth; very closely agreeing with the "Ellesmere. "

 3. The "Cambridge" MS. Gg 4. 27, in the University Library. The best copy in any public library. This also follows the "Ellesmere" closely. 

 4. The "Corpus" MS. , in the library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. 

 5. The "Petworth" MS. , belonging to Lord Leconfield. 

 6. The "Lansdowne" MS. In the British Museum. "Not a good MS. , being certainly the worst of the six; but worth reprinting owing to the frequent use that has been made of it by editors. "

In his Introduction, Professor Skeat enumerates no fewer thanfifty-nine MSS. Of the Tales: but of these the above six (and aseventh to be mentioned presently) are the most important. The mostimportant of all is the "Ellesmere"--the great "find" of the Six-TextEdition. "The best in nearly every respect, " says Professor Skeat. "It not only gives good lines and good sense, but is also (usually)grammatically accurate and thoroughly well spelt. The publication ofit has been a great boon to all Chaucer students, for which Dr. Furnivall will be ever gratefully remembered. .. . This splendid MS. Hasalso the great merit of being complete, requiring no supplement fromany other source, except in a few cases when a line or two has beenmissed. "

Professor Skeat has therefore chiefly employed the Six-Text Edition, supplemented by a seventh famous MS. , the "Harleian 7334"--printed infull for the Chaucer Society in 1885--a MS. Of great importance, differing considerably from the "Ellesmere. " But the Professor judgesit "a most dangerous MS. To trust to, unless constantly corrected byothers, and not at all fitted to be taken as the basis of a text. " Forthe basis of his text, then, he takes the Ellesmere MS. , correcting itfreely by the other seven MSS. Mentioned. 

Now, as fate would have it, in the year 1888 Dr. Furnivall invited Mr. Alfred W. Pollard to collaborate with him in an edition of Chaucerwhich he had for many years promised to bring out for Messrs. Macmillan. The basis of their text of the Tales was almost preciselythat chosen by Professor Skeat, _i. E. _ a careful collation of the SixTexts and the Harleian 7334, due preponderance being given to theEllesmere MS. , and all variations from it stated in the notes. "Abeginning was made, " says Mr. Pollard, "but the giant in thepartnership had been used for a quarter of a century to doing, fornothing, all the hard work for other people, and could not spare fromhis pioneering the time necessary to enter into the fruit of his ownChaucer labors. Thus the partner who was not a giant was left to go onpretty much by himself. When I had made some progress, Professor Skeatinformed us that the notes which he had been for years accumulatingencouraged him to undertake an edition on a large scale, and I gladlyabandoned, in favor of an editor of so much greater width of reading, the Library Edition which had been arranged for in the originalagreement of Dr. Furnivall and myself with Messrs. Macmillan. Ithought, however, that the work which I had done might fairly be usedfor an edition on a less extensive plan and intended for a lessstalwart class of readers, and of this the present issue of theCanterbury Tales is an instalment. "[B]

So it comes about that we have two texts before us, each based on acollation of the Six-Text edition and the Harleian MS. 7334--the chiefdifference being that Mr. Pollard adheres closely to the EllesmereMS. , while Professor Skeat allows himself more freedom. This is howthey start--

 "Whán that Apríllė with híse shourės soote The droghte of March hath percėd to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licóur Of which vertú engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eck with his swetė breeth 5 Inspirėd hath in every holt and heeth The tendrė croppės, and the yongė sonne Hath in the Ram his halfė cours y-ronne, And smalė fowelės maken melodye That slepen al the nvght with open eye, -- 10 So priketh hem Natúre in hir coráges, -- Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages . .. "

 (_Pollard_. )

 "Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yong sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y ronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the night with open yë, 10 (So priketh hem nature in hir corages:) Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. .. "

 (_Skeat. _)

On these two extracts it must be observed (1) that the accents and thedotted e's in the first are Mr. Pollard's own contrivances for helpingthe scansion; (2) in the second, l. 10, "yë" is a special contrivanceof Professor Skeat. "The scribes, " he says (Introd. Vol. IV. P. Xix. ), "usually write _eye_ in the middle of a line, but when they come to itat the end of one, they are fairly puzzled. In l. 10, the scribe of Hn('Hengwrt') writes _lye_, and that of Ln ('Lansdowne') writes _yhe_;and the variations on this theme are curious. The spelling _ye_ (= yë)is, however, common. .. . I print it 'yë' to distinguish it from _ye_, the pl. Pronoun. " The other differences are accounted for by thevarying degrees in which the two editors depend on the Ellesmere MS. Mr. Pollard sticks to the Ellesmere. Professor Skeat corrects it bythe others. Obviously the editor who allows himself the wider rangelays himself open to more criticism, point by point. He has to justifyhimself in each particular case, while the other's excuse is set downonce for all in his preface. But after comparing the two texts in overa dozen passages, I have had to vote in almost every case forProfessor Skeat. 

The Alleged Difficulty of Reading Chaucer. 

The differences, however, are always trifling. The reader will allowthat in each case we have a clear, intelligible text: a text thatallows Chaucer to be read and enjoyed without toil or vexation. For mypart, I hope there is no presumption in saying that I could very welldo without Mr. Pollard's accents and dotted e's. Remove them, and Icontend that any Englishman with an ear for poetry can read either ofthe two texts without difficulty. A great deal too much fuss is madeover the pronunciation and scansion of Chaucer. After all, we areEnglishmen, with an instinct for understanding the language weinherit; in the evolution of our language we move on the same lines asour fathers; and Chaucer's English is at least no further removed fromus than the Lowland dialect of Scott's novels. Moreover, we have inreading Chaucer what we lack in reading Scott--the assistance ofrhythm; and the rhythm of Chaucer is as clearly marked as that ofTennyson. Professor Skeat might very well have allowed his admirabletext to stand alone. For his rules of pronunciation, with theirelaborate system of signs and symbols, seem to me (to put it coarsely)phonetics gone mad. This, for instance, is how he would have us readthe Tales:--

 "Whán-dhat Ápríllə/wídh iz-shúurez sóotə dhə-drúuht' ov-Márchə/hath pérsed tóo dhə róotə, ənd-báadhed év'ri véinə/in-swích likúur, ov-whích vertýy/enjéndred iz dhə flúur. .. . "

--and so on? I think it may safely be said that if a man need thissort of assistance in reading or pronouncing Chaucer, he had betterlet Chaucer alone altogether, or read him in a German prosetranslation. 

 * * * * *

April 6, 1895. 

Why is Chaucer so easy to read? At a first glance a page of the"Canterbury Tales" appears more formidable than a page of the "FaërieQueene. " As a matter of fact, it is less formidable; or, if this bedenied, everyone will admit that twenty pages of the "CanterburyTales" are less formidable than twenty pages of the "Faërie Queene. " Imight bring several recent editors and critics to testify that, afterthe first shock of the archaic spelling and the final "e, " anintelligent public will soon come to terms with Chaucer; but theunconscious testimony of the intelligent public itself is moreconvincing. Chaucer is read year after year by a large number of menand women. Spenser, in many respects a greater poet, is also read; butby far fewer. Nobody, I imagine, will deny this. But what is thereason of it?

The first and chief reason is this--Forms of language change, but thegreat art of narrative appeals eternally to men, and its rules rest onprinciples older than Homer. And whatever else may be said of Chaucer, he is a superb narrator. To borrow a phrase from another venerableart, he is always "on the ball. " He pursues the story--the story, andagain the story. Mr. Ward once put this admirably--

 "The vivacity of joyousness of Chaucer's poetic temperament . .. Make him amusingly impatient of epical lengths, abrupt in his transitions, and anxious, with an anxiety usually manifested by readers rather than by writers, to come to the point, 'to the great effect, ' as he is wont to call it. 'Men, ' he says, 'may overlade a ship or barge, and therefore I will skip at once to the effect, and let all the rest slip. ' And he unconsciously suggests a striking difference between himself and the great Elizabethan epic poet who owes so much to him, when he declines to make as long a tale of the chaff or of the straw as of the corn, and to describe all the details of a marriage-feast _seriatim_:

 'The fruit of every tale is for to say: They eat and drink, and dance and sing and play. '

 This may be the fruit; but epic poets, from Homer downward, have been generally in the habit of not neglecting the foliage. Spenser in particular has that impartial copiousness which we think it our duty to admire in the Ionic epos, but which, if truth were told, has prevented generations of Englishmen from acquiring an intimate personal acquaintance with the 'Fairy Queen. ' With Chaucer the danger certainly rather lay in the opposite direction. "

Now, if we are once interested in a story, small difficulties ofspeech or spelling will not readily daunt us in the time-honoredpursuit of "what happens next"--certainly not if we know enough of ourauthor to feel sure he will come to the point and tell us what happensnext with the least possible palaver. We have a definite want and acertainty of being satisfied promptly. But with Spenser thissatisfaction may, and almost certainly will, be delayed over manypages: and though in the meanwhile a thousand casual beauties mayappeal to us, the main thread of our attention is sensibly relaxed. Chaucer is the minister and Spenser the master: and the differencebetween pursuing what we want and pursuing we-know-not-what mustaffect the ardor of the chase. Even if we take the future on trust, and follow Spenser to the end, we cannot look back on a book of the"Faërie Queene" as on part of a good story: for it is admittedly anunsatisfying and ill-constructed story. But my point is that anordinary reader resents being asked to take the future on trust whilethe author luxuriates in casual beauties of speech upon every mortalsubject but the one in hand. The first principle of good narrative isto stick to the subject; the second, to carry the audience along in aseries of small surprises--satisfying expectation and going just alittle beyond. If it were necessary to read fifty pages beforeenjoying Chaucer, though the sum of eventual enjoyment were as greatas it now is, Chaucer would never be read. We master smalldifficulties line by line because our recompense comes line by line. 

Moreover, it is as certain as can be that we read Chaucer to-day moreeasily than our fathers read him one hundred, two hundred, threehundred years ago. And I make haste to add that the credit of thisdoes not belong to the philologists. 

The Elizabethans, from Spenser onward, found Chaucer distressinglyarchaic. When Sir Francis Kynaston, _temp_. Charles I. , translated"Troilus and Criseyde, " Cartwright congratulated him that he had atlength made it possible to read Chaucer without a dictionary. And fromDryden's time to Wordsworth's he was an "uncouthe unkiste" barbarian, full of wit, but only tolerable in polite paraphrase. Chaucer himselfseems to have foreboded this, towards the close of his "Troilus andCriseyde, " when he addresses his "litel book"--

 "And for there is so great diversitee In English, and in wryting of our tonge, So preye I God that noon miswryte thee, Ne thee mismetre for defaute of tonge. And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe, That thou be understoude I God beseche!. .. "

And therewith, as though on purpose to defeat his fears, he proceededto turn three stanzas of Boccaccio into English that tastes almost asfreshly after five hundred years as on the day it was written. He isspeaking of Hector's death:--

 "And whan that he was slayn in this manere, His lighte goost ful blisfully it went Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere In convers leting every element; And ther he saugh, with ful avysement, The erratik starres, herkening armonye With sownes ful of hevenish melodye. 

 "And down from thennes faste he gan avyse This litel spot of erthe, that with the see Embraced is, and fully gan despyse This wrecched world, and held al vanitee To respect of the pleyn felicitee That is in hevene above; and at the laste, Ther he was slayn, his loking down he caste;

 "And in himself he lough right at the wo Of hem that wepten for his death so faste; And dampned al our werk that folweth so The blinde lust, the which that may not laste, And sholden al our harte on hevene caste. And forth he wente, shortly for to telle, Ther as Mercurie sorted him to dwelle. .. . "

Who have prepared our ears to admit this passage, and many as fine?Not the editors, who point out very properly that it is a closetranslation from Boccaccio's "Teseide, " xi. 1-3. The information isvaluable, as far as it goes; but what it fails to explain is just themarvel of the passage--viz. , the abiding "Englishness" of it, thenative ring of it in our ears after five centuries of linguistic andmetrical development. To whom, besides Chaucer himself, do we owethis? For while Chaucer has remained substantially the same, apparently we have an aptitude that our grandfathers andgreat-grandfathers had not. The answer surely is: We owe it to ournineteenth century poets, and particularly to Tennyson, Swinburne, andWilliam Morris. Years ago Mr. R. H. Horne said most acutely that theprinciple of Chaucer's rhythm is "inseparable from a full and fairexercise of the genius of our language in versification. " This "fulland fair exercise" became a despised, almost a lost, tradition afterChaucer's death. The rhythms of Skelton, of Surrey, and Wyatt, wereproduced on alien and narrower lines. Revived by Shakespeare and thelater Elizabethans, it fell into contempt again until Cowper once morebegan to claim freedom for English rhythm, and after him Coleridge, and the despised Leigh Hunt. But never has its full liberty been sotriumphantly asserted as by the three poets I have named above. If weare at home as we read Chaucer, it is because they have instructed usin the liberty which Chaucer divined as the only true way. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer. Edited, from numerousmanuscripts, by the Rev. Walter W. Skeat, Litt. D. , LL. D. , M. A. In sixvolumes. Oxford: At the Clarendon Press. 1894. 

[B] Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Edited, with Notes and Introduction, by Alfred W. Pollard. London: Macmillan & Co. 

"THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. "

January 5, 1805. "The Passionate Pilgrim. "

_The Passionate Pilgrim_ (1599). _Reprinted with a Note about theBook, by Arthur L. Humphreys. London: Privately Printed by Arthur L. Humphreys, of 187, Piccadilly. MDCCCXCIV. _

I was about to congratulate Mr. Humphreys on his printing when, uponturning to the end of this dainty little volume, I discovered thewell-known colophon of the Chiswick Press--"Charles Whittingham & Co. , Took's Court, Chancery Lane, London. " So I congratulate Messrs. Charles Whittingham & Co. Instead, and suggest that the imprint shouldhave run "Privately Printed _for_ Arthur L. Humphreys. "

This famous (or, if you like it, infamous) little anthology of thirtyleaves has been singularly unfortunate in its title-pages. It wasfirst published in 1599 as _The Passionate Pilgrims. By W. Shakespeare. At London. Printed for W. Jaggard, and are to be sold byW. Leake, at the Greyhound in Paules Churchyard. _ This, of course, wasdisingenuous. Some of the numbers were by Shakespeare: but theauthorship of some remains doubtful to this day, and others theenterprising Jaggard had boldly conveyed from Marlowe, RichardBarnefield, and Bartholomew Griffin. In short, to adapt a famous lineupon a famous lexicon, "the best part was Shakespeare, the rest wasnot. " For this, Jaggard has been execrated from time to time withsufficient heartiness. Mr. Swinburne, in his latest volume of Essays, calls him an "infamous pirate, liar, and thief. " Mr. Humphreysremarks, less vivaciously, that "He was not careful and prudent, or hewould not have attached the name of Shakespeare to a volume which wasonly partly by the bard--that was his crime. Had Jaggard foreseen thetantrums and contradictions he caused some commentators--Mr. PayneCollier, for instance--he would doubtless have substituted 'By WilliamShakespeare _and others_' for 'By William Shakespeare. ' Thus he mighthave saved his reputation, and this hornets' nest which now and thenrouses itself afresh around his aged ghost of three centuries ago. "

That a ghost can suffer no inconvenience from hornets I take to beindisputable: but as a defence of Jaggard the above hardly seemsconvincing. One might as plausibly justify a forger on the groundthat, had he foreseen the indignation of the prosecuting counsel, hewould doubtless have saved his reputation by forbearing to forge. Butbefore constructing a better defence, let us hear the whole tale ofthe alleged misdeeds. Of the second edition of _The PassionatePilgrim_ no copy exists. Nothing whatever is known of it, and thewhole edition may have been but an ideal construction of Jaggard'ssportive fancy. But in 1612 appeared _The Passionate Pilgrime, orcertaine amorous Sonnets between Venus and Adonis, newly corrected andaugmented. By W. Shakespeare. The third edition. Whereunto is newlyadded two Love Epistles, the first from Paris to Hellen, and Hellen'sanswere back again to Paris. Printed by W. Jaggard. _ (These "two LoveEpistles" were really by Thomas Heywood. ) This title-page was veryquickly cancelled, and Shakespeare's name omitted. 

Mr. Humphrey's Hypothesis. 

These are the bare facts. Now observe how they appear when set forthby Mr. Humphreys:--

 "Shakespeare, who, when the first edition was issued, was aged thirty-five, acted his part as a great man very well, for he with dignity took no notice of the error on the title-page of the first edition, attributing to him poems which he had never written. But when Jaggard went on sinning, and the third edition appeared under Shakespeare's name _solely_, though it had poems by Thomas Heywood, and others as well, Jaggard was promptly pulled up by both Shakespeare and Heywood. Upon this the publisher appears very properly to have printed a new title-page, omitting the name of Shakespeare. "

Upon this I beg leave to observe--(1) That although it may very likelyhave been at Shakespeare's own request that his name was removed fromthe title-page of the third edition, Mr. Humphreys has no right tostate this as an ascertained fact. (2) That I fail to understand, ifShakespeare acted properly in case of the third edition, why we shouldtalk nonsense about his "acting the part of a great man very well" and"with dignity taking no notice of the error" in the first edition. Inthe first edition he was wrongly credited with pieces that belongedto Marlowe, Barnefield, Griffin, and some authors unknown. In thethird he was credited with these and some pieces by Heywood as well. In the name of common logic I ask why, if it were "dignified" to saynothing in the case of Marlowe and Barnefield, it suddenly becameright and proper to protest in the case of Heywood? But (3) what righthave we to assume that Shakespeare "took no notice of the error on thetitle-page of the first edition"? We know this only--that if heprotested, he did not prevail as far as the first edition wasconcerned. That edition may have been already exhausted. It is evenpossible that he _did_ prevail in the matter of the second edition, and that Jaggard reverted to his old courses in the third. I don't fora moment suppose this was the case. I merely suggest that where somany hypotheses will fit the scanty data known, it is best to lay downno particular hypothesis as fact. 

Another. 

For I imagine that anyone can, in five minutes, fit up an hypothesisquite as valuable as Mr. Humphreys'. Here is one which at least hasthe merit of not making Shakespeare look a fool:--W. Jaggard, publisher, comes to William Shakespeare, poet, with the informationthat he intends to bring out a small miscellany of verse. If the poethas an unconsidered trifle or so to spare, Jaggard will not mindgiving a few shillings for them. "You may have, if you like, " saysShakespeare, "the rough copies of some songs in my _Love's Labour'sLost_, published last year"; and, being further encouraged, searchesamong his rough MSS. , and tosses Jaggard a lyric or two and a coupleof sonnets. Jaggard pays his money, and departs with the verses. Whenthe miscellany appears, Shakespeare finds his name alone upon thetitle-page, and remonstrates. But, of the defrauded ones, Marlowe isdead; Barnefield has retired to live the life of a country gentlemanin Shropshire; Griffin dwells in Coventry (where he died, three yearslater). These are the men injured; and if they cannot, or will not, move in the business, Shakespeare (whose case at law would be moredifficult) can hardly be expected to. So he contents himself withstrong expressions at The Mermaid. But in 1612 Jaggard repeats hisoffence, and is indiscreet enough to add Heywood to the list of thespoiled. Heywood lives in London, on the spot; and Shakespeare, nowretired to Stratford, is of more importance than he was in 1599. Armed with Shakespeare's authority Heywood goes to Jaggard andthreatens; and the publisher gives way. 

Whatever our hypothesis, we cannot maintain that Jaggard behaved well. On the other hand, it were foolish to judge his offence as if the manhad committed it the day before yesterday. Conscience in matters ofliterary copyright has been a plant of slow growth. But a year or twoago respectable citizens of the United States were publishing ourbooks "free of authorial expenses, " and even corrected our imperfectworks without consulting us. We must admit that Jaggard acted up toLuther's maxim, "_Pecca fortiter_. " He went so far as to include apiece so well known as Marlowe's _Live with me and be my love_--whichproves at any rate his indifference to the chances of detection. Butto speak of him as one would speak of a similar offender in this NewYear of Grace is simply to forfeit one's claim to an historical sense. 

The Book. 

What further palliation can we find? Mr. Swinburne calls the book "aworthless little volume of stolen and mutilated poetry, patched upand padded out with dirty and dreary doggrel, under the senseless andpreposterous title of _The Passionate Pilgrim_. " On the other hand, Mr. Humphreys maintains that "Jaggard, at any rate, had very goodtaste. This is partly seen in the choice of a title. Few books have socharming a name as _The Passionate Pilgrim_. It is a perfect title. Jaggard also set up a good precedent, for this collection waspublished a year before _England's Helicon_, and, of course, very manyyears before any authorized collection of Shakespeare's 'Poems' wasissued. We see in _The Passionate Pilgrim_ a forerunner of _The GoldenTreasury_ and other anthologies. "

Now, as for the title, if the value of a title lie in its application, Mr. Swinburne is right. It has little relevance to the verses in thevolume. On the other hand, as a portly and attractive mouthful ofsyllables _The Passionate Pilgrim_ can hardly be surpassed. If not "aperfect title, " it is surely "a charming name. " But Mr. Humphreys'contention that Jaggard "set up a good precedent" and produced a"forerunner" of English anthologies becomes absurd when we rememberthat _Tottel's Miscellany_ was published in June, 1557 (just forty-twoyears before _The Passionate Pilgrim_), and had reached an eighthedition by 1587; that _The Paradise of Dainty Devices_ appeared in1576; _A Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions_ in 1578; _A Handfullof Pleasant Delights_ in 1584; and _The Phoenix' Nest_ in 1593. 

Almost as wide of the mark is Mr. Swinburne's description of thevolume as "worthless. " It contains twenty-one numbers, besides thatlofty dirge, so unapproachably solemn, _The Phoenix and the Turtle_. Of these, five are undoubtedly by Shakespeare. A sixth (_Crabbed ageand youth_), if not by Shakespeare, is one of the loveliest lyrics inthe language, and I for my part could give it to no other man. Notealso that but for Jaggard's enterprise this jewel had been irrevocablylost to us, since it is known only through _The Passionate Pilgrim_. Marlowe's _Live with me and be my love_, and Barnefield's _As it fellupon a day_, make numbers seven and eight. And I imagine that even Mr. Swinburne cannot afford to scorn _Sweet rose, fair flower, untimelypluck'd, soon vaded_--which again only occurs in _The PassionatePilgrim_. These nine numbers, with _The Phoenix and the Turtle_, makeup more than half the book. Among the rest we have the pretty andrespectable lyrics, _If music and sweet poetry agree; Good night, goodrest; Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east. When as thine eyehath chose the dame_, and the gay little song, _It was a Lording'sdaughter_. There remain the _Venus and Adonis_ sonnets and _My flocksfeed not_. Mr. Swinburne may call these "dirty and dreary doggrel, " anhe list, with no more risk than of being held a somewhat over-anxiousmoralist. But to call the whole book worthless is mere abuse of words. 

It is true, nevertheless, that one of the only two copies existing ofthe first edition was bought for three halfpence. 

SHAKESPEARE'S LYRICS

August 25, 1894. Shakespeare's Lyrics. 

In their re-issue of _The Aldine Poets_, Messrs. George Bell & Sonshave made a number of concessions to public taste. The new binding isfar more pleasing than the old; and in some cases, where the notes andintroductory memoirs had fallen out of date, new editors have been setto work, with satisfactory results. It is therefore no smalldisappointment to find that the latest volume, "The Poems ofShakespeare, " is but a reprint from stereotyped plates of the Rev. Alexander Dyce's text, notes and memoir. 

The Rev. A. Dyce. 

Now, of the Rev. Alexander Dyce it may be fearlessly asserted that hiscriticism is not for all time. Even had he been less prone to acceptthe word of John Payne Collier for gospel; even had Shakespeariancriticism made no perceptible advance during the last quarter of acentury, yet there is that in the Rev. Alexander Dyce's treatment ofhis poet which would warn us to pause before accepting his word asfinal. As a test of his æsthetic judgment we may turn to the "Songsfrom the Plays of Shakespeare" with which this volume concludes. Ithad been as well, in a work of this sort, to include all the songs;but he gives us a selection only, and an uncommonly bad selection. Ihave tried in vain to discover a single principle of taste underlyingit. On what principle, for instance, can a man include the song "Comeaway, come away, death" from _Twelfth Night_, and omit "O mistressmine, where are you roaming?"; or include Amiens' two songs from _Asyou Like It_, and omit the incomparable "It was a lover and his lass"?Or what but stark insensibility can explain the omission of "Take, Otake those lips away, " and the bridal song "Roses, their sharp spinesbeing gone, " that opens _The Two Noble Kinsmen_? But stay: the Rev. Alexander Dyce may attribute this last pair to Fletcher. "Take, O takethose lips away" certainly occurs (with a second and inferior stanza)in Fletcher's _The Bloody Brother_, first published in 1639; but Dycegives no hint of his belief that Fletcher wrote it. We are, therefore, left to conclude that Dyce thought it unworthy of a place in hiscollection. On _The Two Noble Kinsmen_ (first published in 1634) Dyceis more explicit. In a footnote to the Memoir he says: "The title-pageof the first edition of Fletcher's _Two Noble Kinsmen_ attributes theplay partly to Shakespeare; I do not think our poet had any share inits composition; but I must add that Mr. C. Lamb (a great authority insuch matters) inclines to a different opinion. " When "Mr. C. Lamb" andthe Rev. Alexander Dyce hold opposite opinions, it need not bedifficult to choose. And surely, if internal evidence count foranything at all, the lines

 "Maiden pinks, of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true. "

or--

 "Oxlips in their cradles growing"

or--

 "Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious, or bird fair, Be absent hence. "

--were written by Shakespeare and not by Fletcher. Nor is it anydetraction from Fletcher to take this view. Shakespeare himself hasleft songs hardly finer than Fletcher wrote at his best--hardly finer, for instance, than that magnificent pair from _Valentinian_. Only thenote of Shakespeare happens to be different from the note ofFletcher: and it is Shakespeare's note--the note of

 "The cowslips tall her pensioners be"

(also omitted by the inscrutable Dyce) and of

 "When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight . .. "

--that we hear repeated in this Bridal Song. [A] And if this be so, itis but another proof for us that Dyce was not a critic for all time. 

Nor is the accent of finality conspicuous in such passages as thisfrom the Memoir:--

 "Wright had heard that Shakespeare 'was a much better poet than player'; and Rowe tells us that soon after his admission into the company, he became distinguished, 'if not as an extraordinary actor, yet as an excellent writer. ' Perhaps his execution did not equal his conception of a character, but we may rest assured that he who wrote the incomparable instructions to the player in _Hamlet_ would never offend his audience by an injudicious performance. "

I have no more to urge against writing of this order than that it haspassed out of fashion, and that something different might reasonablyhave been looked for in a volume that bears the date 1894 on itstitle-page. The public owes Messrs. Bell & Sons a heavy debt; but atthe same time the public has a peculiar interest in such a series asthat of _The Aldine Poets_. A purchaser who finds several of thesebooks to his mind, and is thereby induced to embark upon the purchaseof the entire series, must feel a natural resentment if succeedingvolumes drop below the implied standard. He cannot go back: and toomit the offending volumes is to spoil his set. And I contend that theaction taken by Messrs. Bell & Sons in improving several of their moreor less obsolete editions will only be entirely praiseworthy if we maytake it as an earnest of their desire to place the whole series on alevel with contemporary knowledge and criticism. 

Nor can anyone who knows how much the industry and enthusiasm of Dycedid, in his day, for the study of Shakespeare, do more than urge thatwhile, viewed historically, Dyce's criticism is entirely respectable, it happens to be a trifle belated in the year 1894. The points ofdifference between him and Charles Lamb are perhaps too obvious toneed indication; but we may sum them up by saying that whereas Lamb, being a genius, belongs to all time, Dyce, being but an industriousperson, belongs to a period. It was a period of rapid development, nodoubt--how rapid we may learn for ourselves by the easy process oftaking down Volume V. Of Chalmers's "English Poets, " and turning tothat immortal passage on Shakespeare's poems which Chalmers put forthin the year 1810:--

 "The peremptory decision of Mr. Steevens on the merits of these poems must not be omitted. 'We have not reprinted the Sonnets, etc. , of Shakespeare, because the strongest Act of Parliament that could be framed would fail to compel readers into their service. Had Shakespeare produced no other works than these, his name would have reached us with as little celebrity as time has conferred upon that of Thomas Watson, an older and much more elegant sonnetteer. ' Severe as this may appear, it only amounts to the general conclusion which modern critics have formed. Still, it cannot be denied that there are many scattered beauties among his Sonnets, and in the Rape of Lucrece; enough, it is hoped, to justify their admission into the present collection, especially as the Songs, etc. , from his plays have been added, and a few smaller pieces selected by Mr. Ellis. .. . "

No comment can add to, or take from, the stupendousness of this. Andyet it was the criticism proper to its time. "I have only to hope, "writes Chalmers in his preface, "that my criticisms will not be founddestitute of candour, or improperly interfering with the general andacknowledged principles of taste. " Indeed they are not. They were theright opinions for Chalmers; as Dyce's were the right opinions forDyce: and if, as we hope, ours is a larger appreciation ofShakespeare, we probably hold it by no merit of our own, but as thecommon possession of our generation, derived through the chasteningexperiences of our grandfathers. That, however, is no reason why weshould not insist on having such editions of Shakespeare as fulfil ourrequirements, and refuse to study Dyce except as an historical figure. 

It is an unwise generation that declines to take all its inheritance. I have heard once or twice of late that English poets in the futurewill set themselves to express emotions more complex and subtle thanhave ever yet been treated in poetry. I shall be extremely glad, ofcourse, if this happen in my time. But at present I incline to rejoicerather in an assured inheritance, and, when I hear talk of this kind, to say over to myself one particular sonnet which for mere subtlety ofthought seems to me unbeaten by anything that I can select from thepoetry of this century:--

 Thy bosom is endeared of all hearts Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious Tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie!

 Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give; That due of many now is thine alone! Their images I lov'd I view in thee, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The opening lines of the second stanza of this poem have generallybeen printed thus:

 "Primrose, firstborn child of Ver, Merry springtime's harbinger, With her bells dim. .. . "

And many have wondered how Shakespeare or Fletcher came to write ofthe "bells" of a primrose. Mr. W. J. Linton proposed "With harebellslim": although if we must read "harebell" or "harebells, " "dim" wouldbe a pretty and proper word for the color of that flower. Theconjecture takes some little plausibility from Shakespeare's elsewherelinking primrose and harebell together:

 "Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azured harebell, like thy veins. .. . " _Cymbeline_, iv. 2. 

I have always suspected, however, that there should be a semicolonafter "Ver, " and that "Merry springtime's harbinger, with her bellsdim, " refers to a totally different flower--the snowdrop, to wit. AndI have lately learnt from Dr. Grosart, who has carefully examined the1634 edition (the only early one), that the text actually gives asemicolon. The snowdrop may very well come after the primrose in thissong, which altogether ignores the process of the seasons. 

SAMUEL DANIEL

February 24, 1894. Samuel Daniel. 

The writings of Samuel Daniel and the circumstances of his life are ofcourse well enough known to all serious students of English poetry. And, though I cannot speak on this point with any certainty, I imaginethat our younger singers hold to the tradition of all their fathers, and that Daniel still

 _renidet in angulo_

of their affections, as one who in his day did very much, thoughquietly, to train the growth of English verse; and proved himself, ineverything he wrote, an artist to the bottom of his conscience. Ascertainly as Spenser, he was a "poet's poet" while he lived. A coupleof pages might be filled almost offhand with the genuine complimentsof his contemporaries, and he will probably remain a "poet's poet" aslong as poets write in English. But the average reader of culture--theperson who is honestly moved by good poetry and goes from time totime to his bookshelves for an antidote to the common cares andtrivialities of this life--seems to neglect Daniel almost utterly. Ijudge from the wretched insufficiency of his editions. It is very hardto obtain anything beyond the two small volumes published in 1718 (animperfect collection), and a volume of selections edited by Mr. JohnMorris and published by a Bath bookseller in 1855; and even these areonly to be picked up here and there. I find it significant, too, thatin Mr. Palgrave's _Golden Treasury_ Daniel is represented by onesonnet only, and that by no means his best. This neglect will appearthe more singular to anyone who has observed how apt is the personwhom I have called the "average reader of culture" to be drawn to theperusal of an author's works by some attractive idiosyncrasy in theauthor's private life or character. Lamb is a staring instance of thisattraction. How we all love Lamb, to be sure! Though he rejected itand called out upon it, "gentle" remains Lamb's constant epithet. And, curiously enough, in the gentleness and dignified melancholy of hislife, Daniel stands nearer to Lamb than any other English writer, withthe possible exception of Scott. His circumstances were less gloomilypicturesque. But I defy any feeling man to read the scanty narrativeof Daniel's life and think of him thereafter without sympathy andrespect. 

Life. 

He was born in 1562--Fuller says in Somersetshire, not far fromTaunton; others say at Beckington, near Philip's Norton, or atWilmington in Wiltshire. Anthony Wood tells us that he came "of awealthy family;" Fuller that "his father was a master of music. " Ofhis earlier years next to nothing is known; but in 1579 he was enteredas a commoner at Magdalen Hall, Oxford, and left the university threeyears afterwards without taking a degree. His first book--atranslation of Paola Giovio's treatise on Emblems--appeared in 1585, when he was about twenty-two. In 1590 or 1591 he was travelling inItaly, probably with a pupil, and no doubt busy with those studiesthat finally made him the first Italian scholar of his time. In 1592he published his "Sonnets to Delia, " which at once made hisreputation; in 1594 his "Complaint of Rosamond" and "Tragedy ofCleopatra;" and in 1595 four books of his "Civil Wars. " On Spenser'sdeath, in 1599, Daniel is said to have succeeded to the office ofpoet-laureate. 

 "That wreath which, in Eliza's golden days, My master dear, divinist Spenser, wore; That which rewarded Drayton's learned lays, Which thoughtful Ben and gentle Daniel wore. .. . "

But history traces the Laureateship, as an office, no further backthan Jonson, and we need not follow Southey into the mists. It iscertain, however, that Daniel was a favorite at Elizabeth's Court, andin some way partook of her bounty. In 1600 he was appointed tutor tothe Lady Anne Clifford, a little girl of about eleven, daughter ofMargaret, Countess of Cumberland; and his services were gratefullyremembered by mother and daughter during his life and after. ButDaniel seems to have tired of living in great houses as private tutorto the young. The next year, when presenting his works to Sir ThomasEgerton, he writes:--"Such hath been my misery that whilst I shouldhave written the actions of men, I have been constrained to bide withchildren, and, contrary to mine own spirit, put out of that sensewhich nature had made my part. "

Self-distrust. 

Now there is but one answer to this--that a man of really strongspirit does not suffer himself to be "put out of that sense whichnature had made my part. " Daniel's words indicate the weakness thatin the end made futile all his powers: they indicate a certain"donnish" timidity (if I may use the epithet), a certain distrust ofhis own genius. Such a timidity and such a distrust often accompanyvery exquisite faculties: indeed, they may be said to imply a certainexquisiteness of feeling. But they explain why, of the twocontemporaries, the robust Ben Jonson is to-day a living figure inmost men's conception of those times, while Samuel Daniel is rather afleeting ghost. And his self-distrust was even then recognized as wellas his exquisiteness. He is indeed "well-languaged Daniel, " "sweethoney-dropping Daniel, " "Rosamund's trumpeter, sweet as thenightingale, " revered and admired by all his compeers. But the note ofapprehension was also sounded, not only by an unknown contributor tothat rare collection of epigrams, _Skialetheia, or the Shadow ofTruth_. 

 "Daniel (as some hold) might mount, _if he list_; But others say he is a Lucanist"

--but by no meaner a judge than Spenser himself, who wrote in his"Colin Clout's Come Home Again":

 "And there is a new shepherd late upsprung The which doth all afore him far surpass: Appearing well in that well-tunéd song Which late he sung unto a scornful lass. _Yet doth his trembling Muse but lowly fly, As daring not too rashly mount on height_; And doth her tender plumes as yet but try In love's soft lays, and looser thoughts delight. Then rouse thy feathers quickly, DANIEL, And to what course thou please thyself advance; But most, meseems, thy accent will excel In tragic plaints and passionate mischance. "

Moreover, there is a significant passage in the famous "Return fromParnassus, " first acted at Cambridge during the Christmas of 1601:

 "Sweet honey-dropping Daniel doth wage War with the proudest big Italian That melts his heart in sugar'd sonneting, _Only let him more sparingly make use Of others' wit and use his own the more. _"

The 'mauvais pas' of Parnassus. 

Now it has been often pointed out that considerable writers fall intotwo classes--(1) those who begin, having something to say, and arefrom the first rather occupied with their matter than with the mannerof expressing it; and (2) those who begin with the love of expressionand intent to be artists in words, _and come through expression toprofound thought_. It is fashionable just now, for some reason oranother, to account Class 1 as the more respectable; a judgment towhich, considering that Shakespeare and Milton belonged undeniably toClass 2, I refuse to assent. The question, however, is not to beargued here. I have only to point out in this place that the earlywork of all poets in Class 2 is largely imitative. Virgil wasimitative, Keats was imitative--to name but a couple of sufficientlystriking examples. And Daniel, who belongs to this class, was alsoimitative. But for a poet of this class to reach the heights of song, there must come a time when out of imitation he forms a genuine styleof his own, _and loses no mental fertility in the transformation_. This, if I may use the metaphor, is the _mauvais pas_ in the ascent ofParnassus: and here Daniel broke down. He did indeed acquire a styleof his own; but the effort exhausted him. He was no longer prolific;his ardor had gone: and his innate self-distrustfulness made him quickto recognize his sterility. 

Soon after the accession of James I. , Daniel, at the recommendationof his brother-in-law, John Florio, possibly furthered by the interestof the Earl of Pembroke, was given a post as gentleman extraordinaryand groom of the privy chamber to Anne of Denmark; and a few monthsafter was appointed to take the oversight of the plays and shows thatwere performed by the children of the Queen's revels, or children ofthe Chapel, as they were called under Elizabeth. He had thus a snugposition at Court, and might have been happy, had it been anotherCourt. But in nothing was the accession of James more apparent than inthe almost instantaneous blasting of the taste, manners, and seriousgrace that had marked the Court of Elizabeth. The Court of James was aCourt of bad taste, bad manners, and no grace whatever: andDaniel--"the remnant of another time, " as he calls himself--lookedwistfully back upon the days of Elizabeth. 

 "But whereas he came planted in the spring, And had the sun before him of respect; We, set in th' autumn, in the withering And sullen season of a cold defect, Must taste those sour distastes the times do bring Upon the fulness of a cloy'd neglect. Although the stronger constitutions shall Wear out th' infection of distemper'd days . .. "

And so he stood dejected, while the young men of "strongerconstitutions" passed him by. 

In this way it happened that Daniel, whom at the outset hiscontemporaries had praised with wide consent, and who never wrote aloose or unscholarly line, came to pen, in the dedicatory epistleprefixed to his tragedy of "Philotas, " these words--perhaps the mostpathetic ever uttered by an artist upon his work:

 "And therefore since I have outlived the date Of former grace, acceptance and delight. I would my lines, late born beyond the fate Of her[A] spent line, had never come to light; So had I not been tax'd for wishing well, Nor now mistaken by the censuring Stage, Nor in my fame and reputation fell, Which I esteem more than what all the age Or the earth can give. _But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long_. "

Ease of his verse. 

I said just now that Daniel had done much, though quietly, to trainthe growth of English verse. He not only stood up successfully forits natural development at a time when the clever but less largelyinformed Campion and others threatened it with fantastic changes. Heprobably did as much as Waller to introduce polish of line into ourpoetry. Turn to the famous "Ulysses and the Siren, " and read. Cananyone tell me of English verses that run more smoothly off thetongue, or with a more temperate grace?

 "Well, well, Ulysses, then I see I shall not have thee here: And, therefore, I will come to thee, And take my fortune there. I must be won that cannot win, Yet lost were I not won; For beauty hath created been T'undo or be undone. "

To speak familiarly, this is as easy as an old shoe. To speak yet morefamiliarly, it looks as if any fool could turn off lines like these. Let the fool try. 

And yet to how many anthologies do we not turn in vain for "Ulyssesand the Siren"; or for the exquisite spring song, beginning--

 "Now each creature joys the other, Passing happy days and hours; One bird reports unto another In the fall of silver showers . .. "

--or for that lofty thing, the "Epistle to the Countess ofCumberland"?--which Wordsworth, who quoted it in his "Excursion, "declares to be "an admirable picture of the state of a wise man's mindin a time of public commotion. " Certainly if ever a critic shall ariseto deny poetry the virtue we so commonly claim for her, of fortifyingmen's souls against calamity, this noble Epistle will be all but thelast post from which he will extrude her defenders. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Sc. Elizabeth's. 

WILLIAM BROWNE

April 21, 1894. William Browne of Tavistock. 

It has been objected to the author of _Britannia's Pastorals_ thattheir perusal sends you to sleep. It had been subtler criticism, aswell as more amiable, to observe that you can wake up again and, starting anew at the precise point where you dropped off, continue theperusal with as much pleasure as ever, neither ashamed of yoursomnolence nor imputing it as a fault to the poet. For William Browneis perhaps the easiest figure in our literature. He lived easily, hewrote easily, and no doubt he died easily. He no more expected to beread through at a sitting than he tried to write all the story ofMarina at a sitting. He took up his pen and composed: when he felttired he went off to bed, like a sensible man: and when you are tiredof reading he expects you to be sensible and do the same. 

A placid life. 

He was born at Tavistock, in Devon, about the year 1590; and after themanner of mild and sensible men cherished a particular love for hisbirth-place to the end of his days. From Tavistock Grammar School hepassed to Exeter College, Oxford--the old west-country college--andthence to Clifford's Inn and the Inner Temple. His first wife diedwhen he was twenty-three or twenty-four. He took his second courtshipquietly and leisurely, marrying the lady at length in 1628, after awooing of thirteen years. "He seems, " says Mr. A. H. Bullen, his latestbiographer, "to have acquired in some way a modest competence, whichsecured him immunity from the troubles that weighed so heavily on menof letters. " His second wife also brought him a portion. More thanfour years before this marriage he had returned to Exeter College, astutor to the young Robert Dormer, who in due time became Earl ofCarnarvon and was killed in Newbury fight. By his fellow-collegians--asby everybody with whom he came into contact--he was highly beloved andesteemed, and in the public Register of the University is styled, "viromni humana literarum et bonarum artium cognitione instructus. " Hegained the especial favor of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, whomAubrey calls "the greatest Mæcenas to learned men of any peer of histime or since, " and of whom Clarendon says, "He was a great lover ofhis country, and of the religion and justice, which he believed couldonly support it; and his friendships were only with men of thoseprinciples, "--another tribute to the poet's character. He was familiarlyreceived at Wilton, the home of the Herberts. After his second marriagehe moved to Dorking and there settled. He died in or before the year1645. In the letters of administration granted to his widow (November, 1645) he is described as "late of Dorking, in the county of Surrey, Esquire. " But there is no entry of his death in the registers at Dorkingor Horsham: so perhaps he went back to lay his bones in his beloved Devon. A William Browne was buried at Tavistock on March 27th, 1643. This may ormay not have been our author. "Tavistock, --Wilton, --Dorking, " says Mr. Bullen, --"Surely few poets have had a more tranquil journey to theElysian Fields. "

An amiable poet. 

As with his life, so with his poetry--he went about it quietly, contentedly. He learned his art, as he confesses, from Spenser andSidney; and he took it over ready-made, with all the conventions andpastoral stock-in-trade--swains languishing for hard-hearted nymphs, nymphs languishing for hard-hearted swains; sheep-cotes, rusticdances, junketings, anadems, and true-love knots; monsters inventedfor the perpetual menace of chastity; chastity undergoing the mostsurprising perils, but always saved in the nick of time, if not by anopportune shepherd, then by an equally opportune river-god orearthquake; episodes innumerable, branching off from the main stem ofthe narrative at the most critical point, and luxuriating in endlessramifications. Beauty, eluding unwelcome embraces, is never too hotlypressed to dally with an engaging simile or choose the most agreeablewords for depicting her tribulation. Why indeed should she hurry? Itis all a polite and pleasant make-believe; and when Marina and Doridonare tired, they stand aside and watch the side couples, Fida andRemond, and get their breath again for the next figure. As for thefinish of the tale, there is no finish. The narrator will stop when heis tired; just then and no sooner. What became of Marina after Tritonrolled away the stone and released her from the Cave of Famine? I amsure I don't know. I have followed her adventures up to that point(though I should be very sorry to attempt a _précis_ of them withoutthe book) through some 370 pages of verse. Does this mean that I amgreatly interested in her? Not in the least. I am quite content tohear no more about her. Let us have the lamentations of Celadyne for achange--though "for a change" is much too strong an expression. Theauthor is quite able to invent more adventures for Marina, if hechooses to, by the hour together. If he does not choose to, well andgood. 

Was the composition of _Britannia's Pastorals_ then, a useless orinconsiderable feat? Not at all: since to read them is to taste a mildbut continuous pleasure. In the first place, it is always pleasant tosee a good man thoroughly enjoying himself: and that Browne thoroughly"relisht versing"--to use George Herbert's pretty phrase--would bepatent enough, even had he not left us an express assurance:--

 "What now I sing is but to pass away A tedious hour, as some musicians play; Or make another my own griefs bemoan--"

--rather affected, that, one suspects:

 "Or to be least alone when most alone, In this can I, as oft as I will choose, Hug sweet content by my retirèd Muse, And in a study find as much to please As others in the greatest palaces. Each man that lives, according to his power, On what he loves bestows an idle hour. Instead of hounds that make the wooded hills Talk in a hundred voices to the rills, I like the pleasing cadence of a line Struck by the consort of the sacred Nine. In lieu of hawks . .. "

--and so on. Indeed, unless it be Wither, there is no poet of the timewho practised his art with such entire cheerfulness: though Wither'ssatisfaction had a deeper note, as when he says of his Muse--

 "Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in the mind, Of more sweetness than all art Or inventions can impart; Thoughts too deep to be express'd, And too strong to be suppressed. "

Yet Charles Lamb's nice observation--

 "Fame, and that too after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that poetry was a present possession as well as a rich reversion, and that the muse had promise of both lives--of this, and of that which was to come. "

--must be extended by us, after reading his lines quoted above, toinclude William Browne. He, at least, had no doubt of the Muse as anearthly companion. 

As for posthumous fame, Browne confides to us his aspirations in thatmatter also:--

 "And Time may be so kind to these weak lines To keep my name enroll'd past his that shines In gilded marble, or in brazen leaves: Since verse preserves, when stone and brass deceives. Or if (as worthless) Time not lets it live To those full days which others' Muses give, Yet I am sure I shall be heard and sung Of most severest eld and kinder young Beyond my days; and maugre Envy's strife, Add to my name some hours beyond my life. "

This is the amiable hope of one who lived an entirely amiable life in

 "homely towns, Sweetly environ'd with the daisied downs:"

and who is not the less to be beloved because at times his amiabilityprevents him from attacking even our somnolence too fiercely. If thecasual reader but remember Browne as a poet who had the honor tosupply Keats with inspiration, [A] there will always be others, andenough of them, to prize his ambling Muse for her own qualities. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Cf. _ his lament for William Ferrar (brother of Nicholas Ferrar, of Little Gidding), drowned at sea--

 "Glide soft, ye silver floods, And every spring: Within the shady woods Let no bird sing. .. . "

THOMAS CAREW

July 28, 1894. A Note on his Name. 

Even as there is an M alike in Macedon and Monmouth, so Thomas Carewand I have a common grievance--that our names are constantlymispronounced. It is their own fault, of course; on the face of itthey ought to rhyme with "few" and "vouch. " And if it be urged(impolitely but with a fair amount of plausibility) that what my namemay or may not rhyme with is of no concern to anybody, I have only toreply that, until a month or so back, I cheerfully shared this opinionand acquiesced in the general error. Had I dreamed then of becoming asubject for poetry, I had pointed out--as I do now--for the benefit ofall intending bards, that I do not legitimately rhyme with "vouch" (soliable is human judgment to err, even in trifles), unless theypronounce it "vooch, " which is awkward. I believe, indeed (speaking asone who has never had occasion to own a Rhyming Dictionary), that thenumber of English words consonant with my name is exceedingly small;but leave the difficulty to the ingenious Dr. Alexander H. Japp, LL. D. , F. R. S. E. , who has lately been at the pains to compose and putinto private circulation a sprightly lampoon upon me. As it is not myintention to reply with a set of verses upon Dr. Japp, it seemssuperfluous to inquire if _his_ name should be pronounced as it isspelt. 

But Carew's case is rather important; and it is really odd that hislatest and most learned editor, the Rev. J. F. Ebsworth, should fallinto the old error. In a "dedicatory prelude" to his edition of "ThePoems and Masque of Thomas Carew" (London: Reeves & Turner), Mr. Ebsworth writes as follows:--

 "Hearken strains from one who knew How to praise and how to sue: _Celia's_ lover, TOM CAREW. "

Thomas Carew (born April 3d, 1590, at Wickham, in Kent) was the son ofSir Matthew Carew, Master in Chancery, and the grandson of Sir WymondCarew, of East Antony, or Antony St. Jacob, between the Lynher andTamar rivers in Cornwall, where the family of Pole-Carew lives tothis day. Now, the Cornish Carews have always pronounced their name as"Carey, " though, as soon as you cross the Tamar and find yourself (letus say) as far east as Haccombe in South Devon, the name becomes"Carew"--pronounced as it is written. The two forms are both of greatage, as the old rhyme bears witness--

 "Carew, Carey and Courtenay, When the Conqueror came, were here at play"--

and the name was often written "Carey" or "Cary, " as in the case ofthe famous Lucius Carey, Lord Falkland, and his descendants. InCornwall, however, where spelling is often an untrustworthy guide topronunciation (I have known people to write their name "Hix" andpronounce it as "Hic"--when sober, too), it was written "Carew" andpronounced as "Carey"; and there is not the slightest doubt that thiswas the case with our poet's name. If anyone deny it, let him considerthe verse in which Carew is mentioned by his contemporaries: andattempt, for instance, to scan the lines in Robert Baron's "PoculaCastalia, " 1650--

 "Sweet _Suckling_ then, the glory of the Bower Wherein I've wanton'd many a genial hour, Fair Plant! whom I have seen _Minerva_ wear An ornament to her well-plaited hair, On highest days; remove a little from Thy excellent _Carew_! and thou, dearest _Tom_, _Love's Oracle_! lay thee a little off Thy flourishing _Suckling_, that between you both I may find room. .. . "

Or this by Suckling--

 "_Tom Carew_ was next, but he had a fault, That would not well stand with a Laureat; His Muse was hard-bound, and th' issue of 's brain Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain. "

Or this, by Lord Falkland himself (who surely may be supposed to haveknown how the name was pronounced), in his "Eclogue on the Death ofBen Jonson"--

 "_Let Digby, Carew, Killigrew_ and _Maine, Godolphin, Waller_, that inspired train-- Or whose rare pen beside deserves the grace Or of an equal, or a neighbouring place-- Answer thy wish, for none so fit appears To raise his Tomb, as who are left his heirs. "

In each case "Carey" scans admirably, while "Carew" gives the line anintolerable limp. 

Mr. Ebsworth's championship. 

This mistake of Mr. Ebsworth's is the less easy to understand inasmuchas he has been very careful to clear up the popular confusion of ourpoet Thomas Carew, "gentleman of the Privy Chamber to King Charles I. , and cup-bearer to His Majesty, " with another Thomas Gary (also apoet), son of the Earl of Monmouth and groom of His Majesty'sbed-chamber. But it is one thing to prove that this second Thomas Garyis the original of the "medallion portrait" commonly supposed to beCarew's: it is quite another thing to saddle him, merely uponguess-work, with Carew's reputed indiscretions. Indeed, Mr. Ebsworthlets his enthusiasm for his author run clean away with his sense offairness. He heads his Introductory Memoir with the words of Pallas inTennyson's "Œnone"--

 "Again she said--'I woo thee not with gifts: Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. '"--

from which I take it that Mr. Ebsworth claims his attitude towardsCarew to be much the same as Thackeray's towards Pendennis. But infact he proves himself a thorough-going partisan, and anyone lessenthusiastic may think himself lucky if dismissed by Mr. Ebsworthwith nothing worse than a smile of pity mingled with contempt. Now, so long as an editor confines this belligerent enthusiasm to thedefence of his author's writings, it is at worst but an amiableweakness; and every word he says in their praise tends indirectly tojustify his own labor in editing these meritorious compositions. Butwhen he extends this championship over the author's private life, henot unfrequently becomes something of a nuisance. We may easilyforgive such talk as "There must assuredly have been a singularfrankness and affectionate simplicity in the disposition of Carew:"talk which is harmless, though hardly more valuable than thereflection beloved of local historians--"If these grey old walls couldspeak, what a tale might they not unfold!" It is less easy to forgivesuch a note as this:--

 "Sir John Suckling was incapable of understanding Carew in his final days of sickness and depression, as he had been (and this is conceding much) in their earlier days of reckless gallantry. His vile address 'to T---- C----, ' etc. , 'Troth, _Tom_, I must confess I much admire . .. ' is nothing more than coarse badinage without foundation; in any case not necessarily addressed to Carew, although they were of close acquaintance; but many other Toms were open to a similar expression, since 'T. C. ' might apply to Thomas Carey, to Thomas Crosse, and other T. C. Poets. "

It is not pleasant to rake up any man's faults; but when an editorbegins to suggest some new man against whom nothing is known (exceptthat he wrote indifferent verse)--who is not even known to have beenon speaking terms with Suckling--as the proper target of Suckling'scoarse raillery, we have a right not only to protest, but to point outthat even Clarendon, who liked Carew, wrote of him that, "after fiftyyears of his life spent with less severity and exactness than it oughtto have been, he died with great remorse for that license, and withthe greatest manifestation of Christianity that his best friends coulddesire. " If Carew thought fit to feel remorse for that license, itscarcely becomes Mr. Ebsworth to deny its existence, much less to hintthat the sinfulness was another's. 

A correction. 

As a minor criticism, I may point out that the song, "Come, my Celia, let us prove . .. " (included by Mr. Ebsworth, with the remark that"there is no external evidence to confirm the attribution of this songto Carew") was written by Ben Jonson, and is to be found in_Volpone_, Act III. , sc. 7, 1607. 

But, with some imperfections, this is a sound edition--sadlyneeded--of one of the most brilliant lyrical writers of his time. Itcontains a charming portrait; and the editor's enthusiasm, when itdoes not lead him too far, is also charming. 

"ROBINSON CRUSOE"

April 13, 1895. Robinson Crusoe. 

Many a book has produced a wide and beneficent effect and won a greatreputation, and yet this effect and this reputation have beenaltogether wide of its author's aim. Swift's _Gulliver_ is oneexample. As Mr. Birrell put it the other day, "Swift's gospel ofhatred, his testament of woe--his _Gulliver_, upon which he expendedthe treasures of his wit, and into which he instilled the concentratedessence of his rage--has become a child's book, and has been read withwonder and delight by generations of innocents. "

How far is the tale a parable?

Generations of innocents in like manner have accepted _RobinsonCrusoe_ as a delightful tale about a castaway mariner, a story ofadventure pure and simple, without sub-intention of any kind. But weknow very well that Defoe in writing it intended a parable--a parableof his own life. In the first place, he distinctly affirms this inhis preface to the _Serious Reflections_ which form Part iii. Of hisgreat story:--

 "As the design of everything is said to be first in the intention, and last in the execution, so I come now to acknowledge to my reader that the present work is not merely a product of the two first volumes, but the two first volumes may rather be called the product of this. The fable is always made for the moral, not the moral for the fable. .. . "

He goes on to say that whereas "the envious and ill-disposed part ofthe world" have accused the story of being feigned, and "all aromance, formed and embellished by invention to impose upon theworld, " he declares this objection to be an invention scandalous indesign, and false in fact, and affirms that the story, "thoughallegorical, is also historical"; that it is

 "the beautiful representation of a life of unexampled misfortunes, and of a variety not to be met with in the world, sincerely adapted to and intended for the common good of mankind, and _designed at first_, as it is now further applied, to the most serious use possible. Farther, that there is a man alive, and well known too, the actions of whose life are the just subject of these volumes, _and to whom all or most part of the story most directly alludes_; this may be depended upon, for truth, and to this I set my name. "

He proceeds to assert this in detail of several important passages inthe book, and obviously intends us to infer that the adventures ofRobinson Crusoe of York, Mariner, were throughout and from thebeginning designed as a story in parable of the life and adventures ofDaniel Defoe, Gentleman. "But Defoe may have been lying?" This wasnever quite flatly asserted. Even his enemy Gildon admitted an analogybetween the tale of Crusoe and the stormy life of Defoe with itsfrequent shipwrecks "more by land than by sea. " Gildon admitted thisimplicitly in the title of his pamphlet, _The Life and StrangeSurprising Adventures of Mr. D---- De F----, of London, Hosier, whohas lived above Fifty Years by himself in the Kingdoms of North andSouth Britain. _ But the question has always been, To what extent arewe to accept Defoe's statement that the story is an allegory? Does itagree step by step and in detail with the circumstances of Defoe'slife? Or has it but a general allegorical resemblance?

Hitherto, critics have been content with the general resemblance, andhave agreed that it would be a mistake to accept Defoe's statementtoo literally, to hunt for minute allusions in _Robinson Crusoe_, andsearch for exact resemblances between incidents in the tale and eventsin the author's life. But this at any rate may be safely affirmed, that recent discoveries have proved the resemblance to be a great dealcloser than anyone suspected a few years ago. 

Mr. Wright's hypothesis. 

Mr. Aitken supplied the key when he announced in the _Athenæum_ forAugust 23rd, 1890, his discovery that Daniel Defoe was born, not in1661 (as had hitherto been supposed), but earlier, and probably in thelatter part of the year 1659. The story dates Crusoe's birth September30th, 1632, or just twenty-seven years earlier. Now Mr. Wright, Defoe's latest biographer, [A] maintains that if we add thesetwenty-seven years to the date of any event in Crusoe's life we shallhave the date of the corresponding event in Defoe's life. By thissimple calculation he finds that Crusoe's running away to seacorresponds in time with Defoe's departure from the academy atNewington Green; Crusoe's early period on the island (south side)with the years Defoe lived at Tooting; Crusoe's visit to the otherside of the island with a journey of Defoe's into Scotland; thefootprint and the arrival of the savages with the threatening lettersreceived by Defoe, and the physical assaults made on him after theSacheverell trial; while Friday stands for a collaborator who helpedDefoe with his work. 

Defoe expressly states in his _Serious Reflections_ that the story ofFriday is historical and true in fact--

 "It is most real that I had . .. Such a servant, a savage, and afterwards a Christian, and that his name was called Friday, and that he was ravished from me by force, and died in the hands that took him, which I represent by being killed; this is all literally true, and should I enter into discoveries many alive can testify them. His other conduct and assistance to me also have just references in all their parts to the helps I had from that faithful savage in my real solitudes and disasters. "

It may be added that there are strong grounds for believing Defoe tohave had about this time assistance in his literary work. 

All this is very neatly worked out; but of course the really importantevent in Crusoe's life is his great shipwreck and his long solitudeon the island. Now of what events in Defoe's life are thesesymbolical?

The 'Silence. '

Well, in the very forefront of his _Serious Reflections_, and inconnection with his long confinement in the island, Defoe makes Crusoetell the following story:--

 "I have heard of a man that, upon some extraordinary disgust which he took at the unsuitable conversation of some of his nearest relations, whose society he could not avoid, suddenly resolved never to speak any more. He kept his resolution most rigorously many years; not all the tears or entreaties of his friends--no, not of his wife and children--could prevail with him to break his silence. It seems it was their ill-behaviour to him, at first, that was the occasion of it; for they treated him with provoking language, which frequently put him into undecent passions, and urged him to rash replies; and he took this severe way to punish himself for being provoked, and to punish them for provoking him. But the severity was unjustifiable; it ruined his family and broke up his house. His wife could not bear it, and after endeavouring, by all the ways possible, to alter his rigid silence, went first away from him, and afterwards from herself, turning melancholy and distracted. His children separated, some one way and some another way; and only one daughter, who loved her father above all the rest, kept with him, tended him, talked to him by signs, and lived almost dumb like her father _near twenty-nine years with him; till being very sick, and in a high fever, delirious as we call it, or light-headed, he broke his silence_, not knowing when he did it, and spoke, though wildly at first. He recovered of his illness afterwards, and frequently talked with his daughter, but not much, and very seldom to anybody else. "

I italicise some very important words in the above story. Crusoe waswrecked on his island on September 30th, 1659, his twenty-seventhbirthday. We are told that he remained on the island twenty-eightyears, two months and nineteen days. (Compare with duration of theman's silence in the story. ) This puts the date of his departure atDecember 19th, 1687. 

Now add twenty-seven years. We find that Defoe left _his_solitude--whatever that may have been--on December 19th, 1714. Just atthat date, as all his biographers record, Defoe was struck down by afit of apoplexy and lay ill for six weeks. Compare this again with thestory. 

You divine what is coming. Astounding as it may be, Mr. Wrightcontends that Defoe himself was the original of the story: that Defoe, provoked by his wife's irritating tongue, made a kind of vow to livea life of silence--and kept it for more than twenty-eight years!

So far back as 1859 the egregious Chadwick nibbled at this theory inhis _Life and Times of Daniel Defoe, with Remarks Digressive andDiscursive_. The story, he says, "would be very applicable" to Defoehimself, and again, "is very likely to have been taken from his ownlife"; but at this point Chadwick maunders off with the remark that"perhaps the domestic fireside of the poet or book-writer is not theplace we should go to in search of domestic happiness. " Perhaps not;but Chadwick, tallyhoing after domestic happiness, misses the scent. Mr. Wright sticks to the scent and rides boldly; but is he after thereal fox?

 * * * * *

April 20, 1895. 

Can we believe it? Can we believe that on the 30th of September, 1686, Defoe, provoked by his wife's nagging tongue, made a vow to live alife of complete silence; that for twenty-eight years and a month ortwo he never addressed a word to his wife or children; and that hisresolution was only broken down by a severe illness in the winter of1714?

Mr. Aitken on Mr. Wright's hypothesis. 

Mr. Aitken, [B] who has handled this hypothesis of Mr. Wright's, bringsseveral arguments against it, which, taken together, seem to me quiteconclusive. To begin with, several children were born to Defoe duringthis period. He paid much attention to their education, and in 1713, the penultimate year of this supposed silence, we find his sonshelping him in his work. Again, in 1703 Mrs. Defoe was interceding forher husband's release from Newgate. Let me add that it was an age inwhich personalities were freely used in public controversy; that Defoewas continuously occupied with public controversy during thesetwenty-eight years, and managed to make as many enemies as any manwithin the four seas; and I think the silence of his adversaries upona matter which, if proved, would be discreditable in the extreme, isthe best of all evidence that Mr. Wright's hypothesis cannot besustained. Nor do I see how Mr. Wright makes it square with his ownconception of Defoe's character. "Of a forgiving temper himself, " saysMr. Wright on p. 86, "he (Defoe) was quite incapable of understandinghow another person could nourish resentment. " This of a man whom thewriter asserts to have sulked in absolute silence with his wife andfamily for twenty-eight years, two months, and nineteen days!

An inherent improbability. 

At all events it will not square with _our_ conception of Defoe'scharacter. Those of us who have an almost unlimited admiration forDefoe as a master of narrative, and next to no affection for him as aman, might pass the heartlessness of such conduct. "At first sight, "Mr. Wright admits, "it may appear monstrous that a man should for solong a time abstain from speech with his own family. " Monstrous, indeed--but I am afraid we could have passed that. Mr. Wright, who haswhat I may call a purfled style, tells us that--

 "To narrate the career of Daniel Defoe is to tell a tale of wonder and daring, of high endeavour and marvellous success. To dwell upon it is to take courage and to praise God for the splendid possibilities of life. .. . Defoe is always the hero; his career is as thick with events as a cornfield with corn; his fortunes change as quickly and as completely as the shapes in a kaleidoscope--he is up, he is down, he is courted, he is spurned; it is shine, it is shower, it is _couleur de rose_, it is Stygian night. Thirteen times he was rich and poor. Achilles was not more audacious, Ulysses more subtle, Æneas more pious. "

That is one way of putting it. Here is another way (as the cookerybooks say):--"To narrate the career of Daniel Defoe is to tell a taleof a hosier and pantile maker, who had a hooked nose and wrote tractsindefatigably--he was up, he was down, he was in the Pillory, he wasat Tooting; it was _poule de soie_, it was leather and prunella; andit was always tracts. Æneas was not so pious a member of the Butchers'Company; and there are a few milestones on the Dover Road; but Defoe'slife was as thick with tracts as a cornfield with corn. " These twoestimates may differ here and there; but on one point they agree--thatDefoe was an extremely restless, pushing, voluble person, who could assoon have stood on his head for twenty-eight years, two months, andnineteen days as have kept silence for that period with any man orwoman in whose company he found himself frequently alone. Unless wehave entirely misjudged his character--and, I may add, unless Mr. Wright has completely misrepresented the rest of his life--it simplywas not _in_ the man to keep this foolish vow for twenty-four hours. 

No, I am afraid Mr. Wright's hypothesis will not do. And yet his planof adding twenty-seven years to each important date in Crusoe'shistory has revealed so many coincident events in the life of Defoethat we cannot help feeling he is "hot, " as they say in the children'sgame; that the wreck upon the island and Crusoe's twenty-eight yearsodd of solitude do really correspond with some great event andimportant period of Defoe's life. The wreck is dated 30th September, 1659. Add the twenty-seven years, and we come to September 30th, 1686. Where was Defoe at that date, and what was he doing? Mr. Wright has toconfess that of his movements in 1686 and the two following years "weknow little that is definite. " Certainly we know of nothing that cancorrespond with Crusoe's shipwreck. 

A suggestion. 

But wait a moment--The _original_ editions of _Robinson Crusoe_ (andmost, if not all, later editions) give the date of Crusoe's departurefrom the island as December 19th, 1686, instead of 1687. Mr. Wrightsuggests that this is a misprint; and, to be sure, it does not agreewith the statement respecting the length of Crusoe's stay on theisland, _if we assume the date of the wreck to be correct_. But, (asMr. Aitken points out) the mistake must be the author's, not theprinter's, because in the next paragraph we are told that Crusoereached England in June, 1687, not 1688. I agree with Mr. Aitken; andI suggest _that the date of Crusoe's arrival at the island, not thedate of his departure, is the date misprinted_. Assume for a momentthat the date of departure (December 19th, 1686) is correct. Subtractthe twenty-eight years, two months, and nineteen days of Crusoe's stayon the island, and we get September 30th, 1658, as the date of thewreck and his arrival at the island. Now add the twenty-seven yearswhich separate Crusoe's experiences from Defoe's, and we come toSeptember 30th, 1685. What was happening in England at the close ofSeptember, 1685? Why, Jeffreys was carrying through his Bloody Assize. 

"Like many other Dissenters, " says Mr. Wright on p. 21, "Defoesympathised with Monmouth; and, to his misfortune, took part in therising. " His comrades perished in it, and he himself, in Mr. Wright'swords, "probably had to lie low. " There is no doubt that the Monmouthaffair was the beginning of Defoe's troubles: and I suggest thatcertain passages in the story of Crusoe's voyage (_e. G. _ the "secretproposal" of the three merchants who came to Crusoe) have a peculiarsignificance if read in this connection. I also think it possiblethere may be a particular meaning in the several waves, so carefullydescribed, through which Crusoe made his way to dry land; and in thesimile of the reprieved malefactor (p. 50 in Mr. Aitken's delightfuledition); and in the several visits to the wreck. 

I am no specialist in Defoe, but put this suggestion forward with theutmost diffidence. And yet, right or wrong, I feel it has moreplausibility than Mr. Wright's. Defoe undoubtedly took part in theMonmouth rising, and was a survivor of that wreck "on the south sideof the island": and undoubtedly it formed the turning-point of hiscareer. If we could discover how he escaped Kirke and Jeffreys, I aminclined to believe we should have a key to the whole story of theshipwreck. I should not be sorry to find this hypothesis upset; forthe story of Robinson Crusoe is quite good enough for me as it stands, and without any sub-intention. But whatever be the true explanationof the parable, if time shall discover it, I confess I expect it willbe a trifle less recondite than Mr. Wright's, and a trifle morecreditable to the father of the English novel. [C]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "The Life of Daniel Defoe. " By Thomas Wright, Principal of CowperSchool, Olney. London: Cassell & Co. 

[B] _Romances and Narratives by Daniel Defoe_. Edited by George A. Aitken. Vols. I. , ii. , and iii. Containing the Life and Adventures, Farther Adventures, and Serious Reflections of Robinson Crusoe. With aGeneral Introduction by the Editor. London: J. M. Dent & Co. 

[C] Upon this suggestion Mr. Aitken, in a postscript to his seventhvolume of the _Romances and Narratives_, has since remarked asfollows:--

 "In a discussion in _The Speaker_ upon Defoe's supposed period of 'silence, ' published since the appearance of the first volume of this edition, Mr. Quiller Couch, while agreeing, for the reasons I have given (vol. I. P. Lvii. ), that there is no mistake in the date of Robinson Crusoe's departure from his island (December, 1686), has suggested that perhaps the error in the chronology lies, not in the length of time Crusoe is said to have lived on the island, but in the date given for his landing (September, 1659). That this suggestion is right appears from a passage which has hitherto escaped notice. Crusoe was born in 1632, and Defoe makes him say (vol. I. P. 147), 'The same day of the year I was born on, viz. The 30th of September, that same day I had my life so miraculously saved twenty-six years after, when I was cast ashore on this island. ' Crusoe must, therefore, have reached his island on September 30, 1658, not 1659, as twice stated by Defoe; and by adding twenty-eight years to 1658 we get 1686, the date given for Crusoe's departure. 

 "It is, however, questionable whether this rectification helps us to interpret the allegory in _Robinson Crusoe_. It is true that if, in accordance with the 'key' suggested by Mr. Wright, we add twenty-seven years to the date of the shipwreck (1658) in order to find the corresponding event in Defoe's life, we arrive at September, 1685, when Jeffreys was sentencing many of those who--like Defoe--took part in Monmouth's rising. But we have no evidence that Defoe suffered seriously in consequence of the part he took in this rebellion; and the addition of twenty-seven years to the date of Crusoe's departure from the island (December, 1686) does not bring us to any corresponding event in Defoe's own story. Those who are curious will find the question discussed at greater length in _The Speaker_ for April 13 and 20, and May 4, 1895. "

LAWRENCE STERNE

Dec. 10, 1891. Sterne and Thackeray. 

It is told by those who write scraps of Thackeray's biography that ayouth once ventured to speak disrespectfully of Scott in his presence. "You and I, sir, " said the great man, cutting him short, "should liftour hats at the mention of that great name. "

An admirable rebuke!--if only Thackeray had remembered it when he satdown to write those famous Lectures on the English Humorists, or atleast before he stood up in Willis's Rooms to inform a polite audienceconcerning his great predecessors. Concerning their work? No. Concerning their genius? No. Concerning the debt owed to them bymankind? Not a bit of it. Concerning their _lives_, ladies andgentlemen; and whether their lives were pure and respectable and freefrom scandal and such as men ought to have led whose works you wouldlike your sons and daughters to handle. Mr. Frank T. Marzials, Thackeray's latest biographer, finds the matter of these Lectures"excellent":--

 "One feels in the reading that Thackeray is a peer among his peers--a sort of elder brother, [A] kindly, appreciative and tolerant--as he discourses of Addison, Steele, Swift, Pope, Sterne, Fielding, Goldsmith. I know of no greater contrast in criticism--a contrast, be it said, not to the advantage of the French critic--than Thackeray's treatment of Pope and that of M. Taine. What allowance the Englishman makes for the physical ills that beset the 'gallant little cripple'; with what a gentle hand he touches the painful places in that poor twisted body! M. Taine, irritated apparently that Pope will not fit into his conception of English literature, exhibits the same deformities almost savagely. "

I am sorry that I cannot read this kindliness, this appreciation, thistolerance, into the Lectures--into those, for instance, of Sterne andFielding: that the simile of the "elder brother" carries differentsuggestions for Mr. Marzials and for me: and that the lecturer'sattitude is to me less suggestive of a peer among his peers than of atall "bobby"--a volunteer constable--determined to warn his politehearers what sort of men these were whose books they had hitherto readunsuspectingly. 

And even so--even though the lives and actions of men who lived tooearly to know Victorian decency must be held up to shock a crowd inWillis's Rooms, yet it had been but common generosity to tell thewhole truth. Then the story of Fielding's _Voyage to Lisbon_ mighthave touched the heart to sympathy even for the purely fictitious lowcomedian whom Thackeray presented: and Sterne's latest letters mighthave infused so much pity into the polite audience that they, like hisown Recording Angel, might have blotted out his faults with a tear. But that was not Thackeray's way. Charlotte Brontë found "a finishedtaste and ease" in the Lectures, a "something high bred. " Motleydescribes their style as "hovering, " and their method as "theperfection of lecturing to high-bred audiences. " Mr. Marzials quotesthis expression "hovering" as admirably descriptive. It is. Byjudicious selection, by innuendo, here a pitying aposiopesis, there anindignant outburst, the charges are heaped up. Swift was a toady atheart, and used Stella vilely for the sake of that hussy Vanessa. Congreve had captivating manners--of course he had, the dog! And weall know what that meant in those days. Dick Steele drank and failedto pay his creditors. Sterne--now really I know what Club life is, ladies and gentlemen, and I might tell you a thing or two if I would:but really, speaking as a gentleman before a polite audience, I warnyou against Sterne. 

I do not suppose for a moment that Thackeray consciously defamed thesemen. The weaknesses, the pettinesses of humanity interested him, andhe treated them with gusto, even as he spares us nothing of thathorrible scene between Mrs. Mackenzie and Colonel Newcome. And ofcourse poor Sterne was the easiest victim. The fellow was so full ofhis confounded sentiments. You ring a choice few of these on thecounter and prove them base metal. You assume that the rest of the bagis of equal value. You "go one better" than Sir Peter Teazle and damnall sentiment, and lo! the fellow is no better than a smirking jester, whose antics you can expose till men and women, who had foolishlylaughed and wept as he moved them, turn from him, loathing him as aswindler. So it is that although _Tristram Shandy_ continues one ofthe most popular classics in the language, nobody dares to confess hisdebt to Sterne except in discreet terms of apology. 

But the fellow wrote the book. You can't deny _that_, thoughThackeray may tempt you to forget it. (What proportion does my UncleToby hold in that amiable Lecture?) The truth is that the elementalsimplicity of Captain Shandy and Corporal Trim did not appeal to theauthor of _The Book of Snobs_ in the same degree as the pettiness ofthe man Sterne appealed to him: and his business in Willis's Rooms wasto talk, not of Captain Shandy, but of the man Sterne, to whom hishearers were to feel themselves superior as members of society. Isubmit that this was not a worthy task for a man of letters who wasalso a man of genius. I submit that it was an inversion of the truecritical method to wreck Sterne's _Sentimental Journey_ at the outsetby picking Sterne's life to pieces, holding up the shreds and warningthe reader that any nobility apparent in his book will be nothingbetter than a sham. Sterne is scarcely arrived at Calais and inconversation with the Monk before you are cautioned how you listen tothe impostor. "Watch now, " says the critic; "he'll be at his tricks ina moment. Hey, _paillasse_! There!--didn't I tell you?" And yet I amas sure that the opening pages of the _Sentimental Journey_ are fullof genuine feeling as I am that if Jonathan Swift had entered the roomwhile the Lecture upon him was going forward, he would have eatenWilliam Makepeace Goliath, white waistcoat and all. 

Frenchmen, who either are less awed than we by lecturers in whitewaistcoats, or understand the methods of criticism somewhat better, cherish the _Sentimental Journey_ (in spite of its indifferent French)and believe in the genius that created it. But the Briton reads itwith shyness, and the British critic speaks of Sterne with batedbreath, since Thackeray told it in Gath that Sterne was a bad man, andthe daughters of Philistia triumphed. 

 * * * * *

October 6, 1894. Mr. Whibley's Edition of "Tristram Shandy. "

We are a strenuous generation, with a New Humor and a number ofinteresting by-products; but a new _Tristram Shandy_ stands not yetamong our achievements. So Messrs. Henley and Whibley have made thebest of it and given us a new edition of the old _Tristram_--twohandsome volumes, with shapely pages, fair type, and an Introduction. Mr. Whibley supplies the Introduction, and that he writes lucidly andforcibly needs not to be said. His position is neither that sounfairly taken up by Thackeray; nor that of Allibone, who, writing forHeaven knows how many of Allibone's maiden aunts, summed up Sternethus:--

 "A standing reproach to the profession which he disgraced, grovelling in his tastes, indiscreet, if not licentious, in his habits, he lived unhonoured and died unlamented, save by those who found amusement in his wit or countenance in his immorality. "[B]

But though he avoids these particular excesses; though he goesstraight for the book, as a critic should; Mr. Whibley cannot get quitof the bad tradition of patronizing Sterne:--

 "He failed, as only a sentimentalist can fail, in the province of pathos. .. . There is no trifle, animate or inanimate, he will not bewail, if he be but in the mood; nor does it shame him to dangle before the public gaze those poor shreds of sensibility he calls his feelings. Though he seldom deceives the reader into sympathy, none will turn from his choicest agony without a thrill of disgust. The _Sentimental Journey_, despite its interludes of tacit humour and excellent narrative, is the last extravagance of irrelevant grief. .. . Genuine sentiment was as strange to Sterne the writer as to Sterne the man; and he conjures up no tragic figure that is not stuffed with sawdust and tricked out in the rags of the green-room. Fortunately, there is scant opportunity for idle tears in _Tristram Shandy_. .. . Yet no occasion is lost. .. . Yorick's death is false alike to nature and art. The vapid emotion is properly matched with commonness of expression, and the bad taste is none the more readily excused by the suggestion of self-defence. Even the humour of My Uncle Toby is something: degraded by the oft-quoted platitude: 'Go, poor devil, ' says he, to an overgrown fly which had buzzed about his nose; 'get thee gone. Why should I hurt thee? This world surely is big enough to hold both thee and me. '"

But here Mr. Whibley's notorious hatred of sentiment leads him intoconfusion. That the passage has been over-quoted is no fault ofSterne's. Of My Uncle Toby, if of any man, it might have beenpredicted that he would not hurt a fly. To me this trivial action ofhis is more than merely sentimental. But, be this as it may, I am sureit is honestly characteristic. 

Still, on the whole Mr. Whibley has justice. Sterne _is_ asentimentalist. Sterne _is_ indecent by reason of his reticence--moreindecent than Rabelais, because he uses a hint where Rabelais wouldhave said what he meant, and prints a dash where Rabelais would haveplumped out with a coarse word and a laugh. Sterne _is_ a convictedthief. On a famous occasion Charles Reade drew a line between plagiaryand justifiable borrowing. To draw material from a heterogeneouswork--to found, for instance, the play of _Coriolanus_ upon Plutarch's_Life_--is justifiable: to take from a homogeneous work--to enrichyour drama from another man's drama--is plagiary. But even on thisinterpretation of the law Sterne must be condemned; for in decking out_Tristram_ with feathers from the history of Gargantua he waspillaging a homogeneous work. Nor can it be pleaded in extenuationthat he improved upon his originals--though it can, I think, bepleaded that he made his borrowings his own. I do not think much ofMr. Whibley's instance of Servius Sulpicius' letter. No doubt Sternetook his translation of it from Burton; but the letter is a very wellknown one, and Burton's translation happened to be uncommonly good, and the borrowing of a good rendering without acknowledgment was not, as far as I know, then forbidden by custom. In any case, the wholepassage is intended merely to lead up to the beautiful perplexity ofMy Uncle Toby. And that is Sterne's own, and could never have beenanother man's. "After all, " says Mr. Whibley, "all the best in Sterneis still Sterne's own. "

But the more I agree with Mr. Whibley's strictures the more I desireto remove them from an Introduction to _Tristram Shandy_, and to readthem in a volume of Mr. Whibley's collected essays. Were it notbetter, in reading _Tristram Shandy_, to take Sterne for once (if onlyfor a change) at his own valuation, or at least to accept the originalpostulates of the story? If only for the entertainment he provides weowe him the effort. There will be time enough afterwards to turn tothe cold judgment of this or that critic, or to the evidence of thisor that thief-taker. For the moment he claims to be heard withoutprejudice; he has genius enough to make it worth our while to listenwithout prejudice; and the most lenient "appreciation" of his sins, ifwe read it beforehand, is bound to raise prejudice and infect ourenjoyment as we read. And, as a corollary of this demand, let us askthat he shall be allowed to present his book to us exactly as hechooses. Mr. Whibley says, "He set out upon the road of authorshipwith a false ideal: 'Writing, ' said he, 'when properly managed, isbut a different name for conversation. ' It would be juster to assertthat writing is never properly managed, unless it be removed fromconversation as far as possible. " Very true; or, at least, verylikely. But since Sterne _had_ this ideal, let us grant him fullliberty to make his spoon or spoil his horn, and let us judgeafterwards concerning the result. The famous blackened page and theempty pages (all omitted in this new edition) are part of Sterne'smethod. They may seem to us trick-work and foolery; but, if weconsider, they link on to his notion that writing is but a name forconversation; they are included in his demand that in writing a book aman should be allowed to "go cluttering away like hey-go mad. " "Youmay take my word"--it is Sterne who speaks, and in his very firstchapter--

 "You may take my word that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense, his success and miscarriages in this world, depend upon their motions and activity, and the different tracks and trains you put them into, so that when they are once set going--whether right or wrong, 'tis not a halfpenny matter--away they go cluttering like hey-go mad; and by treading the same steps over and over again, they presently make a road of it, as plain and smooth as a garden walk, which, when once they are used to, the devil himself sometimes shall not be able to drive them off it. "

This, at any rate, is Sterne's own postulate. And I had rather judgehim with all his faults after reading the book than be preparedbeforehand to make allowances. 

 * * * * *

Nov. 12, 1895. Sterne's Good-nature. 

Let one thing be recorded to the credit of this much-abused man. Hewrote two masterpieces of fiction (one of them a work of considerablelength), and in neither will you find an ill-natured character or anill-natured word. On the admission of all critics My Father, MyMother, My Uncle Toby, Corporal Trim, and Mrs. Wadman are immortalcreations. To the making of them there has gone no single sour oruncharitable thought. They are essentially amiable: and the same maybe said of all the minor characters and of the author's disquisitions. Sterne has given us a thousand occasions to laugh, but never anoccasion to laugh on the wrong side of the mouth. For savagery orbitterness you will search his books in vain. He is obscene, to besure. But who, pray, was ever the worse for having read him? Alas, poor Yorick! He had his obvious and deplorable failings. I neverheard that he communicated them. Good-humor he has been communicatingnow for a hundred and fifty years. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] But why "elder"?

[B] "Pan might _indeed_ be proud if ever he begot Such an Allibone . .. " _Spenser (revised). _

SCOTT AND BURNS

Dec. 9, 1893. Scott's Letters. 

 "_All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf. The new edition fifty volumes long"_

--says Bishop Blougram. But for Scott the student will soon have tohire a room. The novels and poems alone stretch away into just sixtyvolumes in Cadell's edition; and this is only the beginning. At thisvery moment two new editions (one of which, at least, isindispensable) are unfolding their magnificent lengths, and reportsays that Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton already project a third, withintroductory essays by Mr. Barrie. Then the Miscellaneous Prose Worksby that untiring hand extend to some twenty-eight or thirty volumes. And when Scott stops, his biographer and his commentators begin, andall with like liberal notions of space and time. Nor do they deceivethemselves. We take all they give, and call for more. Three years ago, and fifty-eight from the date of Scott's death, his Journal waspublished; and although Lockhart had drawn upon it for one of thefullest biographies in the language, the little that Lockhart had leftunused was sufficient to make its publication about the most importantliterary event of the year 1890. 

And now Mr. David Douglas, the publisher of the "Journal, " gives us intwo volumes a selection from the familiar letters preserved atAbbotsford. The period covered by this correspondence is from 1797, the year of Sir Walter's marriage, to 1825, when the "Journal"begins--"covered, " however, being too large a word for the first sevenyears, which are represented by seven letters only; it is only in 1806that we start upon something like a consecutive story. Mr. Douglasspeaks modestly of his editorial work. "I have done, " he says, "littlemore than arrange the correspondence in chronological order, supplyingwhere necessary a slight thread of continuity by annotation andillustration. " It must be said that Mr. Douglas has done thisexceedingly well. There is always a note where a note is wanted, andnever where information would be superfluous. On the taste andjudgment of his selection one who has not examined the whole mass ofcorrespondence at Abbotsford can only speak on _a priori_ grounds. Butit is unlikely that the writer of these exemplary footnotes has mademany serious mistakes in compiling his text. 

Man's perennial and pathetic curiosity about virtue has no morestriking example than the public eagerness to be acquainted with everydetail of Scott's life. For what, as a mere story, is that life?--alevel narrative of many prosperous years; a sudden financial crash;and the curtain falls on the struggle of a tired and dying gentlemanto save his honor. Scott was born in 1771 and died in 1832, and allthat is special in his life belongs to the last six years of it. Evenso the materials for the story are of the simplest--enough, perhaps, under the hand of an artist to furnish forth a tale of the length ofTrollope's _The Warden_. In picturesqueness, in color, in wealth ofepisode and +peripeteia+, Scott's career will not compare for amoment with the career of Coleridge, for instance. Yet who couldendure to read the life of Coleridge in six volumes? De Quincey, in anessay first published the other day by Dr. Japp, calls the story ofthe Coleridges "a perfect romance . .. A romance of beauty, ofintellectual power, of misfortune suddenly illuminated from heaven, ofprosperity suddenly overcast by the waywardness of the individual. "But the "romance" has been written twice and thrice, and desperatelydull reading it makes in each case. Is it then an accident thatColeridge has been unhappy in his biographers, while Lockhartsucceeded once for all, and succeeded so splendidly?

It is surely no accident. Coleridge is an ill man to read about justas certainly as Scott is a good man to read about; and the secret isjust that Scott had character and Coleridge had not. In writing of theman of the "graspless hand, " the biographer's own hand in time growsgraspless on the pen; and in reading of him our hands too growgraspless on the page. We pursue the man and come upon group aftergroup of his friends; and each as we demand "What have you done withColeridge?" answers "He was here just now, and we helped him forward alittle way. " Our best biographies are all of men and women ofcharacter--and, it may be added, of beautiful character--of Johnson, Scott, and Charlotte Brontë. 

There are certain people whose biographies _ought_ to be long. Whocould learn too much concerning Lamb? And concerning Scott, who willnot agree with Lockhart's remark in the preface to his abridgededition of 1848:--"I should have been more willing to produce anenlarged edition; for the interest of Sir Walter's history lies, Ithink, peculiarly in its minute details"? You may explore here, andexplore there, and still you find pure gold; for the man was goldright through. 

So in the present volume every line is of interest because we refer itto Scott's known character and test it thereby. The result is alwaysthe same; yet the employment does not weary. In themselves the letterscannot stand, as mere writing, beside the letters of Cowper, or ofLamb. They are just the common-sense epistles of a man who to his lastday remained too modest to believe in the extent of his own genius. The letters in this collection which show most acuteness on literarymatters are not Scott's, but Lady Louisa Stuart's, who appreciatedthe Novels on their appearance (their faults as well as their merits)with a judiciousness quite wonderful in a contemporary. Scott'sliterary observations (with the exception of one passage where theattitude of an English gentleman towards literature is statedthus--"he asks of it that it shall arouse him from his habitualcontempt of what goes on about him") are much less amusing; and hisletters to Joanna Baillie the dullest in the volume, unless it be theanswers which Joanna Baillie sent. Best of all, perhaps, is thecorrespondence (scarcely used by Lockhart) between Scott and LadyAbercorn, with its fitful intervals of warmth and reserve. This alonewould justify Mr. Douglas's volumes. But, indeed, while nothing can befound now to alter men's conception of Scott, any book about him isjustified, even if it do no more than heap up superfluous testimony tothe beauty of his character. 

 * * * * *

June 15, 1895. A racial disability. 

Since about one-third of the number of my particular friends happen tobe Scotsmen, it has always distressed and annoyed me that, with thebest will in the world, I have never been able to understand on whatprinciple that perfervid race conducts its enthusiasms. Mine is aracial disability, of course; and the converse has been noted by noless a writer than Stevenson, in the story of his journey "Across thePlains":--

 "There were no emigrants direct from Europe--save one German family and a knot of Cornish miners who kept grimly by themselves, one reading the New Testament all day long through steel spectacles, the rest discussing privately the secrets of their old-world mysterious race. Lady Hester Stanhope believed she could make something great of the Cornish; for my part I can make nothing of them at all. A division of races, older and more original than that of Babel, keeps this dose, esoteric family apart from neighbouring Englishmen. "

The loss on my side, to be sure, would be immensely the greater, wereit not happily certain that I _can_ make something of Scotsmen; can, and indeed do, make friends of them. 

The Cult of Burns. 

All the same, this disability weighs me down with a sense of hopelessobtuseness when I consider the deportment of the average intelligentScot at a Burns banquet, or a Burns _conversazione_, or a Burnsfestival, or the unveiling of a Burns statue, or the putting up of apillar on some spot made famous by Burns. All over the world--and allunder it, too, when their time comes--Scotsmen are preparingafter-dinner speeches about Burns. The great globe swings round out ofthe sun into the dark; there is always midnight somewhere; and alwaysin this shifting region the eye of imagination sees oratorsgesticulating over Burns; companies of heated exiles with crossed armsshouting "Auld Lang Syne"; lesser groups--if haply they belesser--reposing under tables, still in honor of Burns. And as thevast continents sweep "eastering out of the high shadow which reachesbeyond the moon, " and as new nations, with _their_ cities andvillages, their mountains and seashores, rise up on the morning-side, lo! fresh troops, and still fresh troops, and yet again fresh troops, wend or are carried out of action with the dawn. 

Scott and Burns. 

None but a churl would wish this enthusiasm abated. But why is it alllavished on Burns? That is what gravels the Southron. Why Burns? Whynot Sir Walter? Had I the honor to be a fellow-countryman of Scott, and had I command of the racial tom-tom, it seems to me that I wouldtund upon it in honor of that great man until I dropped. To me, aSouthron, Scott is the most imaginative, and at the same time thejustest, writer of our language since Shakespeare died. To say this isnot to suggest that he is comparable with Shakespeare. Scott himself, sensible as ever, wrote in his _Journal_, "The blockheads talk of mybeing like Shakespeare--not fit to tie his brogues. " "But it is alsotrue, " said Mr. Swinburne, in his review of the _Journal_, "that ifthere were or could be any man whom it would not be a monstrousabsurdity to compare with Shakespeare as a creator of men and inventorof circumstance, that man could be none other than Scott. " Greaterpoems than his have been written; and, to my mind, one or two novelsbetter than his best. But when one considers the huge mass of his work, and its quality in the mass; the vast range of his genius, and itscommand over that range; who shall be compared with him?

These are the reflections which occur, somewhat obviously, to theSouthron. As for character, it is enough to say that Scott was one ofthe best men who ever walked on this planet; and that Burns was not. But Scott was not merely good: he was winningly good: of a characterso manly, temperate, courageous that men read his Life, his Journal, his Letters with a thrill, as they might read of Rorke's Drift orChitral. How then are we to account for the undeniable fact that hiscountrymen, in public at any rate, wax more enthusiastic over Burns?Is it that the _homeliness_ of Burns appeals to them as a wanderingrace? Is it because, in farthest exile, a line of Burns takes theirhearts straight back to Scotland?--as when Luath the collie, in "TheTwa Dogs, " describes the cotters' New Year's Day:--

 "That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspirin' steam; The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin' mill Are handed round wi' richt guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' through the house, -- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. "

That is one reason, no doubt. But there is another, I suspect. Withall his immense range Scott saw deeply into character; but he did not, I think, see very deeply into feeling. You may extract more of the_lacrimæ rerum_ from the story of his own life than from all hispublished works put together. The pathos of Lammermoor istaken-for-granted pathos. If you deny this, you will not deny, at anyrate, that the pathos of the last scene of _Lear_ is quite beyond hisscope. Yet this is not more certainly beyond his scope than is thefeeling in many a single line or stanza of Burns'. Verse after verse, line after line, rise up for quotation--

 "Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. "

Or, "O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust The heart that lo'ed me dearly-- But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. "

Or, "Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. "

Scott left an enormous mass of writing behind him, and almost all ofit is good. Burns left very much less, and among it a surprisingamount of inferior stuff. But such pathos as the above Scott cannottouch. I can understand the man who holds that these deeps of pathosshould not be probed in literature: and am not sure that I whollydisagree with him. The question certainly is discutable and worthdiscussing. But such pathos, at any rate, is immensely popular: andperhaps this will account for the hold which Burns retains on theaffections of a race which has a right to be at least thrice as proudof Scott. 

However, if Burns is honored at the feast, Scott is read by thefireside. Hardly have the rich Dryburgh and Border editions issuedfrom the press before Messrs. Archibald Constable and Co. Are bringingout their reprint of the famous 48-volume edition of the Novels; andMr. Barrie is supposed to be meditating another, with introductorynotes of his own upon each Novel. In my own opinion nothing has everbeaten, or come near to beat, the 48-volume "Waverley" of 1829; andMessrs. Constable and Co. Were happily inspired when they decided tomake this the basis of their new edition. They have improved upon itin two respects. The paper is lighter and better. And each novel iskept within its own covers, whereas in the old editions a volume wouldcontain the end of one novel and beginning of another. The originalillustrations, by Wilkie, Landseer, Leslie, Stanfield, Bonington, andthe rest, have been retained, in order to make the reprint complete. But this seems to me a pity; for a number of them were bad to beginwith, and will be worse than ever now, being reproduced (as Iunderstand) from impressions of the original plates. To do withoutillustrations were a counsel of perfection. But now that the novelshave become historical, surely it were better to illustrate them withauthentic portraits of Scott, pictures of scenery, facsimiles of MSS. , and so on, than with (_e. G. _) a worn reproduction of what Mr. F. P. Stephanoff thought that Flora Mac-Ivor looked like while playing theharp and introducing a few irregular strains which harmonized wellwith the distant waterfall and the soft sigh of the evening breeze inthe rustling leaves of an aspen which overhung the fairharpress--especially as F. P. Stephanoff does not seem to have knownthe difference between an aspen and a birch. 

In short, did it not contain the same illustrations, this editionwould probably excel even that of 1828. As it is, after manydisappointments, we now have a cheap Waverley on what has always beenthe best model. 

A Protest. 

 'SIR, --In your 'Literary Causerie' of last week . .. The question is discussed why the name of Burns raises in Scotsmen such unbounded enthusiasm while that of Scott falls comparatively flat. This question has puzzled many another Englishman besides 'A. T. Q. C. ' And yet the explanation is not far to seek: Burns appeals to the hearts and feelings of the masses in a way Scott never does. 'A. T. Q. C. ' admits this, and gives quotations in support. These quotations, however excellent in their way, are not those that any Scotsman would trust to in support of the above proposition. A Scotsman would at once appeal to 'Scots wha hae, ' 'Auld Lang Syne, ' and 'A man's a man for a' that. ' The very familiarity of these quotations has bred the proverbial contempt. Think of the soul-inspiring, 'fire-eyed fury' of 'Scots wha hae'; the glad, kind, ever fresh greeting of 'Auld Lang Syne'; the manly, sturdy independence of 'A man's a man for a' that, ' and who can wonder at the ever-increasing enthusiasm for Burns' name?

 Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head and a' that? The coward slave we pass him by-- We dare be poor for a' that. ' * * * * * 'The rank is but the guinea stamp-- The man's the gowd for a' that. '

 "Nor is it in his patriotism, independence, and conviviality alone that Burns touches every mood of a Scotsman's heart. There is an enthusiasm of humanity about Burns which you will hardly find equalled in any other author, and which most certainly does not exist in Scott. 

 'Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn. ' * * * * * 'Why has man this will and power To make his fellow mourn?'

 "These quotations might be multiplied were it necessary; but I think enough has been said to explain what puzzles 'A. T. Q. C. ' I have an unbounded admiration of Sir W. Scott--quite as great as 'A. T. Q. C. ' Indeed, I think him the greatest of all novelists; but, as a Scot, somewhat Anglicised by a residence in London of more than a quarter of a century, I unhesitatingly say that I would rather be the author of the above three lyrics of Burns' than I would be the author of all Scott's novels. Certain I am that if immortality were my aim I should be much surer of it in the one case than the other. I cannot conceive 'Scots wha hae, ' 'Auld Lang Syne, ' etc. , ever dying. Are there any of Scott's writings of which the same could be said? I doubt it. .. . 

 --I am yours, etc. , "J. B. "London, June 18th, 1895. "

The hopelessness of the difficulty is amusingly, if ratherdistressingly, illustrated by this letter. Here again you have thebest will in the world. Nothing could be kindlier than "J. B. 's" tone. As a Scot he has every reason to be impatient of stupidity on thesubject of Burns: yet he takes real pains to set me right. Alas! hisexplanations leave me more than ever at sea, more desperate than everof understanding _what exactly it is_ in Burns that kindles thispeculiar enthusiasm in Scotsmen and drives them to express it infeasting and oratory. 

After casting about for some time, I suggested that Burns--though inso many respects immeasurably inferior to Scott--frequently wrote witha depth of feeling which Scott could not command. On second thoughts, this was wrongly put. Scott may have _possessed_ the feeling, togetherwith notions of his own, on the propriety of displaying it in hispublic writings. Indeed, after reading some of his letters again, I amsure he did possess it. Hear, for instance, how he speaks of DalkeithPalace, in one of his letters to Lady Louisa Stuart:--

 "I am delighted my dear little half god-daughter is turning out beautiful. I was at her christening, poor soul, and took the oaths as representing I forget whom. That was in the time when Dalkeith was Dalkeith; how changed alas! I was forced there the other day by some people who wanted to see the house, and I felt as if it would have done me a great deal of good to have set my manhood aside, to get into a corner and cry like a schoolboy. Every bit of furniture, now looking old and paltry, had some story and recollections about it, and the deserted gallery, which I have seen so happily filled, seemed waste and desolate like Moore's

 'Banquet hall deserted, Whose flowers are dead, Whose odours fled, And all but I departed. '

 But it avails not either sighing or moralising; to have known the good and the great, the wise and the witty, is still, on the whole, a pleasing reflection, though saddened by the thought that their voices are silent and their halls empty. "

Yes, indeed, Scott possessed deep feelings, though he did not exhibitthem to the public. 

Now Burns does exhibit his deep feelings, as I demonstrated byquotations. And I suggested that it is just his strength of emotion, his command of pathos and readiness to employ it, by which Burnsappeals to the mass of his countrymen. On this point "J. B. " expresslyagrees with me; but--he will have nothing to do with my quotations!"However excellent in their way" these quotations may be, they "arenot those that any Scotsman would trust to in support of the aboveproposition"; the above proposition being that "Burns appeals to thehearts and feelings of the masses in a way that Scott never does. "

You see, I have concluded rightly; but on wrong evidence. Let us see, then, what evidence a Scotsman will call to prove that Burns is awriter of deep feeling. "A Scotsman, " says "J. B. " "would at onceappeal to "Scots wha hae, " "Auld Lang Syne, " and "A man's a man for a'that. " . .. Think of the soul-inspiring, 'fire-eyed fury' of 'Scots whahae'; the glad, kind, ever fresh greeting of 'Auld Lang Syne'; themanly, sturdy independence of 'A man's a man for a' that, ' and who canwonder at the ever-increasing enthusiasm for Burns' name?. .. I wouldrather, " says "J. B. , " "be the author of the above three lyrics than Iwould be the author of all Scott's novels. "

Here, then, is the point at which I give up my attempts, and admit mystupidity to be incurable. I grant "J. B. " his "Auld Lang Syne. " Igrant the poignancy of--

 "We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae morning sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin auld lang syne. "

I see poetry and deep feeling in this. I can see exquisite poetry anddeep feeling in "Mary Morison"--

 "Yestreen when to the trembling string, The dance ga'ed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yor the toast a' the town, I sigh'd and said amang them a' 'Ye are na Mary Morison. '"

I see exquisite poetry and deep feeling in the Lament for the Earl ofGlencairn--

 "The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!"

But--it is only honest to speak one's opinion and to hope, if it bewrong, for a better mind--I do _not_ find poetry of any high ordereither in "Scots wha hae" or "A man's a man for a' that. " The formerseems to me to be very fine rant--inspired rant, if you will--hoveringon the borders of poetry. The latter, to be frank, strikes me asrather poor rant, neither inspired nor even quite genuine, and in noproper sense poetry at all. And "J. B. " simply bewilders my Southronintelligence when he quotes it as an instance of deeply emotionalsong. 

 "Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star and a' that. The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. "

The proper attitude, I should imagine, for a man "of independent mind"in these circumstances--assuming for the moment that ribands and stars_are_ bestowed on imbeciles--would be a quiet disdain. The abovestanza reminds me rather of ill-bred barking. People of assuredself-respect do not call other people "birkies" and "coofs, " or "lookand _laugh_ at a' that"--at least, not so loudly. Compare theseverses of Burns with Samuel Daniel's "Epistle to the Countess ofCumberland, " and you will find a higher manner altogether--

 "He that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind Of vanity and malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same; What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of men survey?

 "And with how free an eye doth he look down Upon these lower regions of turmoil?" . .. 

As a piece of thought, "A man's a man for a' that" unites the twodefects of obviousness and inaccuracy. As for the deep feeling, Ihardly see where it comes in--unless it be a feeling of wounded andblatant but militant self-esteem. As for the _poetry_--well, "J. B. "had rather have written it than have written one-third of Scott'snovels. Let us take him at less than his word: he would rather havewritten "A man's a man for a' that" than "Ivanhoe, " "Redgauntlet, " and"The Heart of Midlothian. "

 _Ma sonties!_

CHARLES READE

March 10, 1894. "The Cloister and the Hearth. "

There is a venerable proposition--I never heard who invented it--thatan author is finally judged by his best work. This would be comfortingto authors if true: but is it true? A day or two ago I picked up on arailway bookstall a copy of Messrs. Chatto & Windus's new sixpennyedition of _The Cloister and the Hearth_, and a capital edition it is. I think I must have worn out more copies of this book than of anyother; but somebody robbed me of the pretty "Elzevir edition" as soonas it came out, and so I have only just read Mr. Walter Besant'sIntroduction, which the publishers have considerately reprinted andthrown in with one of the cheapest sixpennyworths that ever came fromthe press. Good wine needs no bush, and the bush which Mr. Besanthangs out is a very small one. But one sentence at least haschallenged attention. 

 "I do not say that the whole of life, as it was at the end of the fourteenth century, may be found in the _Cloister and the Hearth_; but I do say that there is portrayed so vigorous, lifelike, and truthful a picture of a time long gone by, and differing, in almost every particular from our own, that the world has never seen its like. To me it is a picture of the past more faithful than anything in the works of Scott. "

This last sentence--if I remember rightly--was called a very bold onewhen it first appeared in print. To me it seems altogether moderate. Go steadily through Scott, and which of the novels can you choose tocompare with the _Cloister_ as a "vigorous, lifelike, and truthfulpicture of a time long gone by"?

Is it _Ivanhoe_?--a gay and beautiful romance, no doubt; but surely, as the late Mr. Freeman was at pains to point out, not a "lifelike andtruthful picture" of any age that ever was. Is it _Old Mortality_?Well, but even if we here get something more like a "vigorous, lifelike, and truthful picture of a time gone by, " we are bound toconsider the scale of the two books. Size counts, as Aristotle pointedout, and as we usually forget. It is the whole of Western Europe thatReade reconstructs for the groundwork of his simple story. 

Mr. Besant might have said more. He might have pointed out that nonovel of Scott's approaches the _Cloister_ in lofty humanity, insublimity of pathos. The last fifty pages of the tale reach anelevation of feeling that Scott never touched or dreamed of touching. And the sentiment is sane and honest, too: the author reaches to theheight of his great argument easily and without strain. It seems to methat, as an appeal to the feelings, the page that tells of Margaret'sdeath is the finest thing in fiction. It appeals for a score ofreasons, and each reason is a noble one. We have brought together inthat page extreme love, self-sacrifice, resignation, courage, religious feeling: we have the end of a beautiful love-tale, the endof a good woman, and the last earthly trial of a good man. And withall this, there is no vulgarization of sacred ground, no cheap paradeof the heart's secrets; but a deep sobriety relieved with the mostdelicate humor. Moreover, the language is Charles Reade's at itsbest--which is almost as good as at its worst it is abominable. 

That Scott could never reach the emotional height of Margaret'sdeath-scene, or of the scene in Clement's cave, is certain. Moreoverin the _Cloister_ Reade challenges comparison with Scott on Scott'sown ground--the ground of sustained adventurous narrative--and theadvantage is not with Scott. Once more, take all the Waverley Novelsand search them through for two passages to beat the adventures ofGerard and Denis the Burgundian (1) with the bear and (2) at "The FairStar" Inn, by the Burgundian Frontier. I do not think you willsucceed, even then. Indeed, I will go so far as to say that to matchthese adventures of Gerard and Denis you must go again to CharlesReade, to the homeward voyage of the _Agra_ in _Hard Cash_. For theseand for sundry other reasons which, for lack of space, cannot beunfolded here, _The Cloister and the Hearth_ seems to me a finerachievement than the finest novel of Scott's. 

And now we come to the proposition that an author must be judged byhis best work. If this proposition be true, then I must hold Reade tobe a greater novelist than Scott. But do I hold this? Does anyone holdthis? Why, the contention would be an absurdity. 

Reade wrote some twenty novels beside _The Cloister and the Hearth_, and not one of the twenty approaches it. One only--_GriffithGaunt_--is fit to be named in the same day with it; and _GriffithGaunt_ is marred by an insincerity in the plot which vitiates, and isat once felt to vitiate, the whole work. On everything he wrote beforeand after _The Cloister_ Reade's essential vulgarity of mind iswritten large. That he shook it off in that great instance is one ofthe miracles of literary history. It may be that the sublimity of histheme kept him throughout in a state of unnatural exaltation. If thecase cannot be explained thus, it cannot be explained at all. Other ofhis writings display the same, or at any rate a like, capacity forsustained narrative. _Hard Cash_ displays it; parts of _It is NeverToo Late to Mend_ display it. But over much of these two novels liesthe trail of that defective taste which makes _A Simpleton_, forinstance, a prodigy of cheap ineptitude. 

But if Reade be hopelessly Scott's inferior in manner and taste, whatshall we say of the invention of the two men? Mr. Barrie once affirmedvery wisely in an essay on Robert Louis Stevenson, "Critics have saidenthusiastically--for it is difficult to write of Mr. Stevensonwithout enthusiasm--that Alan Breck is as good as anything in Scott. Alan Breck is certainly a masterpiece, quite worthy of the greatest ofall story-tellers, _who, nevertheless, it should be remembered, created these rich side characters by the score, another beforedinner-time_. " Inventiveness, is, I suppose, one of the firstqualities of a great novelist: and to Scott's invention there was noend. But set aside _The Cloister_; and Reade's invention will be foundto be extraordinarily barren. Plot after plot turns on the same oldtiresome trick. Two young people are in love: by the villainy of athird person they are separated for a while, and one of the lovers ispersuaded that the other is dead. The missing one may be kept missingby various devices; but always he is supposed to be dead, and alwaysevidence is brought of his death, and always he turns up in the end. It is the same in _The Cloister_, in _It is Never Too Late to Mend_, in _Put Yourself in His Place_, in _Griffith Gaunt_, in _A Simpleton_. Sometimes, as in _Hard Cash_ and _A Terrible Temptation_, he iswrongfully incarcerated as a madman; but this is obviously a variantonly on the favorite trick. Now the device is good enough in a tale ofthe fourteenth century, when news travelled slowly, and when by thesuppression of a letter, or by a piece of false news, two lovers, theone in Holland, the other in Rome, could easily be kept apart. But ina tale of modern life no trick could well be stagier. Besides theincomparable Margaret--of whom it does one good to hear Mr. Besantsay, "No heroine in fiction is more dear to me"--Reade drew someadmirable portraits of women; but his men, to tell the truth--andespecially his priggish young heroes--seem remarkably ill invented. Again, of course, I except _The Cloister_. Omit that book, and youwould say that such a character as Bailie Nicol Jarvie or DugaldDalgetty were altogether beyond Reade's range. Open _The Cloister_ andyou find in Denis the Burgundian a character as good as the Bailie andDalgetty rolled into one. 

Other authors have been lifted above themselves. But was there ever acase of one sustained at such an unusual height throughout a long, intricate and arduous work?

HENRY KINGSLEY

Feb. 9, 1895. Henry Kingsley. 

Mr. Shorter begins his Memoir of the author of _Ravenshoe_ with thisparagraph:--

 "The story of Henry Kingsley's life may well be told in a few words, because that life was on the whole a failure. The world will not listen very tolerantly to a narrative of failure unaccompanied by the halo of remoteness. To write the life of Charles Kingsley would be a quite different task. Here was success, victorious success, sufficient indeed to gladden the heart even of Dr. Smiles--success in the way of Church preferment, success in the way of public veneration, success, above all, as a popular novelist, poet, and preacher. Canon Kingsley's life has been written in two substantial volumes containing abundant letters and no indiscretions. In this biography the name of Henry Kingsley is absolutely ignored. And yet it is not too much to say that, when time has softened his memory for us, as it has softened for us the memories of Marlowe and Burns and many another, the public interest in Henry Kingsley will be stronger than in his now more famous brother. "[A]

A prejudice confessed. 

I almost wish I could believe this. If one cannot get rid of aprejudice, the wisest course is to acknowledge it candidly: andtherefore I confess myself as capable of jumping over the moon as ofwriting fair criticism on Charles or Henry Kingsley. As for Henry, Iworshipped his books as a boy; to-day I find them full offaults--often preposterous, usually ill-constructed, at timesunnatural beyond belief. John Gilpin never threw the Wash about onboth sides of the way more like unto a trundling mop or a wild gooseat play than did Henry Kingsley the decent flow of fiction when themood was on him. His notion of constructing a novel was to take equalparts of wooden melodrama and low comedy and stick them boldlytogether in a paste of impertinent drollery and serious but entirelyirrelevant moralizing. And yet each time I read _Ravenshoe_--and Imust be close upon "double figures"--I like it better. Henry did mygreen unknowing youth engage, and I find it next to impossible to givehim up, and quite impossible to choose the venerated Charles as asubstitute in my riper age. For here crops up a prejudice I find quiteineradicable. To put it plainly, I cannot like Charles Kingsley. Thosewho have had opportunity to study the deportment of a certain classof Anglican divine at a foreign _table d'hôte_ may perhaps understandthe antipathy. There was almost always a certain sleek offensivenessabout Charles Kingsley when he sat down to write. He had a knack ofusing the most insolent language, and attributing the vilest motivesto all poor foreigners and Roman Catholics and other extra-parochialfolk, and would exhibit a pained and completely ludicrous surprise onfinding that he had hurt the feelings of these unhappy inferiors--akind of indignant wonder that Providence should have given them anyfeelings to hurt. At length, encouraged by popular applause, this verysecond-rate man attacked a very first-rate man. He attacked with everyadvantage and with utter unscrupulousness; and the first-rate manhandled him; handled him gently, scrupulously, decisively; returnedhim to his parish; and left him there, a trifle dazed, feeling hismuscles. 

Charles and Henry. 

Still, one may dislike the man and his books without thinking itprobable that his brother Henry will supersede him in the publicinterest; nay, without thinking it right that he should. Dislike himas you will, you must acknowledge that Charles Kingsley had a lyricalgift that--to set all his novels aside--carries him well above Henry'sliterary level. It is sufficient to say that Charles wrote "ThePleasant Isle of Avès" and "When all the world is young, lad, " and thefirst two stanzas of "The Sands of Dee. " Neither in prose nor in versecould Henry come near such excellence. But we may go farther. Take thenovels of each, and, novel for novel, you must acknowledge--I say itregretfully--that Charles carries the heavier guns. If you ask mewhether I prefer _Westward Ho!_ or _Ravenshoe_, I answer withoutdifficulty that I find _Ravenshoe_ almost wholly delightful, and_Westward Ho!_ as detestable in some parts as it is admirable inothers; that I have read _Ravenshoe_ again and again merely forpleasure, and that I can never read a dozen pages of _Westward Ho!_without wishing to put the book in the fire. But if you ask me which Iconsider the greater novel, I answer with equal readiness that_Westward Ho!_ is not only the greater, but much the greater. It is atruth too seldom recognized that in literary criticism, as inpolitics, one may detest a man's work while admitting his greatness. Even in his episodes it seems to me that Charles stands high aboveHenry. Sam Buckley's gallop on Widderin in _Geoffry Hamlyn_ is (Iimagine) Henry Kingsley's finest achievement in vehement narrative:but if it can be compared for one moment with Amyas Leigh's quest ofthe Great Galleon then I am no judge of narrative. The one point--andit is an important one--in which Henry beats Charles as an artist ishis sustained vivacity. Charles soars far higher at times; but Charlesis often profoundly dull. Now, in all Henry's books I have not found asingle dull page. He may be trivial, inconsequent, irrelevant, absurd;but he never wearies. It is a great merit: but it is not enough initself to place a novelist even in the second rank. In a short sketchof Henry Kingsley, contributed by his nephew, Mr. Maurice Kingsley, toMessrs. Scribner's paper, _The Bookbuyer_, I find that the youngerbrother was considered at home "undoubtedly the novelist of thefamily; the elder being more of the poet, historian, and prophet. "(Prophet!) "My father only wrote one novel pure and simple--viz. _TwoYears Ago_--his other works being either historical novels or 'signsof the times. '" Now why an "historical novel" should not be a "novelpure and simple, " and what kind of literary achievement a "sign of thetimes" may be, I leave the reader to guess. The whole passage seems tosuggest a certain confusion in the Kingsley family with regard to thefundamental divisions of literature. And it seems clear that theKingsley family considered novel-writing "pure and simple"--in so faras they differentiated this from other kinds of novel-writing--to besomething not entirely respectable. 

Their opinion of Henry Kingsley in particular is indicated in nouncertain manner. In Mrs. Charles Kingsley's life of her husband, Henry's existence is completely ignored. The briefest biographicalnote was furnished forth for Mr. Leslie Stephen's _Dictionary ofNational Biography_: and Mr. Stephen dismisses our author with a fewcurt lines. This disposition to treat Henry as an awful warning andnothing more, while sleek Charles is patted on the back for a saint, inclines one to take up arms on the other side and assert, with Mr. Shorter, that "when time has softened his memory for us, the publicinterest in Henry Kingsley will be stronger than in his now morefamous brother. " But can we look forward to this reversal of thepublic verdict? Can we consent with it if it ever comes? The most wecan hope is that future generations will read Henry Kingsley, and willlove him in spite of his faults. 

Henry, the third son of the Rev. Charles Kingsley, was born inNorthamptonshire on the 2nd of January, 1830, his brother Charlesbeing then eleven years old. In 1836 his father became rector of St. Luke's Church, Chelsea--the church of which such effective use is madein _The Hillyars and the Burtons_--and his boyhood was passed in thatfamous old suburb. He was educated at King's College School andWorcester College, Oxford, where he became a famous oarsman, rowingbow of his College boat; also bow of a famous light-weight University"four, " which swept everything before it in its time. He wound up hisracing career by winning the Diamond Sculls at Henley. From 1853 to1858 his life was passed in Australia, whence after some variegatedexperiences he returned to Chelsea in 1858, bringing back nothing butgood "copy, " which he worked into _Geoffry Hamlyn_, his first romance. _Ravenshoe_ was written in 1861; _Austin Elliot_ in 1863; _TheHillyars and the Burtons_ in 1865; _Silcote of Silcotes_ in 1867;_Mademoiselle Mathilde_ (admired by few, but a favorite of mine) in1868. He was married in 1864, and settled at Wargrave-on-Thames. In1869 he went north to edit the _Edinburgh Daily Review_, and made amess of it; in 1870 he represented that journal as field-correspondentin the Franco-Prussian War, was present at Sedan, and claimed to havebeen the first Englishman to enter Metz. In 1872 he returned to Londonand wrote novels in which his powers appeared to deteriorate steadily. He removed to Cuckfield, in Sussex, and there died in May, 1876. Hardly a man of letters followed him to the grave, or spoke, in print, a word in his praise. 

And yet, by all accounts, he was a wholly amiable ne'er-do-well--awonderful flyfisher, an extremely clever amateur artist, a lover ofhorses and dogs and children (surely, if we except a chapter of VictorHugo's, the children in _Ravenshoe_ are the most delightful infiction), and a joyous companion. 

 "To us children, " writes Mr. Maurice Kingsley, "Uncle Henry's settling in Eversley was a great event. .. . At times he fairly bubbled over with humour; while his knowledge of slang--Burschen, Bargee, Parisian, Irish, Cockney, and English provincialisms--was awful and wonderful. Nothing was better than to get our uncle on his 'genteel behaviour, ' which, of course, meant exactly the opposite, and brought forth inimitable stories, scraps of old songs and impromptu conversations, the choicest of which were between children, Irishwomen, or cockneys. He was the only man, I believe, who ever knew by heart the famous _Irish Court Scenes_--naughtiest and most humorous of tales--unpublished, of course, but handed down from generation to generation of the faithful. Most delightful was an interview between his late Majesty George the Fourth and an itinerant showman, which ended up with, 'No, George the Fourth, you shall not have my Rumptifoozle!' What said animal was, or the authenticity of the story, he never would divulge. "

I think it is to the conversational quality of their style--itsridiculous and good-humored impertinences and surprises--that his bestbooks owe a great deal of their charm. The footnotes are a study inthemselves, and range from the mineral strata of Australia to the bestway of sliding down banisters. Of the three tales already republishedin this pleasant edition, _Ravenshoe_ has always seemed to me the bestin every respect; and in spite of its feeble plot and its impossiblelay-figures--Erne, Sir George Hillyar, and the painfully inaneGerty--I should rank _The Hillyars and the Burtons_ above the moreterrifically imagined and more neatly constructed _Geoffry Hamlyn_. But this is an opinion on which I lay no stress. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _The Recollections of Geoffry Hamlyn_. By Henry Kingsley. NewEdition, with a Memoir by Clement Shorter. London: Ward, Lock &Bowden. 

ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE

January 10, 1891. His Life. 

Alexander William Kinglake was born in 1812, the son of a countrygentleman--Mr. W. Kinglake, of Wilton House, Taunton--and received acountry gentleman's education at Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge. From college he went to Lincoln's Inn, and in 1837 was called to theChancery Bar, where he practised with fair but not eminent success. In1844 he published _Eothen_, and having startled the town, quietlyresumed his legal work and seemed willing to forget the achievement. Ten years later he accompanied his friend, Lord Raglan, to the Crimea. He retired from the Bar in 1856, and entered Parliament next year asmember for Bridgwater. Re-elected in 1868, he was unseated on petitionin 1869, and thenceforward gave himself up to the work of his life. Hehad consented, after Lord Raglan's death, to write a history of theInvasion of the Crimea. The two first volumes appeared in 1863; thelast was published but two years before he succumbed, in the firstdays of 1891, to a slow incurable disease. In all, the task hadoccupied thirty years. Long before these years ran out, the world hadlearnt to regard the Crimean struggle in something like its trueperspective; but over Kinglake's mind it continued to loom in all itsoriginal proportions. To adapt a phrase of M. Jules Lemaître's, "_lemonde a changé en trente ans: lui ne bouge; il ne lève plus de dessusson papier à copie sa face congestionné_. " And yet Kinglake was nocloistered scribe. Before his last illness he dined out frequently, and was placed by many among the first half-a-dozen talkers in London. His conversation, though delicate and finished, brimmed full ofinterest in life and affairs: but let him enter his study, and itswalls became a hedge. Without, the world was moving: within, it wasalways 1854, until by slow toiling it turned into 1855. 

Style. 

His style is hard, elaborate, polished to brilliance. Its difficultlabor recalls Thucydides. In effect it charms at first by its accuracyand vividness: but with continuous perusal it begins to weigh uponthe reader, who feels the strain, the unsparing effort that thisglittering fabric must have cost the builder, and at length ceases tosympathize with the story and begins to sympathize with the author. Kinglake started by disclaiming "composition. " "My narrative, " hesays, in the famous preface to _Eothen_, "conveys not thoseimpressions which _ought to have been_ produced upon anywell-constituted mind, but those which were really and truly received, at the time of his rambles, by a headstrong and not very amiabletraveller. .. . As I have felt, so I have written. "

"_Eothen_. "

For all this, page after page of _Eothen_ gives evidence of deliberatecalculation of effect. That book is at once curiously like andcuriously unlike Borrows' _Bible in Spain_. The two belong to the sameperiod and, in a sense, to the same fashion. Each combines atantalizing personal charm with a strong, almost fierce, coloring ofcircumstance. The central figure in each is unmistakably anEnglishman, and quite as unmistakably a singular Englishman. Eachbears witness to a fine eye for theatrical arrangement. But whereasBorrow stood for ever fortified by his wayward nature and atrociousEnglish against the temptation of writing as he ought, Kinglakecommenced author with a respect for "composition, " ingrained perhapsby his Public School and University training. Borrow arrays his pageby instinct, Kinglake by study. His irony (as in the interview withthe Pasha) is almost too elaborate; his artistic judgment (as in thePlague chapter) almost too sure; the whole book almost too clever. Theperformance was wonderful; the promise a trifle dangerous. 

The "Invasion. "

"Composition" indeed proved the curse of the _Invasion of the Crimea_:for Kinglake was a slow writer, and composed with his eye on the page, the paragraph, the phrase, rather than on the whole work. Force andaccuracy of expression are but parts of a good prose style; indeedare, strictly speaking, inseparable from perspective, balance, logicalconnection, rise and fall of emotion. It is but an indifferentlandscape that contains no pedestrian levels: and his desire for theimmediate success of each paragraph as it came helped Kinglake to missthe broad effect. He must always be vivid; and when the strain told, he exaggerated and sounded--as Matthew Arnold accused him ofsounding--the note of provinciality. There were other causes. He was, as we have seen, an English country gentleman--_avant tout je suisgentilhomme anglais_, as the Duke of Wellington wrote to Louis XVIII. His admiration of the respectable class to which he belonged isrevealed by a thousand touches in his narrative--we can find half ascore in the description of Codrington's assault on the Great Redoubtin the battle of the Alma; nor, when some high heroic action is inprogress, do we often miss an illustration, or at least a metaphor, from the hunting-field. Undoubtedly he had the distinction of hisclass; but its narrowness was his as surely. Also the partisanship ofthe eight volumes grows into a weariness. The longevity of the EnglishBench is notorious; but it comes of hearing both sides of everyquestion. 

After all, he was a splendid artist. He tamed that beautiful anddangerous beast, the English sentence, with difficulty indeed, buthaving tamed, worked it to high achievements. The great occasionalways found him capable, and his treatment of it is not of the sortto be forgotten: witness the picture of the Prince President coweringin an inner chamber during the bloodshed of the _Coup d'État_, theshort speech of Sir Colin Campbell to his Highlanders before the GreatRedoubt (given in the exact manner of Thucydides), or the narrative ofthe Heavy Brigade's charge at Balaclava, culminating thus--

 "The difference that there was in the temperaments of the two comrade regiments showed itself in the last moments of the onset. The Scots Greys gave no utterance except to a low, eager, fierce moan of rapture--the moan of outbursting desire. The Inniskillings went in with a cheer. With a rolling prolongation of clangour which resulted from the bends of a line now deformed by its speed, the 'three hundred' crashed in upon the front of the column. "

C. S. C. And J. K. S. 

Dec. 5, 1891. Cambridge Baras. 

What I am about to say will, no doubt, be set down to tribalmalevolence; but I confess that if Cambridge men appeal to me less atone time than another it is when they begin to talk about their poets. The grievance is an old one, of course--at least as old as Mr. Birrell's "_Obiter Dicta_": but it has been revived by the little bookof verse ("_Quo Musa Tendis_?") that I have just been reading. I laidit down and thought of Mr. Birrell's essay on Cambridge Poets, as hecalls them: and then of another zealous gentleman, hailing from thesame University, who arranged all the British bards in a tripos andbrought out the Cambridge men at the top. This was a verycharacteristic performance: but Mr. Birrell's is hardly less so inthese days when (to quote the epistolary parent) so much prominence isgiven to athleticism in our seats of learning. For he picks out a teamof lightblue singers as though he meant to play an inter-Universitymatch, and challenges Oxford to "come on. " He gives Milton a "blue, "and says we oughtn't to play Shelley because Shelley isn't inresidence. 

Now to me this is as astonishing as if my butcher were to brag aboutKirke White. My doctor might retort with Keats; and my scrivener--if Ihad one--might knock them both down with the name of Milton. It wouldbe a pretty set-to; but I cannot see that it would affect the relativemerits of mutton and laudanum and the obscure products of scrivenage. Nor, conversely (as they say at Cambridge), is it certain, or evenlikely, that the difference between a butcher or a doctor is thedifference between Kirke White and Keats. And this talk about"University" poets seems somewhat otiose unless it can be shown thatCambridge and Oxford directly encourage poesy, or aim to do so. I amaware that somebody wins the Newdigate every year at Oxford, and thatthe same thing happens annually at Cambridge with respect to theChancellor's Prize. But--to hark back to the butcher andapothecary--verses are perennially made upon Mr. Lipton's Hams andMrs. Allen's Hair Restorer. Obviously some incentive is needed beyonda prize for stanzas on a given subject. I can understand Cambridge menwhen they assert that they produce more Wranglers than Oxford: that isa justifiable boast. But how does Cambridge encourage poets?

Calverley. 

Oxford expelled Shelley: Cambridge whipped Milton. [A] _Facitindignatio versus_. If we press this misreading of Juvenal, Oxforderred only on the side of thoroughness. But that, notoriously, isOxford's way. She expelled Landor, Calverley, and some others. Mycontention is that to expel a man is--however you look at it--betterfor his poesy than to make a don of him. Oxford says, "You are a poet;therefore this is no place for you. Go elsewhere; we set your aspiringsoul at large. " Cambridge says: "You are a poet. Let us employ you tofulfil other functions. Be a don. " She made a don of Gray, ofCalverley. Cambridge men are for ever casting Calverley in our teeth;whereas, in truth, he is specially to be quoted against them. Aseverybody knows, he was at both Universities, so over him we have afair chance of comparing methods. As everybody knows, he went toBalliol first, and his ample cabin'd spirit led him to climb a wall, late at night. Something else caused him to be discovered, andBlaydes--he was called Blaydes then--was sent down. 

Nobody can say what splendid effect this might have had upon hispoetry. But he changed his name and went to Cambridge. And Cambridgemade a don of him. If anybody thinks this was an intelligent stroke, let him consider the result. Calverley wrote a small amount of versethat, merely as verse, is absolutely faultless. To compare greatthings with little, you might as well try to alter a line of Virgil'sas one of Calverley's. Forget a single epithet and substitute another, and the result is certain disaster. He has the perfection of thephrase--and there it ends. I cannot remember a single line ofCalverley's that contains a spark of human feeling. Mr. Birrellhimself has observed that Calverley is just a bit inhuman. But thecause of it does not seem to have occurred to him. Nor does thebiography explain it. If we are to believe the common report of allwho knew Calverley, he was a man of simple mind and sincere, of quickand generous emotions. His biographers tell us also that he was onewho seemed to have the world at his feet, one who had only to choose acalling to excel in it. Yet he never fulfilled his friends' highexpectations. What was the reason of it all?

The accident that cut short his career is not wholly to blame, Ithink. At any rate, it will not explain away the exception I havetaken to his verse. Had that been destined to exhibit the humanitywhich we seek, some promise of it would surely be discoverable; for hewas a full-grown man at the time of that unhappy tumble on the ice. But there is none. It is all sheer wit, impish as a fairychangeling's, and always barren of feeling. Mr. Birrell has notsupplied the explanatory epithet, so I will try to do so. It is"donnish. " Cambridge, fondly imagining that she was showing rightappreciation of Calverley thereby, gave him a Fellowship. Mr. WalterBesant, another gentleman from Calverley's college, complained, theother day, that literary distinction was never marked with a peerage. It is the same sort of error. And now Cambridge, having madeCalverley a don, claims him as a Cambridge poet; and the claim isjust, if the epithet be intended to mark the limitations imposed bythat University on his achievement. 

"J. K. S. "

Of "J. K. S. , " whose second volume, _Quo Musa Tendis?_ (Macmillan &Bowles), has just come from the press, it is fashionable to say thathe follows after Calverley, at some distance. To be sure, he himselfhas encouraged this belief by coming from Cambridge and writing aboutCambridge, and invoking C. S. C. On the first page of his earliervolume, _Lapsus Calami_. But, except that J. K. S. Does his talent someviolence by constraining it to imitate Calverley's form, the two menhave little in common. The younger has a very different wit. He ismore than academical. He thinks and feels upon subjects that were faroutside Calverley's scope. Among the dozen themes with which he dealsunder the general heading of _Paullo Majora Canamus_, there is not onewhich would have interested his "master" in the least. Calverleyappears to have invited his soul after this fashion--"Come, let us gointo the King's Parade and view the undergraduate as he walks abouthaving no knowledge of good or evil. Let us make a jest of the bookshe admires and the schools for which he is reading. " And together theymanage it excellently. They talk Cambridge "shop" in terms of thewittiest scholarship. But of the very existence of a world of grown-upmen and women they seem to have no inkling, or, at least, no care. 

The problems of J. K. S. Are very much more grown-up. You have only toread _Paint and Ink_ (a humorous, yet quite serious, address to apainter upon the scope of his art) or _After the Golden Wedding_(wherein are given the soliloquies of the man and the woman who havebeen married for fifty years) to assure yourself that if J. K. S. Be notCalverley's equal, it is only because his mind is vexed with problemsbigger than ever presented themselves to the Cambridge don. To C. S. C. , Browning was a writer of whose eccentricities of style delicious sportmight be made. J. K. S. Has parodied Browning too; but he has alsoperpended Browning, and been moulded by him. There are many stanzas inthis small volume that, had Browning not lived, had never beenwritten. Take this, from a writer to a painter:--

 "So I do dare claim to be kin with you, And I hold you higher than if your task Were doing no more than you say you do: We shall live, if at all, we shall stand or fall, As men before whom the world doffs its mask And who answer the questions our fellows ask. "

Many such lines prove our writer's emancipation from servitude to theCalverley fetish, a fetish that, I am convinced, has done harm to manyyoung men of parts. It is pretty, in youth, to play with style as apuppy plays with a bone, to cut teeth upon it. But words are, afterall, a poor thing without matter. J. K. S. 's emancipation has comesomewhat late; but he has depths in him which he has not sounded yet, and it is quite likely that when he sounds them he may astonish theworld rather considerably. Now, if we may interpret the last poem inhis book, he is turning towards prose. "I go, " he says--

 "I go to fly at higher game: At prose as good as I can make it; And though it brings nor gold nor fame, I will not, while I live, forsake it. "

It is no disparagement to his verse to rejoice over this resolve ofhis. For a young man who begins with epic may end with good epic; buta young man who begins with imitating Calverley will turn in time toprose if he means to write in earnest. And J. K. S. May do well or ill, but that he is to be watched has been evident since the days when heedited the _Reflector_. [B]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] I am bound to admit that the only authority for this isa note written into the text of Aubrey's _Lives_. 

[B] The reader will refer to the date at the head of this paper:--

 "Heu miserande puer! signa fata aspera rumpas, Tu Marcellus eris. * * * * * Sed nox atra caput tristi circumvolat umbra. "

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

April 15, 1893. The "Island Nights' Entertainments. "

I wish Mr. Stevenson had given this book another title. It covers buttwo out of the three stories in the volume; and, even so, it has theill-luck to be completely spoilt by its predecessor, the _New ArabianNights_. 

The _New Arabian Nights_ was in many respects a parody of the Easternbook. It had, if we make a few necessary allowances for the differencebetween East and West, the same, or very near the same, atmosphere ofgallant, extravagant, intoxicated romance. The characters had the sameadventurous irresponsibility, and exhibit the same irrelevancies andfutilities. The Young Man with the Cream Cakes might well have sprungfrom the same brain as the facetious Barmecide, and young Scrymgeoursits helpless before his destiny as sat that other young man while theinexorable Barber sang the song and danced the dance of Zantout. Indeed Destiny in these books resembles nothing so much as a Barberwith forefinger and thumb nipping his victims by the nose. It is asomnipotent, as irrational, as humorous and almost as cruel in theimitation as in the original. Of course I am not comparing these inany thing but their general presentment of life, or holding up _TheRajah's Diamond_ against _Aladdin_. I am merely pointing out that lifeis presented to us in Galland and in Mr. Stevenson's first book oftales under very similar conditions--the chief difference being thatMr. Stevenson has to abate something of the supernatural, or to handleit less frankly. 

But several years divide the _New Arabian Nights_ from the _IslandNights' Entertainments_; and in the interval our author has written_The Master of Ballantrae_ and his famous _Open Letter_ on FatherDamien. That is to say, he has grown in his understanding of the humancreature and in his speculations upon his creature's duties anddestinies. He has travelled far, on shipboard and in emigrant trains;has passed through much sickness; has acquired property andresponsibility; has mixed in public affairs; has written _A Footnoteto History_, and sundry letters to the _Times_; and even, as hislatest letter shows, stands in some danger of imprisonment. Therefore, while the title of his new volume would seem to refer us once more tothe old Arabian models, we are not surprised to find this apparentdesign belied by the contents. The third story, indeed, _The Isle ofVoices_, has affinity with some of the Arabian tales--with Sindbad'sadventures, for instance. But in the longer _Beach of Falesá_ and _TheBottle Imp_ we are dealing with no debauch of fancy, but with theproblems of real life. 

For what is the knot untied in the _Beach of Falesá_? If I mistakenot, our interest centres neither in Case's dirty trick of themarriage, nor in his more stiff-jointed trick of the devil-contraptions. The first but helps to construct the problem, the second seems asuperfluity. The problem is (and the author puts it before us fairand square), How is Wiltshire a fairly loose moralist with somegenerosity of heart, going to treat the girl he has wronged? And Iam bound to say that as soon as Wiltshire answers that questionbefore the missionary--an excellent scene and most dramaticallymanaged--my interest in the story, which is but halftold at thispoint, begins to droop. As I said, the "devil-work" chapter strikes meas stiff, and the conclusion but rough-and-tumble. And I feel certainthat the story itself is to blame, and neither the scenery nor thepersons, being one of those who had as lief Mr. Stevenson spake of theSouth Seas as of the Hebrides, so that he speak and I listen. Let itbe granted that the Polynesian names are a trifle hard to distinguishat first--they are easier than Russian by many degrees--yet thedifficulty vanishes as you read the _Song of Rahéro_, or the _Footnoteto History_. And if it comes to habits, customs, scenery, etc. , Iprotest a man must be exacting who can find no romance in these whilereading Melville's _Typee_. No, the story itself is to blame. 

But what is the human problem in _The Bottle Imp_? (ImagineScheherazadé with a human problem!) Nothing less, if you please thanthe problem of Alcestis--nothing less and even something more; for inthis case when the wife has made her great sacrifice of self, it is nofortuitous god but her own husband who wins her release, and at aprice no less fearful than she herself has paid. Keawe being inpossession of a bottle which must infallibly bring him to hell-flamesunless he can dispose of it at a certain price, Kokua his wife by astratagem purchases the bottle from him, and stands committed to thedoom he has escaped. She does her best to hide this from Keawe, buthe, by accident discovering the truth, by another stratagem wins backthe curse upon his own head, and is only rescued by a _deus exmachinâ_ in the shape of a drunken boatswain. 

Two or three reviewers have already given utterance upon this volume;and they seem strangely unable to determine which is the best of itsthree tales. I vote for _The Bottle Imp_ without a second's doubt;and, if asked my reasons, must answer (1), that it deals with a highand universal problem, whereas in _The Isle of Voices_ there is noproblem at all, and in the _Beach of Falesá_ the problem is lessmomentous and perhaps (though of this I won't be sure) more closelyrestricted by the accidents of circumstance and individual character;(2) as I have hinted, the _Beach of Falesá_ has faults ofconstruction, one of which is serious, if not vital, while _The Isleof Voices_, though beautifully composed, is tied down by thetriviality of its subject. But _The Bottle Imp_ is perfectlyconstructed: the last page ends the tale, and the tale is told with alight grace, sportive within restraint, that takes nothing from theseriousness of the subject. Some may think this extravagant praise fora little story which, after all (they will say), is flimsy as a soapbubble. But let them sit down and tick off on their fingers the namesof living authors who could have written it, and it may begin to dawnon them that a story has other dimensions than length and thickness. 

 * * * * *

Sept. 9, 1893. First thoughts on "Catriona. "

Some while ago Mr. Barrie put together in a little volume elevensketches of eleven men whose fame has travelled far beyond theUniversity of Edinburgh. For this reason, I believe, he called them"An Edinburgh Eleven"--as fond admirers speak of Mr. Arthur Shrewsbury(upon whose renown it is notorious that the sun never sets) as "theNotts Professional, " and of a yet more illustrious cricketer by hispaltry title of "Doctor"--

 "Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be. "

Of the Eleven referred to, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson was sent in ateighth wicket down to face this cunning "delivery":--"He experimentstoo long; he is still a boy wondering what he is going to be. WithCowley's candor he tells us that he wants to write something by whichhe may be for ever known. His attempts in this direction have been inthe nature of trying different ways, and he always starts offwhistling. Having gone so far without losing himself, he turns back totry another road. Does his heart fail him, despite his jaunty bearing, _or is it because there is no hurry?_ . .. But it is quite time thegreat work was begun. "

I have taken the liberty to italicise a word or two, because in themMr. Barrie supplied an answer to his question. "The lyf so short, thecraft so long to lerne!" is not an exhortation to hurry: and in Mr. Stevenson's case, at any rate, there was not the least need to hurry. There was, indeed, a time when Mr. Stevenson had not persuaded himselfof this. In _Across the Plains_ he tells us how, at windy Anstrutherand an extremely early age, he used to draw his chair to the table andpour forth literature "at such a speed, and with such intimations ofearly death and immortality, as I now look back upon with wonder. Then it was that I wrote _Voces Fidelium_, a series of dramaticmonologues in verse; then that I indited the bulk of a Covenantingnovel--like so many others, never finished. Late I sat into the night, toiling (as I thought) under the very dart of death, toiling to leavea memory behind me. I feel moved to thrust aside the curtain of theyears, to hail that poor feverish idiot, to bid him go to bed and clap_Voces Fidelium_ on the fire before he goes, so clear does he appearto me, sitting there between his candles in the rose-scented room andthe late night; so ridiculous a picture (to my elderly wisdom) doesthe fool present!"

There was no hurry then, as he now sees: and there never was cause tohurry, I repeat. "But how is this? Is, then, the great book written?"I am sure I don't know. Probably not: for human experience goes toshow that _The_ Great Book (like _The_ Great American Novel) nevergets written. But that _a_ great story has been written is certainenough: and one of the curious points about this story is its title. 

It is not _Catriona_; nor is it _Kidnapped_. _Kidnapped_ is a takingtitle, and _Catriona_ beautiful in sound and suggestion of romance:and _Kidnapped_ (as everyone knows) is a capital tale, thoughimperfect; and _Catriona_ (as the critics began to point out, the dayafter its issue) a capital tale with an awkward fissure midway in it. "It is the fate of sequels"--thus Mr. Stevenson begins hisDedication--"to disappoint those who have waited for them"; and it ispossible that the boys of Merry England (who, it may be remembered, thought more of _Treasure Island_ than of _Kidnapped_) will take butlukewarmly to _Catriona_, having had five years in which to forget itspredecessor. No: the title of the great story is _The Memoirs of DavidBalfour_. Catriona has a prettier name than David, and may give it tothe last book of her lover's adventures: but the Odyssey was notchristened after Penelope. 

Put _Kidnapped_ and _Catriona_ together within the same covers, withone title-page, one dedication (here will be the severest loss) andone table of contents, in which the chapters are numbered straightaway from I. To LX. : and--this above all things--read the tale rightthrough from David's setting forth from the garden gate at Essendeanto his homeward voyage, by Catriona's side, on the Low Country ship. And having done this, be so good as to perceive how paltry are theobjections you raised against the two volumes when you took themseparately. Let me raise again one or two of them. 

(1. ) _Catriona_ is just two stories loosely hitched together--the oneof David's vain attempt to save James Stewart, the other of the lovesof David and Catriona: and in case the critic should be too stupid todetect this, Mr. Stevenson has been at the pains to divide his bookinto Part I. And Part II. Now this, which is a real fault in a bookcalled _Catriona_, is no fault at all in _The Memoirs of DavidBalfour_, which by its very title claims to be constructed loosely. Inan Odyssey the road taken by the wanderer is all the nexus required;and the continuity of his presence (if the author know his business)is warrant enough for the continuity of our interest in hisadventures. That the history of Gil Blas of Santillane consistschiefly of episodes is not a serious criticism upon Lesage's novel. 

(2. ) In _Catriona_ more than a few of the characters are suffered todrop out of sight just as we have begun to take an interest in them. There is Mr. Rankeillor, for instance, whose company in the concludingchapter of _Kidnapped_ was too good to be spared very easily; andthere is Lady Allardyce--a wonderfully clever portrait; and CaptainHoseason--we tread for a moment on the verge of re-acquaintance, butare disappointed; and Balfour of Pilrig; and at the end of Part I. Away into darkness goes the Lord Advocate Preston-grange, with hischarming womenkind. 

Well, if this be an objection to the tale, it is one urged prettyoften against life itself--that we scarce see enough of the men andwomen we like. And here again that which may be a fault in _Catriona_is no fault at all in _The Memoirs of David Balfour_. Though novelistsmay profess in everything they write to hold a mirror up to life, thereflection must needs be more artificial in a small book than in alarge. In the one, for very clearness, they must isolate a few humanbeings and cut off the currents (so to speak) bearing upon them fromthe outside world: in the other, with a larger canvas they are ableto deal with life more frankly. Were the Odyssey cut down to oneepisode--say that of Nausicäa--we must round it off and have everyoneon the stage and provided with his just portion of good and evilbefore we ring the curtain down. As it is, Nausicäa goes her way. Andas it is, Barbara Grant must go her way at the end of Chapter XX. ; andthe pang we feel at parting with her is anything rather than areproach against the author. 

(3. ) It is very certain, as the book stands, that the reader mustexperience some shock of disappointment when, after 200 pages of themost heroical endeavoring, David fails in the end to save JamesStewart of the Glens. Were the book concerned wholly with JamesStewart's fate, the cheat would be intolerable: and as a great dealmore than half of _Catriona_ points and trembles towards his fate likea magnetic needle, the cheat is pretty bad if we take _Catriona_alone. But once more, if we are dealing with _The Memoirs of DavidBalfour_--if we bear steadily in mind that David Balfour is ourconcern--not James Stewart--the disappointment is far more easilyforgiven. Then, and then only, we get the right perspective ofDavid's attempt, and recognize how inevitable was the issue when thisstripling engaged to turn back the great forces of history. 

It is more than a lustre, as the Dedication reminds us, since DavidBalfour, at the end of the last chapter of _Kidnapped_, was left tokick his heels in the British Linen Company's office. Five years havea knack of making people five years older; and the wordy, politicintrigue of _Catriona_ is at least five years older than therough-and-tumble intrigue of _Kidnapped_; of the fashion of the_Vicomte de Bragelonne_ rather than of the _Three Musketeers_. Butthis is as it should be; for older and astuter heads are now mixed upin the case, and Preston-grange is a graduate in a very much higherschool of diplomacy than was Ebenezer Balfour. And if no word was saidin _Kidnapped_ of the love of women, we know now that this matter washeld over until the time came for it to take its due place in DavidBalfour's experience. Everyone knew that Mr. Stevenson would draw awoman beautifully as soon as he was minded. Catriona and her situationhave their foreshadowing in _The Pavilion on the Links_. But for allthat she is a surprise. She begins to be a surprise--a beautifulsurprise--when in Chapter X. She kisses David's hand "with a higherpassion than the common kind of clay has any sense of;" and she is abeautiful surprise to the end of the book. The loves of these two makea moving story--old, yet not old: and I pity the heart that is nottender for Catriona when she and David take their last walk togetherin Leyden, and "the knocking of her little shoes upon the way soundedextraordinarily pretty and sad. "

 * * * * *

Nov. 3, 1894. "The Ebb Tide. "

A certain Oxford lecturer, whose audience demurred to some trivialmistranslation from the Greek, remarked: "I perceive, gentlemen, thatyou have been taking a mean advantage of me. You have been looking itout in the Lexicon. "

The pleasant art of reasoning about literature on internal evidencesuffers constant discouragement from the presence and activity ofthose little people who insist upon "looking it out in the Lexicon. "Their brutal methods will upset in two minutes the nice calculationsof months. Your logic, your taste, your palpitating sense of style, your exquisite ear for rhythm and cadence--what do these avail againstthe man who goes straight to Stationers' Hall or the Parish Register?

 "Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail, "

as Mr. Kipling sings. The answer, of course, is that the beauty ofreasoning upon internal evidence lies in the process rather than theresults. You spend a month in studying a poet, and draw someconclusion which is entirely wrong: within a week you are set right bysome fellow with a Parish Register. Well, but meanwhile you have beenreading poetry, and he has not. Only the uninstructed judge criticismby its results alone. 

If, then, after studying Messrs. Stevenson and Osbourne's _TheEbb-Tide_ (London: Heinemann) I hazard a guess or two upon itsauthorship; and if somebody take it into his head to write out toSamoa and thereby elicit the information that my guesses are entirelywrong--why then we shall have been performing each of us his properfunction in life; and there's an end of the matter. 

Let me begin though--after reading a number of reviews of thebook--by offering my sympathy to Mr. Lloyd Osbourne. Very possibly hedoes not want it. I guess him to be a gentleman of uncommonly cheerfulheart. I hope so, at any rate: for it were sad to think thatindignation had clouded even for a minute the gay spirit that gave us_The Wrong Box_--surely the funniest book written in the last tenyears. But he has been most shamefully served. Writing with him, Mr. Stevenson has given us _The Wrecker_ and _The Ebb-Tide_. Faultsmay be found in these, apart from the criticism that they are freaks inthe development of Mr. Stevenson's genius. Nobody denies that they aresplendid tales: nobody (I imagine) can deny that they are tales of asingular and original pattern. Yet no reviewer praises them on theirown merits or points out their own defects. They are judged always inrelation to Mr. Stevenson's previous work, and the reviewersconcentrate their censure upon the point that they are freaks in Mr. Stevenson's development--that he is not continuing as the publicexpected him to continue. 

Now there are a number of esteemed novelists about the land who earncomfortable incomes by doing just what the public expects of them. Butof Mr. Stevenson's genius--always something wayward--freaks might havebeen predicted from the first. A genius so consciously artistic, soquick in sympathy with other men's writings, however diverse, wasbound from the first to make many experiments. Before the public tookhis career in hand and mapped it out for him, he made such anexperiment with _The Black Arrow_; and it was forgiven easily enough. But because he now takes Mr. Osbourne into partnership for a new setof experiments, the reviewers--not considering that these, whatevertheir faults, are vast improvements on _The Black Arrow_--ascribe allthose faults to the new partner. 

But that is rough criticism. Moreover it is almost demonstrably false. For the weakness of _The Wrecker_, such as it was, lay in the Parisand Barbizon business and the author's failure to make this of onepiece with the main theme, with the romantic histories of the_Currency Lass_ and the _Flying Scud_. But which of the two partnersstands responsible for this Pais-Barbizon business? Mr. Stevensonbeyond a doubt. If you shut your eyes to Mr. Stevenson's confessedfamiliarity with the Paris and the Barbizon of a certain era; if youchoose to deny that he wrote that chapter on Fontainebleau in _Acrossthe Plains_; if you go on to deny that he wrote the opening of ChapterXXI. Of _The Wrecker_; why then you are obliged to maintain that itwas Mr. Osbourne, and not Mr. Stevenson, who wrote that famous chapteron the Roussillon Wine--which is absurd. And if, in spite of itsabsurdity, you stick to this also, why, then you are onlydemonstrating that Mr. Lloyd Osbourne is one of the greatest livingwriters of fiction: and your conception of him as a mere imp ofmischief jogging the master's elbow is wider of the truth than ever. 

No; the vital defect of _The Wrecker_ must be set down to Mr. Stevenson's account. Fine story as that was, it failed to assimilatethe Paris-Barbizon business. _The Ebb-Tide_, on the other hand, is allof one piece. It has at any rate one atmosphere, and one only. And whocan demand a finer atmosphere of romance than that of the SouthPacific?

_The Ebb-Tide_, so far as atmosphere goes, is all of one piece. Andthe story, too, is all of one piece--until we come to Attwater: I ownAttwater beats me. As Mr. Osbourne might say, "I have no use for" thatmonstrous person. I wish, indeed, Mr. Osbourne _had_ said so: foragain I cannot help feeling that the offence of Attwater lies at Mr. Stevenson's door. He strikes me as a bad dream of Mr. Stevenson's--aGeneral Gordon out of the _Arabian Nights_. Do you remember a drawingof Mr. Du Maurier's in _Punch_, wherein, seizing upon a locution ofMiss Rhoda Broughton's, he gave us a group of "magnificently ugly"men? I seem to see Attwater in that group. 

But if Mr. Stevenson is responsible for Attwater, surely also hecontributed the two splendid surprises of the story. I am the morecertain because they occur in the same chapter, and within three pagesof each other. I mean, of course, Captain Davis's sudden confessionabout his "little Adar, " and the equally startling discovery that thecargo of the _Farallone_ schooner, supposed to be champagne, is mostlywater. These are the two triumphant surprises of the book: and I shallcontinue to believe that only one living man could have contrivedthem, until somebody writes to Samoa and obtains the assurance thatthey are among Mr. Osbourne's contributions to the tale. 

Two small complaints I have to make. The first is of the ratherinartistically high level of profanity maintained by the speech ofDavis and Huish. It is natural enough, of course; but that is noexcuse if the frequency of the swearing prevent its making its properimpression in the right place. And the name "Robert Herrick, " bestowedon one of the three beach-loafers, might have been shunned. You maycall an ordinary negro "Julius Cæsar": for out of such extremes youget the legitimately grotesque. But the Robert Herrick, loose writerof the lovely _Hesperides_, and the Robert Herrick, shameful haunterof Papeete beach, are not extremes: and it was so very easy to avoidthe association of ideas. 

 * * * * *

Dec. 22, 1894. R. L. S. In Memorium. 

The Editor asks me to speak of Stevenson this week: because, since thefoundation of THE SPEAKER, as each new book of Stevenson's appeared, Ihave had the privilege of writing about it here. So this column, too, shall be filled; at what cost ripe journalists will understand, andany fellow-cadet of letters may guess. 

For when the telegram came, early on Monday morning, what was ourfirst thought, as soon as the immediate numbness of sorrow passed andthe selfish instinct began to reassert itself (as it always does) andwhisper "What have _I_ lost? What is the difference to _me_?" Was itnot something like this--"Put away books and paper and pen. Stevensonis dead. Stevenson is dead, and now there is nobody left to writefor. " Our children and grandchildren shall rejoice in his books; butwe of this generation possessed in the living man something that theywill not know. So long as he lived, though it were far fromBritain--though we had never spoken to him and he, perhaps, had barelyheard our names--we always wrote our best for Stevenson. To him eachwriter amongst us--small or more than small--had been proud to havecarried his best. That best might be poor enough. So long as it wasnot slipshod, Stevenson could forgive. While he lived, he moved men toput their utmost even into writings that quite certainly would nevermeet his eye. Surely another age will wonder over this curiosity ofletters--that for five years the needle of literary endeavor in GreatBritain has quivered towards a little island in the South Pacific, asto its magnetic pole. 

Yet he founded no school, though most of us from time to time havepoorly tried to copy him. He remained altogether inimitable, yet neverseemed conscious of his greatness. It was native in him to rejoice inthe successes of other men at least as much as in his own triumphs. One almost felt that, so long as good books were written, it was nogreat concern to him whether he or others wrote them. Born with anartist's craving for beauty of expression, he achieved that beautywith infinite pains. Confident in romance and in the beneficence ofjoy, he cherished the flame of joyous romance with more than Vestalfervor, and kept it ardent in a body which Nature, unkind from thebeginning, seemed to delight in visiting with more unkindness--a"soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed" almost from birth. And hisbooks leave the impression that he did this chiefly from a sense ofduty: that he labored and kept the lamp alight chiefly because, forthe time, other and stronger men did not. 

Had there been another Scott, another Dumas--if I may change theimage--to take up the torch of romance and run with it, I doubt ifStevenson would have offered himself. I almost think in that case hewould have consigned with Nature and sat at ease, content to read ofnew Ivanhoes and new D'Artagnans: for--let it be said again--no manhad less of the ignoble itch for merely personal success. Think, too, of what the struggle meant for him: how it drove him unquiet about theworld, if somewhere he might meet with a climate to repair theconstant drain upon his feeble vitality; and how at last it flung him, as by a "sudden freshet, " upon Samoa--to die "far from Argos, dearland of home. "

And then consider the brave spirit that carried him--the last of agreat race--along this far and difficult path; for it is the man wemust consider now, not, for the moment, his writings. Fielding'svoyage to Lisbon was long and tedious enough; but almost the whole ofStevenson's life has been a voyage to Lisbon, a voyage in the verypenumbra of death. Yet Stevenson spoke always as gallantly as hisgreat predecessor. Their "cheerful stoicism, " which allies his bookswith the best British breeding, will keep them classical as long asour nation shall value breeding. It shines to our dim eyes now, as weturn over the familiar pages of _Virginibus Puerisque_, and from pageafter page--in sentences and fragments of sentences--"It is notaltogether ill with the invalid after all" . .. "Who would project aserial novel after Thackeray and Dickens had each fallen inmid-course. " [_He_ had two books at least in hand and uncompleted, thepapers say. ] "Who would find heart enough to begin to live, if hedallied with the consideration of death?" . .. "What sorry and pitifulquibbling all this is!" . .. "It is better to live and be done with it, than to die daily in the sick-room. By all means begin your folio;even if the doctor does not give you a year, even if he hesitates overa month, make one brave push and see what can be accomplished in aweek. .. . For surely, at whatever age it overtake the man, this is todie young. .. . The noise of the mallet and chisel is scarcely quenched, the trumpets are hardly done blowing, when, trailing with him cloudsof glory, this happy-starred, full-blooded spirit shoots into thespiritual land. "

As it was in _Virginibus Puerisque_, so is it in the last essay in hislast book of essays:--

 "And the Kingdom of Heaven is of the childlike, of those who are easy to please, who love and who give pleasure. Mighty men of their hands, the smiters, and the builders, and the judges, have lived long and done sternly, and yet preserved this lovely character; and among our carpet interests and two-penny concerns, the shame were indelible if _we_ should lose it. _Gentleness and cheerfulness, these come before all morality; they are the perfect duties_. .. . "

I remember now (as one remembers little things at such times) that, when first I heard of his going to Samoa, there came into my head(Heaven knows why) a trivial, almost ludicrous passage from hisfavorite, Sir Thomas Browne: a passage beginning "He was fruitlesslyput in hope of advantage by change of Air, and imbibing the pureAerial Nitre of those Parts; and therefore, being so far spent, hequickly found Sardinia in Tivoli, and the most healthful air of littleeffect, where Death had set her Broad Arrow. .. . " A statelier sentenceof the same author occurs to me now--

"To live indeed, is to be again ourselves, which being not only ahope, but an evidence in noble believers, it is all one to lie in St. Innocent's Churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt. Ready to be anythingin the ecstacy of being ever, and as content with six foot as the_moles_ of Adrianus. "

This one lies, we are told, on a mountain-top, overlooking thePacific. At first it seemed so much easier to distrust a News Agencythan to accept Stevenson's loss. "O captain, my captain!" . .. Oneneeds not be an excellent writer to feel that writing will bethankless work, now that Stevenson is gone. But the papers by thistime leave no room for doubt. "A grave was dug on the summit of MountVaea, 1, 300 feet above the sea. The coffin was carried up the hill bySamoans with great difficulty, a track having to be cut through thethick bush which covers the side of the hill from the base to thepeak. " For the good of man, his father and grandfather planted thehigh sea-lights upon the Inchcape and the Tyree Coast. He, the last oftheir line, nursed another light and tended it. Their lamps stillshine upon the Bell Rock and the Skerryvore; and--though in alienseas, upon a rock of exile--this other light shall continue, unquenchable by age, beneficent, serene. 

 * * * * *

Nov. 2, 1895. The "Vailima Letters. "

Eagerly as we awaited this volume, it has proved a gift exceeding allour hopes--a gift, I think, almost priceless. It unites in the rarestmanner the value of a familiar correspondence with the value of anintimate journal: for these Samoan letters to his friend Mr. SidneyColvin form a record, scarcely interrupted, of Stevenson's thinkingsand doings from month to month, and often from day to day, during thelast four romantic years of his life. The first is dated November 2nd, 1890, when he and his household were clearing the ground for theirhome on the mountain-side of Vaea: the last, October 6th, 1894, justtwo months before his grave was dug on Vaea top. During his Odyssey inthe South Seas (from August, 1888, to the spring of 1890) his letters, to Mr. Colvin at any rate, were infrequent and tantalizingly vague;but soon after settling on his estate in Samoa, "he for the firsttime, to my infinite gratification, took to writing me long andregular monthly budgets as full and particular as heart could wish;and this practice he maintained until within a few weeks of hisdeath. " These letters, occupying a place quite apart in Stevenson'scorrespondence, Mr. Colvin has now edited with pious care and given tothe public. 

But the great, the happy surprise of the _Vailima Letters_ is neithertheir continuity nor their fulness of detail--although on each ofthese points they surpass our hopes. The great, the entirely happysurprise is their intimacy. We all knew--who could doubt it?--thatStevenson's was a clean and transparent mind. But we scarcely allowedfor the innocent zest (innocent, because wholly devoid of vanity orselfishness) which he took in observing its operations, or for thechild-like confidence with which he held out the crystal for hisfriend to gaze into. 

One is at first inclined to say that had these letters been lessopen-hearted they had made less melancholy reading--the last few ofthem, at any rate. For, as their editor says, "the tenor of these lastletters of Stevenson's to me, and of others written to several of hisfriends at the same time, seemed to give just cause for anxiety. Indeed, as the reader will have perceived, a gradual change had duringthe past months been coming over the tone of his correspondence. .. . Tojudge by these letters, his old invincible spirit of cheerfulness wasbeginning to give way to moods of depression and overstrained feeling, although to those about him, it seems, his charming, habitualsweetness and gaiety of temper were undiminished. " Mr. Colvin isthinking, no doubt, of passages such as this, from the very lastletter:--

 "I know I am at a climacteric for all men who live by their wits, so I do not despair. But the truth is, I am pretty nearly useless at literature. .. . Were it not for my health, which made it impossible, I could not find it in my heart to forgive myself that I did not stick to an honest, commonplace trade when I was young, which might have now supported me during these ill years. But do not suppose me to be down in anything else; only, for the nonce, my skill deserts me, such as it is, or was. It was a very little dose of inspiration, and a pretty little trick of style, long lost, improved by the most heroic industry. So far, I have managed to please the journalists. But I am a fictitious article, and have long known it. I am read by journalists, by my fellow-novelists, and by boys; with these _incipit et explicit_ my vogue. "

I appeal to all who earn their living by pen or brush--Who does notknow moods such as this? Who has not experience of those dark dayswhen the ungrateful canvas refuses to come right, and the artist sitsdown before it and calls himself a fraud? We may even say that thesefits of incapacity and blank despondency are part of the cost of allcreative work. They may be intensified by terror for the familyexchequer. The day passes in strenuous but futile effort, and the manasks himself, "What will happen to me and mine if this kind of thingcontinues?" Stevenson, we are allowed to say (for the letters tellus), did torment himself with these terrors. And we may say furtherthat, by whatever causes impelled, he certainly worked too hard duringthe last two years of his life. With regard to the passage quoted, what seems to me really melancholy is not the baseless self-distrust, for that is a transitory malady most incident to authorship; but that, could a magic carpet have transported Stevenson at that moment to theside of the friend he addressed--could he for an hour or two havevisited London--all this apprehension had been at once dispelled. Heleft England before achieving his full conquest of the public heart, and the extent of that conquest he, in his exile, never quiterealized. When he visited Sydney, early in 1893, it was to him a newand disconcerting experience--but not, I fancy altogetherunpleasing--_digito monstrari_, or, as he puts it elsewhere, to "dothe affable celebrity life-sized. " Nor do I think he quite realizedhow large a place he filled in the education, as in the affections, ofthe younger men--the Barries and Kiplings, the Weymans, Doyles andCrocketts--whose courses began after he had left these shores. Anartist gains much by working alone and away from chatter and criticismand adulation: but his gain has this corresponding loss, that he mustgo through his dark hours without support. Even a master may takebenefit at times--if it be only a physical benefit--from some closerand handier assurance than any letters can give of the place held byhis work in the esteem of "the boys. "

We must not make too much of what he wrote in this dark mood. A fewdays later he was at work on _Weir of Hermiston_, laboring "at thefull pitch of his powers and in the conscious happiness of theirexercise. " Once more he felt himself to be working at his best. Theresult the world has not yet been allowed to see: for the while we aresatisfied and comforted by Mr. Colvin's assurances. "The fragment onwhich he wrought during the last month of his life gives to my mind(as it did to his own) for the first time the true measure of hispowers; and if in the literature of romance there is to be found workmore masterly, of more piercing human insight and more concentratedimaginative wisdom, I do not know it. "

On the whole, these letters from Vailima give a picture of a sereneand--allowance being made for the moods--a contented life. It is, Isuspect, the genuine Stevenson that we get in the following passagefrom the letter of March, 1891:--

 "Though I write so little, I pass all my hours of field-work in continual converse and imaginary correspondence. I scarce pull up a weed, but I invent a sentence on the matter to yourself; it does not get written; _autant en emportent les vents_; but the intent is there, and for me (in some sort) the companionship. To-day, for instance, we had a great talk. I was toiling, the sweat dripping from my nose, in the hot fit after a squall of rain; methought you asked me--frankly, was I happy? Happy (said I); I was only happy once; that was at Hyères; it came to an end from a variety of reasons--decline of health, change of place, increase of money, age with his stealing steps; since then, as before then, I know not what it means. But I know pleasures still; pleasure with a thousand faces and none perfect, a thousand tongues all broken, a thousand hands, and all of them with scratching nails. High among these I place the delight of weeding out here alone by the garrulous water, under the silence of the high wood, broken by incongruous sounds of birds. And take my life all through, look at it fore and back, and upside down--I would not change my circumstances, unless it were to bring you here. And yet God knows perhaps this intercourse of writing serves as well; and I wonder, were you here indeed, would I commune so continually with the thought of you. I say 'I wonder' for a form; I know, and I know I should not. "

In a way the beauty of these letters is this, that they tell us somuch of Stevenson that is new, and nothing that is strange--nothingthat we have difficulty in reconciling with the picture we had alreadyformed in our own minds. Our mental portraits of some other writers, drawn from their deliberate writings, have had to be readjusted, andsometimes most cruelly readjusted, as soon as their privatecorrespondence came to be published. If any of us dreamed of thisdanger in Stevenson's case (and I doubt if anyone did), the danger atany rate is past. The man of the letters is the man of the books--thesame gay, eager, strenuous, lovable spirit, curious as ever about lifeand courageous as ever in facing its chances. Profoundly as hedeplores the troubles in Samoa, when he hears that war has beendeclared he can hardly repress a boyish excitement. "War is a huge_entraînement_, " he writes in June, 1893; "there is no othertemptation to be compared to it, not one. We were all wet, we had beenfive hours in the saddle, mostly riding hard; and we came home likeschoolboys, with such a lightness of spirits, and I am sure such abrightness of eye, as you could have lit a candle at. "

And that his was not by any means mere "literary" courage one moreextract will prove. One of his boys, Paatalise by name, had suddenlygone mad:--

 "I was busy copying David Balfour, with my left hand--a most laborious task--Fanny was down at the native house superintending the floor, Lloyd down in Apia, and Bella in her own house cleaning, when I heard the latter calling on my name. I ran out on the verandah; and there on the lawn beheld my crazy boy with an axe in his hand and dressed out in green ferns, dancing. I ran downstairs and found all my house boys on the back verandah, watching him through the dining-room. I asked what it meant?--'Dance belong his place, ' they said. --'I think this is no time to dance, ' said I. 'Has he done his work?'--'No, ' they told me, 'away bush all morning. ' But there they all stayed in the back verandah. I went on alone through the dining-room and bade him stop. He did so, shouldered the axe, and began to walk away; but I called him back, walked up to him, and took the axe out of his unresisting hands. The boy is in all things so good, that I can scarce say I was afraid; only I felt it had to be stopped ere he could work himself up by dancing to some craziness. Our house boys protested they were not afraid; all I know is they were all watching him round the back door, and did not follow me till I had the axe. As for the out-boys, who were working with Fanny in the native house, they thought it a bad business, and made no secret of their fears. "

But indeed all the book is manly, with the manliness of Scott's_Journal_ or of Fielding's _Voyage to Lisbon_. "To the English-speakingworld, " concludes Mr. Colvin, "he has left behind a treasure which itwould be vain as yet to attempt to estimate; to the profession ofletters one of the most ennobling and inspiriting of examples; andto his friends an image of memory more vivid and more dear than arethe presences of almost any of the living. " Very few men of our timehave been followed out of this world with the same regret. None haverepined less at their own fate--

 "This be the verse you grave for me:-- 'Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill. '"

M. ZOLA

Sept. 23, 1892. La Débâcle. 

To what different issues two men will work the same notion! Imaginethis world to be a flat board accurately parcelled out into squares, and you have the basis at once of _Alice through the Looking-Glass_and of _Les Rougon-Macquart_. But for the mere fluke that theEnglishman happened to be whimsical and the Frenchman entirely withouthumor (and the chances were perhaps against this), we might have hadthe Rougon-Macquart family through the looking-glass, and a naturaland social history of Alice in _parterres_ of existence labelled_Drink, War, Money_, etc. As it is, in drawing up any comparison ofthese two writers we should remember that Mr. Carroll sees the worldin sections because he chooses, M. Zola because he cannot help it. 

If life were a museum, M. Zola would stand a reasonable chance ofbeing a Balzac. But I invite the reader who has just laid down _LaDébâcle_ to pick up _Eugénie Grandet_ again and say if that littleDutch picture has not more sense of life, even of the storm and stirand big furies of life, than the detonating _Débâcle_. The oldergenius

 "Saw life steadily and saw it whole"

--No matter how small the tale, he draws no curtain around it; itstands in the midst of a real world, set in the white and compositelight of day. M. Zola sees life in sections and by one or another ofthose colors into which daylight can be decomposed by the prism. He islike a man standing at the wings with a limelight apparatus. The raysfall now here, now there, upon the stage; are luridly red or vividlygreen; but neither mix nor pervade. 

I am aware that the tone of the above paragraph is pontifical and itssubstance a trifle obvious, and am eager to apologize for both. Speaking as an impressionist, I can only say that _La Débâcle_ stiflesme. And this is the effect produced by all his later books. Each hasthe exclusiveness of a dream; its subject--be it drink or war ormoney--possesses the reader as a nightmare possesses the dreamer. Forthe time this place of wide prospect, the world, puts up its shutters;and life becomes all drink, all war, all money, while M. Zola(adaptable Bacchanal!) surrenders his brain to the intoxication of hislatest theme. He will drench himself with ecclesiology, or veterinarysurgery, or railway technicalities--everything by turns and everythinglong; but, like the gentleman in the comic opera, he "never mixes. " Oflate he almost ceased to add even a dash of human interest. 

Mr. George Moore, reviewing _La Débâcle_ in the _Fortnightly_ lastmonth, laments this. He reminds us of the splendid opportunity M. Zolahas flung away in his latest work. 

 "Jean and Maurice, " says Mr. Moore, "have fought side by side; they have alternately saved each other's lives; war has united them in a bond of inseparable friendship; they have grasped each other's hands, and looked in each other's eyes, overpowered with a love that exceeds the love that woman ever gave to man; now they are ranged on different sides, armed one against the other. The idea is a fine one, and it is to be deeply regretted that M. Zola did not throw history to the winds and develop the beautiful human story of the division of friends in civil war. Never would history have tempted Balzac away from the human passion of such a subject. .. . "

But it is just fidelity to the human interest of every subject thatgives the novelist his rank; that makes--to take another instance--apage or two of Balzac, when Balzac is dealing with money, of morevalue than the whole of _l'Argent_. 

Of Burke it has been said by a critic with whom it is a pleasure foronce in a way to agree, that he knew how the whole world lived. 

 "It was Burke's peculiarity and his glory to apply the imagination of a poet of the first order to the facts and business of life. .. . Burke's imagination led him to look over the whole land: the legislator devising new laws, the judge expounding and enforcing old ones, the merchant despatching all his goods and extending his credit, the banker advancing the money of his customers upon the credit of the merchant, the frugal man slowly accumulating the store which is to support him in old age, the ancient institutions of Church and University with their seemly provisions for sound learning and true religion, the parson in his pulpit, the poet pondering his rhymes, the farmer eyeing his crops, the painter covering his canvases, the player educating the feelings. Burke saw all this with the fancy of a poet, and dwelt on it with the eye of a lover. "

Now all this, which is true of Burke, is true of the very firstliterary artists--of Shakespeare and Balzac. All this, and more--forthey not only see all this immense activity of life, but the emotionsthat animate each of the myriad actors. 

Suppose them to treat of commerce: they see not only the goods andmoney changing hands, but the ambitions, dangers, fears, delights, thefierce adventures by desert and seas, the slow toil at home, uponwhich the foundations of commerce are set. Like the Gods, "They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm-harness'd by the mane; a chief, With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth. .. . "

Like the Gods, they see all this; but, unlike the Gods, they must feelalso:--

 "They see the merchants On the Oxus stream;--_but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale_. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home. "

Mr. Moore speaks of M. Zola's vast imagination. It is vast in thesense that it sees one thing at a time, and sees it a thousand timesas big as it appears to most men. But can the imagination that sees awhole world under the influence of one particular fury be comparedwith that which surveys this planet and sees its inhabitants busy witha million diverse occupations? Drink, Money, War--these may beusefully personified as malignant or beneficent angels, for pulpitpurposes. But the employment of these terrific spirits in the harryingof the Rougon-Macquart family recalls the announcement that

 "The Death-Angel smote Alexander McGlue. .. . "

while the methods of the _Roman Expérimental_ can hardly be betterillustrated than by the rest of the famous stanza--

 "--And gave him protracted repose: He wore a check shirt and a Number 9 shoe, And he had a pink wart on his nose. "

SELECTION

May 4, 1895. Hazlitt. 

"Coming forward and seating himself on the ground in his white dressand tightened turban, the chief of the Indian jugglers begins withtossing up two brass balls, which is what any of us could do, andconcludes with keeping up four at the same time, which is what none ofus could do to save our lives. " . .. You remember Hazlitt's essay onthe Indian Jugglers, and how their performance shook his self-conceit. "It makes me ashamed of myself. I ask what there is that I can do aswell as this. Nothing. .. .. Is there no one thing in which I canchallenge competition, that I can bring as an instance of exactperfection, in which others cannot find a flaw? The utmost I canpretend to is to write a description of what this fellow can do. I canwrite a book; so can many others who have not even learned to spell. What abortions are these essays! What errors, what ill-piecedtransitions, what crooked reasons, what lame conclusions! How littleis made out, and that little how ill! Yet they are the best I can do. "

Nevertheless a play of Shakespeare's, or a painting by Reynolds, or anessay by Hazlitt, imperfect though it be, is of more rarity and worththan the correctest juggling or tight-rope walking. Hazlitt proceedsto examine why this should be, and discovers a number of good reasons. But there is one reason, omitted by him, or perhaps left for thereader to infer, on which we may profitably spend a few minutes. Itforms part of a big subject, and tempts to much abstract talk on theuniversality of the Fine Arts; but I think we shall be putting itsimply enough if we say that an artist is superior to an "artiste"because he does well what ninety-nine people in a hundred are doingpoorly all their lives. 

Selection. 

When people compare fiction with "real life, " they start withasserting "real life" to be a conglomerate of innumerable details ofall possible degrees of pertinence and importance, and go on to showthat the novelist selects from this mass those which are the mostimportant and pertinent to his purpose. (I speak here particularly ofthe novelist, but the same is alleged of all practitioners of the finearts. ) And, in a way, this is true enough. But who (unless in an idlemoment, or with a view to writing a treatise in metaphysics) evertakes this view of the world? Who regards it as a conglomerate ofinnumerable details? Critics say that the artist's difficulty lies inselecting the details proper to his purpose, and his justificationrests on the selection he makes. But where lives the man whosedifficulty and whose justification do not lie just here?--who is notconsciously or unconsciously selecting from morning until night? Youtake the most ordinary country walk. How many millions of leaves andstones and blades of grass do you pass without perceiving them at all?How many thousands of others do you perceive, and at once allow toslip into oblivion? Suppose you have walked four miles with theexpress object of taking pleasure in country sights. I dare wager theobjects that have actually engaged your attention for two seconds areless than five hundred, and those that remain in your memory, when youreach home, as few as a dozen. All the way you have been, quiteunconsciously, selecting and rejecting. And it is the brain'sbedazzlement over this work, I suggest, and not merely the rhythmicalphysical exertion, that lulls the more ambitious walker and inducesthat phlegmatic mood so prettily described by Stevenson--the mood inwhich

 "we can think of this or that, lightly or laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words and rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as long and loud as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the standard, but sit, each one at home, warming his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private thought!"

Again, certain critics never seem tired of pelting the novelist withcomparisons drawn between painting and photography. "Mr. So-and-So'sfidelity to life suggests the camera rather than the brush andpalette"; and the implication is that Mr. So-and-So and the cameraresemble each other in their tendency to reproduce irrelevant detail. The camera, it is assumed, repeats this irrelevant detail. Thephotographer does not select. But is this true? I have known manyenthusiasts in photography whose enthusiasm I could not share. But Inever knew one, even among amateurs, who wished to photographeverything he saw, from every possible point of view. Even the amateurselects--wrongly as a rule: still he selects. The mere act of settingup a camera in any particular spot implies a process of selection. Andwhen the deed is done, the scenery has been libelled. Our eyes beholdthe photograph, and go through another process of selection. In short, whatever they look upon, men and women are selecting ceaselessly. 

The artist therefore does well and consciously, and for a particularend, what every man or woman does poorly, and unconsciously, andcasually. He differs in the photographer in that he has more licenceto eliminate. When once the camera is set up, it's owner's power overthe landscape has come to an end. The person who looks on theresultant photograph must go through the same process of choosing andrejecting that he would have gone through in contemplating the naturallandscape. The sole advantage is that the point of view has beenselected for him, and that he can enjoy it without fatigue in anyplace and at any time. 

The truth seems to be that the human brain abhors the complexity--theapparently aimless complexity--of nature and real life, and is forever trying to get away from it by selecting this and ignoring that. And it contrives so well that I suppose the average man is notconsciously aware twice a year of that conglomerate of details whichthe critics call real life. He holds one stout thread, at any rate, toguide him through the maze--the thread of self-interest. 

The justification of the poet or the novelist is that he discovers abetter thread. He follows up a universal where the average man followsonly a particular. But in following it, he does but use thoseprocesses by which the average man arrives, or attempts to arrive, atpleasure. 

EXTERNALS

Nov. 18, 1893. Story and Anecdote. 

I suppose I am no more favored than most people who write stories inreceiving from unknown correspondents a variety of suggestions, outlines of plots, sketches of situations, characters, and so forth. One cannot but feel grateful for all this spontaneous beneficence. Themischief is that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred (the fractionis really much smaller) these suggestions are of no possible use. 

Why should this be? Put briefly, the reason is that a story differsfrom an anecdote. I take the first two instances that come into myhead: but they happen to be striking ones, and, as they occur in abook of Mr. Kipling's, are safe to be well known to all mycorrespondents. In Mr. Kipling's fascinating book, _Life's Handicap, On Greenhow Hill_ is a story; _The Lang Men o' Larut_ is an anecdote. _On Greenhow Hill_ is founded on a study of the human heart, and it isupon the human heart that the tale constrains one's interest. _TheLang Men o' Larut_ is just a yarn spun for the yarn's sake: it informsus of nothing, and is closely related (if I may use some of Mr. Howells' expressive language for the occasion) to "the lies swappedbetween men after the ladies have left the table. " And the reason whythe story-teller, when (as will happen at times) his invention runsdry, can take no comfort in the generous outpourings of his unknownfriends, is just this--that the plots are merely plots, and theanecdotes merely anecdotes, and the difference between these and astory that shall reveal something concerning men and women is just thedifference between bad and good art. 

Let us go a step further. At first sight it seems a superfluouscontention that a novelist's rank depends upon what he can see andwhat he can tell us of the human heart. But, as a matter of fact, youwill find that four-fifths at least of contemporary criticism isdevoted to matters quite different--to what I will call Externals, orthe Accidents of Story-telling: and that, as a consequence, ournovelists are spending a quite unreasonable proportion of their laborupon Externals. I wrote "as a consequence" hastily, because it isalways easier to blame the critics. If the truth were known, I daresay the novelists began it with their talk about "documents, " "thescientific method, " "observation and experiment, " and the like. 

The Fallacy of "Documents. "

Now you may observe a man until you are tired, and then you may beginand observe him over again: you may photograph him and hissurroundings: you may spend years in studying what he eats and drinks:you may search out what his uncles died of, and the price he pays forhis hats, and--know nothing at all about him. At least, you may knowenough to insure his life or assess him for Income Tax: but you arenot even half-way towards writing a novel about him. You are stillgroping among externals. His unspoken ambitions; the stories he tellshimself silently, at midnight, in his bed; the pain he masks with adull face and the ridiculous fancies he hugs in secret--these are theEssentials, and you cannot get them by Observation. If you candiscover these, you are a Novelist born: if not, you may as well shutup your note-book and turn to some more remunerative trade. You willnever surprise the secret of a soul by accumulating notes uponExternals. 

Local Color. 

Then, again, we have Local Color, an article inordinately bepraisedjust now; and yet an External. For human nature, when every possibleallowance has been made for geographical conditions, undergoessurprisingly little change as we pass from one degree of latitude orlongitude to another. The Story of Ruth is as intelligible to anEnglishman as though Ruth had gleaned in the stubble behind TessDurbeyfield. Levine toiling with the mowers, Achilles sulking in histent, Iphigeneia at the altar, Gil Blas before the Archbishop ofGranada have as close a claim on our sympathy as if they lived but afew doors from us. Let me be understood. I hold it best that anovelist should be intimately acquainted with the country in which helays his scene. But, none the less, the study of local color is not ofthe first importance. And the critic who lavishes praise upon a writerfor "introducing us to an entirely new atmosphere, " for "breaking newground, " and "wafting us to scenes with which the jaded novel-readeris scarcely acquainted, " and for "giving us work which bears everytrace of minute local research, " is praising that which is ofsecondary importance. The works of Richard Jefferies form aconsiderable museum of externals of one particular kind; and this ispossibly the reason why the Cockney novelist waxes eloquent overRichard Jefferies. He can now import the breath of the hay-field intohis works at no greater expense of time and trouble than taking downthe _Gamekeeper at Home_ from his club bookshelf and perusing achapter or so before settling down to work. There is not the slightestharm in his doing this: the mistake lies in thinking local color(however acquired) of the first importance. 

In judging fiction there is probably no safer rule than to ask one'sself, How far does the pleasure excited in me by this book depend uponthe transitory and trivial accidents that distinguish this time, thisplace, this character, from another time, another place, anothercharacter? And how far upon the abiding elements of human life, theconstant temptations, the constant ambitions, and the constantnobility and weakness of the human heart? These are the essentials, and no amount of documents or local color can fill their room. 

 * * * * *

Sept. 30, 1893. The Country as "Copy". 

The case of a certain small volume of verse in which I take someinterest, and its treatment at the hands of the reviewers, seems to meto illustrate in a sufficiently amusing manner a trick that theBritish critic has been picking up of late. In a short account of Mr. Hosken, the postman poet, written by way of preface to his _Verses bythe Way_ (Methuen & Co. ), I took occasion to point out that he is notwhat is called in the jargon of these days a "nature-poet"; that hispoetic bent inclines rather to meditation than to description; andthat though his early struggles in London and elsewhere have made himacquainted with many strange people in abnormal conditions of life, his interest has always lain, not in these striking anomalies, but inthe destiny of humanity as a whole and its position in the greatscheme of things. 

These are simple facts. I found them, easily enough, in Mr. Hosken'sverse--where anybody else may find them. They also seem to me to be, for a critic's purpose, ultimate facts. It is an ultimate fact thatPublius Virgilius Maro wore his buskins somewhat higher in the heelthan did Quintus Horatius Flaccus: and no critic, to my knowledge, has been impertinent enough to point out that, since Horace had someexperience of the tented field, while Virgil was a stay-at-homecourtier, therefore Horace should have essayed to tell the martialexploits of Trojan and Rutulian while Virgil contented himself withthe gossip of the Via Sacra. Yet--to compare small things withgreat--this is the mistake into which our critics have fallen in Mr. Hosken's case; and I mention it because the case is typical. They tryto get behind the ultimate facts and busy themselves with questionsthey have no proper concern with. Some ask petulantly why Mr. Hoskenis not a "nature-poet. " Some are gravely concerned that "local talent"(_i. E. _ the talent of a man who happens to dwell in some localityother than the critic's) should not concern itself with local affairs;and remind him--

 "To thine orchard edge belong All the brass and plume of song. "

As if a man may not concern himself with the broader problems of lifeand attack them with all the apparatus of recorded experience, unlesshe happen to live on one bank or other of the Fleet Ditch! If a manhave the gift, he can find all the "brass and plume of song" in hisorchard edge. If he have not, he may (provided he be a _bonâ fide_traveller) find it elsewhere. What, for instance, were the use oftelling Keats: "To thy surgery belong all the brass and plume ofsong"? He couldn't find it there, so he betook himself to Chapman andLempriere. If you ask, "What right has a country postman to behandling questions that vexed the brain of Plato?"--I ask in return, "What right had John Keats, who knew no Greek, to busy himself withGreek mythology?" And the answer is that each has a perfect right tofollow his own bent. 

The assumption of many critics that only within the metropolitan cabradius can a comprehensive system of philosophy be constructed, andthat only through the plate-glass windows of two or three clubs is itpossible to see life steadily, and see it whole, is one that I havebefore now had occasion to dispute. It is joined in this case toanother yet more preposterous--that from a brief survey of an author'scircumstances we can dictate to him what he ought to write about, andhow he ought to write it. And I have observed particularly that if awriter be a countryman, or at all well acquainted with country life, all kinds of odd entertainment is expected of him in the way of noteson the habits of birds, beasts, and fishes, on the growth of all kindsof common plants, on the proper way to make hay, to milk a cow, and soforth. 

Richard Jefferies. 

Now it is just the true countryman who would no more think of notingthese things down in a book than a Londoner would think of stating ina novel that Bond Street joins Oxford Street and Piccadilly: simplybecause they have been familiar to him from boyhood. And to my mind itis a small but significant sign of a rather lamentable movement--ofnone other, indeed, than the "Rural Exodus, " as Political Economistscall it--that each and every novelist of my acquaintance, whileassuming as a matter of course that his readers are tolerably familiarwith the London Directory, should, equally as a matter of course, assume them to be ignorant of the commonest features of open-air life. I protest there are few things more pitiable than the transports ofyour Cockney critic over Richard Jefferies. Listen, for instance, tothis kind of thing:--

 "Here and there upon the bank wild gooseberry and currant bushes may be found, planted by birds carrying off ripe fruit from the garden. A wild gooseberry may sometimes be seen growing out of the decayed 'touchwood' on the top of a hollow withy-pollard. Wild apple trees, too, are not uncommon in the hedges. 

 "The beautiful rich colour of the horse-chestnut, when quite ripe and fresh from its prickly green shell, can hardly be surpassed; underneath the tree the grass is strewn with shells where they have fallen and burst. Close to the trunk the grass is worn away by the restless trampling of horses, who love the shade its foliage gives in summer. The oak apples which appear on the oaks in spring--generally near the trunk--fall off in summer, and lie shrivelled on the ground, not unlike rotten cork, or black as if burned. But the oak-galls show thick on some of the trees, light green, and round as a ball; they will remain on the branches after the leaves have fallen, turning brown and hard, and hanging there till the spring comes again. "--_Wild Life in a Southern County_, pp. 224-5. 

I say it is pitiable that people should need to read these things inprint. Let me apply this method to some district of south-westLondon--say the Old Brompton Road:--

 "Here and there along the street Grocery Stores and shops of Italian Warehousemen may be observed, opened here as branches of bigger establishments in the City. Three gilt balls may occasionally be seen hanging out under the first-floor windows of a 'pawnbroker's' residence. House-agents, too, are not uncommon along the line of route. 

 "The appearance of a winkle, when extracted from its shell with the aid of a pin, is extremely curious. There is a winkle-stall by the South Kensington Station of the Underground Railway. Underneath the stall the pavement is strewn with shells, where they have fallen and continue to lie. Close to the stall is a cab-stand, paved with a few cobbles, lest the road be worn overmuch by the restless trampling of cab-horses, who stand here because it is a cab-stand. The thick woollen goods which appear in the haberdashers' windows through the winter--generally _inside_ the plate glass--give way to garments of a lighter texture as the summer advances, and are put away or exhibited at decreased prices. But collars continue to be shown, quite white and circular in form; they will probably remain, turning grey as the dust settles on them, until they are sold. "

This is no travesty. It is a hasty, but I believe a pretty exactapplication of Jefferies' method. And I ask how it would look in abook. If the critics really enjoy, as they profess to, all thistrivial country lore, why on earth don't they come into the fresh airand find it out for themselves? There is no imperative call for theirpresence in London. Ink will stain paper in the country as well as intown, and the Post will convey their articles to their editors. As itis, they do but overheat already overheated clubs. Mr. Henley hassuggested concerning Jefferies' works that

 "in years to be, when the whole island is one vast congeries of streets, and the fox has gone down to the bustard and the dodo, and outside museums of comparative anatomy the weasel is not, and the badger has ceased from the face of the earth, it is not doubtful that the _Gamekeeper_ and _Wild Life_ and the _Poacher_--epitomising, as they will, the rural England of certain centuries before--will be serving as material authority for historical descriptions, historical novels, historical epics, historical pictures, and will be honoured as the most useful stuff of their kind in being. "

Let me add that the movement has begun. These books are alreadysupplying the club-novelist with his open-air effects: and, therefore, the club-novelist worships them. From them he gathers that "wildapple-trees, too, are not uncommon in the hedges, " and straightway heinforms the public of this wonder. But it is hard on the poorcountryman who, for the benefit of a street-bred reading public, mustcram his books with solemn recitals of his A, B, C, and impressiveannouncements that two and two make four and a hedge-sparrow's egg isblue. 

 * * * * *

Aug. 18, 1894. A Defence of "Local Fiction. "

Under the title "Three Years of American Copyright" the _DailyChronicle_ last Tuesday published an account of an interview with Mr. Brander Matthews, who holds (among many titles to distinction) theProfessorship of Literature in Columbia College, New York. Mr. Matthews is always worth listening to, and has the knack of speakingwithout offensiveness even when chastising us Britons for our nationalpeculiarities. His conversation with the _Daily Chronicle's_interviewer contained a number of good things; but for the moment I amoccupied with his answer to the question "What form of literatureshould you say is at present in the ascendant in the United States?""Undoubtedly, " said Mr. Matthews, "what I may call local fiction. "

 "Every district of the country is finding its 'sacred poet. ' Some of them have only a local reputation, but all possess the common characteristic of starting from fresh, original, and loving study of local character and manners. You know what Miss Mary E. Wilkins has done for New England, and you probably know, too, that she was preceded in the same path by Miss Sarah Orne Jewett and the late Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke. Mr. Harold Frederic is performing much the same service for rural New York, Miss Murfree (Charles Egbert Craddock) for the mountains of Tennessee, Mr. James Lane Allen for Kentucky, Mr. Joel Chandler Harris for Georgia, Mr. Cable for Louisiana, Miss French (Octave Thanet) for Iowa, Mr. Hamlin Garland for the western prairies, and so forth. Of course, one can trace the same tendency, more or less clearly, in English fiction. .. . "

And Mr. Matthews went on to instance several living novelists, Scotch, Irish, and English to support this last remark. 

The matter, however, is not in doubt. With Mr. Barrie in the North, and Mr. Hardy in the South; with Mr. Hall Caine in the Isle of Man, Mr. Crockett in Galloway, Miss Barlow in Lisconnell; with Mr. GilbertParker in the territory of the H. B. C. , and Mr. Hornung in Australia;with Mr. Kipling scouring the wide world, but returning always toIndia when the time comes to him to score yet another big artisticsuccess; it hardly needs elaborate proof to arrive at the conclusionthat 'locality' is playing a strong part in current fiction. 

The thing may possibly be overdone. Looking at it from the artisticpoint of view as dispassionately as I may, I think we are overdoingit. But that, for the moment, is not the point of view I wish to take. If for the moment we can detach ourselves from the prejudice offashion and look at the matter from the historical point of view--ifwe put ourselves into the position of the conscientious gentleman who, fifty or a hundred years hence, will be surveying us and our works--Ithink we shall find this elaboration of "locality" in fiction to bebut a swing-back of the pendulum, a natural revolt from thethin-spread work of the "carpet-bagging" novelist who takes the wholeworld for his province, and imagines he sees life steadily and sees itwhole when he has seen a great deal of it superficially. 

The "carpet-bagger" still lingers among us. We know him, with his"tourist's return" ticket, and the ready-made "plot" in his head, andhis note-book and pencil for jotting down "local color. " We still findhim working up the scenery of Bolivia in the Reading Room of theBritish Museum. But he is going rapidly out of fashion; and it is aswell to put his features on record and pigeon-hole them, if only thatwe may recognize him on that day when the pendulum shall swing himtriumphantly back into our midst, and "locality" shall in its turnpass out of vogue. 

I submit this simile of the pendulum with some diffidence to thoseeager theorists who had rather believe that their art is advancingsteadily, but at a fair rate of speed, towards perfection. My own lesscheerful--yet not altogether cheerless view--is that the variousfashions in art swing to and fro upon intersecting curves. Some of thepoints of intersection are fortunate points--others are obviously thereverse; and generally the fortunate points lie near the middle ofeach arc, or the mean; while the less fortunate ones lie towards theends, that is, towards excess upon one side or another. I have alreadysaid that, in the amount of attention they pay to locality just now, the novelists seem to be running into excess. If I must choose betweenone excess and the other--between the carpet-bagger and the writer of"dialect-stories, " each at his worst--I unhesitatingly choose thelatter. But that is probably because I happened to be born in the'sixties. 

Let us get back (I hear you implore) to the historical point of view, if possible: anywhere, anywhere, out of the _Poetics!_ And I admitthat a portion of the preceding paragraph reads like a bad parody ofthat remarkable work. Well, then, I believe that our imaginaryhistorian--I suppose he will be a German: but we need not let ourimagination dwell upon _that_--will find a dozen reasons incontemporary life to account for the attention now paid by noveliststo "locality. " He will find one of them, no doubt, in the developmentof locomotion by steam. He will point out that any cause which makescommunication easier between two given towns is certain to soften thedifference in the characteristics of their inhabitants: that therailway made communication easier and quicker year by year; and itstendency was therefore to obliterate local peculiarities. He willdescribe how at first the carpet-bagger went forth in railway-trainand steamboat, rejoicing in his ability to put a girdle round theworld in a few weeks, and disposed to ignore those differences of raceand region which he had no time to consider and which he was dailysoftening into uniformity. He will then relate that towards the closeof the nineteenth century, when these differences were rapidlyperishing, people began to feel the loss of them and recognize theirscientific and romantic value; and that a number of writers enteredinto a struggle against time and the carpet-bagger, to study thesedifferences and place them upon record, before all trace of themshould disappear. And then I believe our historian, though he may findthat in 1894 we paid too much attention to the _minutiæ_ of dialect, folk-lore and ethnic differences, and were inclined to overlay withthese the more catholic principles of human conduct, will acknowledgethat in our hour we did the work that was most urgent. Our hour, nodoubt, is not the happiest; but, since this is the work it brings, there can be no harm in going about it zealously. 

CLUB TALK

Nov. 12, 1892. Mr. Gilbert Parker. 

Mr. Gilbert Parker's book of Canadian tales, "Pierre and His People"(Methuen and Co. ), is delightful for more than one reason. To beginwith, the tales themselves are remarkable, and the language in whichthey are told, though at times it overshoots the mark by a long wayand offends by what I may call an affected virility, is alwaysdistinguished. You feel that Mr. Parker considers his sentences, notletting his bolts fly at a venture, but aiming at his effectsdeliberately. It is the trick of promising youth to shoot high andsend its phrases in parabolic curves over the target. But a slightwildness of aim is easily corrected, and to see the target at all is amore conspicuous merit than the public imagines. Now Mr. Parker seeshis target steadily; he has a thoroughly good notion of what a shortstory ought to be: and more than two or three stories in his book areas good as can be. 

Open Air v. Clubs. 

But to me the most pleasing quality in the book is its open-airflavor. Here is yet another young author, and one of the mostpromising, joining the healthy revolt against the workshops. Thoughfor my sins I have to write criticism now and then, and use thelanguage of the workshops, I may claim to be one of the rebels, havingchosen to pitch a small tent far from cities and to live out of doors:and it rejoices me to see the movement growing, as it undoubtedly hasgrown during the last few years, and find yet one more of the youngermen refusing, in Mr. Stevenson's words, to cultivate restaurant fat, to fall in mind "to a thing perhaps as low as many types of_bourgeois_--the implicit or exclusive artist. " London is an alluringdwelling-place for an author, even for one who desires to write aboutthe country. He is among the paragraph-writers, and his reputationswells as a cucumber under glass. Being in sight of the newspaper men, he is also in their mind. His prices will stand higher than if he goout into the wilderness. Moreover, he has there the stimulating talkof the masters in his profession, and will be apt to think that hisintelligence is developing amazingly, whereas in fact he is developingall on one side; and the end of him is--the Exclusive Artist:--

 "_When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould-- They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: 'It's pretty, but is it Art?'_"

The spirit of our revolt is indicated clearly enough on that page ofMr. Stevenson's "Wrecker, " from which I have already quoted aphrase:--

 "That was a home word of Pinkerton's, deserving to be writ in letters of gold on the portico of every School of Art: 'What I can't see is why you should want to do nothing else. ' The dull man is made, not by the nature, but by the degree of his immersion in a single business. And all the more if that be sedentary, uneventful, and ingloriously safe. More than half of him will then remain unexercised and undeveloped; the rest will be distended and deformed by over-nutrition, over-cerebration and the heat of rooms. And I have often marvelled at the impudence of gentlemen who describe and pass judgment on the life of man, in almost perfect ignorance of all its necessary elements and natural careers. Those who dwell in clubs and studios may paint excellent pictures or write enchanting novels. There is one thing that they should not do: they should pass no judgment on man's destiny, for it is a thing with which they are unacquainted. Their own life is an excrescence of the moment, doomed, in the vicissitude of history, to pass and disappear. The eternal life of man, spent under sun and rain and in rude physical effort, lies upon one side, scarce changed since the beginning. "

A few weeks ago our novelists were discussing the reasons why theywere novelists and not playwrights. The discussion was sterile enough, in all conscience: but one contributor--it was "Lucas Malet"--managedto make it clear that English fiction has a character to lose. "Ifthere is one thing, " she said, "which as a nation we understand, it is_out-of-doors_ by land and sea. " Heaven forbid that, with only oneAtlantic between me and Mr. W. D. Howells, I should enlarge upon anymerit of the English novel: but I do suggest that this open-airquality is a characteristic worth preserving, and that nothing is solikely to efface it as the talk of workshops. It is worth preservingbecause it tends to keep us in sight of the elemental facts of humannature. After all, men and women depend for existence on the earth andon the sky that makes earth fertile; and man's last act will be, as itwas his first, to till the soil. All empires, cities, tumults, civiland religious wars, are transitory in comparison. The slow toil ofthe farm-laborer, the endurance of the seaman, outlast them all. 

Open Air in Criticism. 

That studio-talk tends to deaden this sense of the open-air is justas certain. It runs not upon Nature, but upon the presentation ofNature. I am almost ready to assert that it injures a critic assurely as it spoils a creative writer. Certainly I remember thatthe finest appreciation of Carlyle--a man whom every critic amongEnglish-speaking races had picked to pieces and discussed andreconstructed a score of times--was left to be uttered by an inspiredloafer in Camden, New Jersey. I love to read of Whitman dropping thenewspaper that told him of Carlyle's illness, and walking out underthe stars--

 "Every star dilated, more vitreous, larger than usual. Not as in some clear nights when the larger stars entirely outshine the rest. Every little star or cluster just as distinctly visible and just as high. Berenice's hair showing every gem, and new ones. To the north-east and north the Sickle, the Goat and Kids, Cassiopeia, Castor and Pollux, and the two Dippers. While through the whole of this silent indescribable show, inclosing and bathing my whole receptivity, ran the thought of Carlyle dying. "

In such a mood and place--not in a club after a dinner unearned byexercise--a man is likely, if ever, to utter great criticism as wellas to conceive great poems. It is from such a mood and place that wemay consider the following fine passage fitly to issue:--

 "The way to test how much he has left his country were to consider, or try to consider, for a moment the array of British thought, the resultant _ensemble_ of the last fifty years, as existing to-day, _but with Carlyle left out. _ It would be like an army with no artillery. The show were still a gay and rich one--Byron, Scott, Tennyson, and many more--horsemen and rapid infantry, and banners flying--but the last heavy roar so dear to the ear of the trained soldier, and that settles fate and victory, would be lacking. "

For critic and artist, as for their fellow-creatures, I believe anopen-air life to be the best possible. And that is why I am glad toread in certain newspaper paragraphs that Mr. Gilbert Parker is atthis moment on the wide seas, and bound for Quebec, where he starts tocollect material for a new series of short stories. His voyage willloose him, in all likelihood, from the little he retains of club art. 

Of course, a certain proportion of our novelists must write of townlife: and to do this fitly they must live in town. But they muststudy in the town itself, not in a club. Before anyone quotes Dickensagainst me, let him reflect, first on the immensity of Dickens'genius, and next on the conditions under which Dickens studied London. If every book be a part of its writer's autobiography I invite theyouthful author who now passes his evenings in swapping views aboutArt with his fellow cockneys to pause and reflect if he is indeedtreading in Dickens' footsteps or stands in any path likely to leadhim to results such as Dickens achieved. 

EXCURSIONISTS IN POETRY

Nov. 5, 1892. An Itinerary. 

Besides the glorious exclusiveness of it, there is a solid advantagejust now, in not being an aspirant for the Laureateship. You can goout into the wilderness for a week without troubling to leave anaddress. A week or so back I found with some difficulty a friend whoeven in his own judgment has no claim to the vacant office, and we setout together across Dartmoor, Exmoor, the Quantocks, by eccentricpaths over the southern ranges of Wales to the Wye, and homewards bycanoe between the autumn banks of that river. The motto of the voyagewas Verlaine's line--

 "Et surtout ne parlons pas littérature"

--especially poetry. I think we felt inclined to congratulate eachother after passing the Quantocks in heroic silence; but were contentto read respect in each other's eyes. 

The Return to Literature. 

On our way home we fell across a casual copy of the _Globe_newspaper, and picked up a scrap of information about the Blorenge, amountain we had climbed three days before. It is (said the _Globe_)the only thing in the world that rhymes with orange. From this weinferred that the Laureate had not been elected during our wanderings, and that the Anglo-Saxon was still taking an interest in poetry. Itwas so. 

Public Excursions in Verse. 

The progress of this amusing epidemic may be traced in the _Times_. It started mildly and decorously with the death of a politician. Thewriter of Lord Sherbrooke's obituary notice happened to remember andtranscribe the rather flat epigram beginning--

 "Here lie the bones of Robert Lowe, Where he's gone to I don't know. .. . "

with Lowe's own Latin translation of the same. At once the _Times_ wasflooded with other versions by people who remembered the lines more orless imperfectly, who had clung each to his own version sincechildhood, who doubted if the epigram were originally written on LordSherbrooke, who had seen it on an eighteenth-century tombstone inseveral parts of England, and so on. London Correspondents took upthe game and carried it into the provincial press. Then countryclergymen bustled up and tried to recall the exact rendering; whileothers who had never heard of the epigram waxed emulous and producedtranslations of their own, with the Latin of which the localcompositor made sport after his kind. For weeks there continued quitea pretty rivalry among these decaying scholars. 

The gentle thunders of this controversy had scarcely died down whenthe _Times_ quoted a four-lined epigram about Mr. Leech making aspeech, and Mr. Parker making something darker that was dark enoughwithout; and another respectable profession, which hitherto hadremained cold, began to take fire and dispute with ardor. The Church, the Legislature, the Bar, were all excited by this time. They strainedon the verge of surpassing feats, should the occasion be given. Frommen in this mood the occasion is rarely withheld. Lord Tennyson died. He had written at Cambridge a prize poem on Timbuctoo. Somebody else, at Cambridge or elsewhere, had also written about Timbuctoo and aCassowary that ate a missionary with his this and his that and hishymn-book too. Who was this somebody? Did he write it at Cambridge(home of poets)? And what were the "trimmings, " as Mr. Job Trotterwould say, with which the missionary was eaten?

Poetry was in the air by this time. It would seem that those treasureswhich the great Laureate had kept close were by his death unlocked andspread over England, even to the most unexpected corners. "All havegot the seed, " and already a dozen gentlemen were busily growing theflower in the daily papers. It was not to be expected that oursenators, barristers, stockbrokers, having proved their strength, would stop short at Timbuctoo and the Cassowary. Very soon a boldegregious wether jumped the fence into the Higher Criticism, and gaveus a new and amazing interpretation of the culminating line in_Crossing the Bar_. The whole flock was quick upon his heels. "Allowme to remind the readers of your valuable paper that there are _two_kinds of pilot" is the sentence that now catches our eyes as we openthe _Times_. And according to the _Globe_ if you need a rhymefor orange you must use Blorenge. And the press exists to supply the realwants of the public. [A]

They talk of decadence. But who will deny the future to a race capableof producing, on the one hand, _Crossing the Bar_--and on the other, this comment upon it, signed "T. F. W. " and sent to the _Times_ fromCambridge, October 27th, 1892?--

 ". .. A poet so studious of fitness of language as Tennyson would hardly, I suspect, have thrown off such words on such an occasion haphazard. If the analogy is to be inexorably criticised, may it not be urged that, having in his mind not the mere passage 'o'er life's solemn main, ' which we all are taking, with or without reflection, but the near approach to an unexplored ocean beyond it, he was mentally assigning to the pilot in whom his confidence was fast the _status_ of the navigator of old days, the sailing-master, on whose knowledge and care crews and captains engaged in expeditions alike relied? Columbus himself married the daughter of such a man, _un piloto Italiano famoso navigante_. Camoens makes the people of Mozambique offer Vasco da Gama a _piloto_ by whom his fleet shall be deftly (_sabiamente_) conducted across the Indian Ocean. In the following century (1520-30) Sebastian Cabot, then in the service of Spain, commanded a squadron which was to pass through the Straits of Magellan to the Moluccas, having been appointed by Charles V. Grand Pilot of Castile. The French still call the mates of merchant vessels--that is, the officers who watch about, take charge of the deck--_pilotes_, and this designation is not impossibly reserved to them as representing the _pilote hauturier_ of former times, the scientific guide of ships _dans la haute mer_, as distinguished from the _pilote côtier_, who simply hugged the shore. The last class of pilot, it is almost superfluous to observe, is still with us and does take our ships, inwards or outwards, across the bar, if there be one, and does no more. The _hauturier_ has long been replaced in all countries by the captain, and it must be within the experience of some of us that when outward bound the captain as often as not has been the last man to come on board. We did not meet him until the ship, which until his arrival was in the hands of the _côtier_, was well out of harbour. Then our _côtier_ left us. "

Prodigious!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Note, Oct. 21, 1893. --The nuisance revived again when Mr. Nettleship the younger perished on Mont Blanc. And again, the friendof Lowe and Nettleship, the great Master of Balliol, had hardly goneto his grave before a dispute arose, not only concerning his parentage(about which any man might have certified himself at the smallestexpense of time and trouble), but over an unusually pointless epigramthat was made at Cambridge many years ago, and neither on him, nor onhis father, but on an entirely different Jowett, _Semper ego auditortantum?_--

 If a funny "Cantab" write a dozen funny rhymes, Need a dozen "Cantabs" write about it to the _Times_? Need they write, at any rate, a generation after, Stating cause and date of joke and reasons for their laughter?

THE POPULAR CONCEPTION OF A POET

June 24, 1893. March 4, 1804. In what respect Remarkable. 

What seems to me chiefly remarkable in the popular conception of aPoet is its unlikeness to the truth. Misconception in this case hasbeen flattered, I fear, by the poets themselves:--

 "The poet in a golden Clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill; He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the Everlasting Will, An open scroll, Before him lay. .. . "

I should be sorry to vex any poet's mind with my shallow wit; but thispassage always reminds me of the delusions of the respectableGlendower:--

 "At my birth The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward. "

--and Hotspur's interpretation (slightly petulant, to be sure), "Why, so it would have done at the time if your mother's cat had butkittened, though you yourself had never been born. " I protest that Ireverence poetry and the poets: but at the risk of being warned offthe holy ground as a "dark-browed sophist, " must declare my plainopinion that the above account of the poet's birth and native giftsdoes not consist with fact. 

Yet it consents with the popular notion, which you may find presentedor implied month by month and week by week, in the reviews; and evenday by day--for it has found its way into the newspapers. Critics haveobserved that considerable writers fall into two classes--

Two lines of Poetic Development. 

(1) Those who start with their heads full of great thoughts, and arefrom the first occupied rather with their matter than with the mannerof expressing it. 

(2) Those who begin with the love of expression and intent to beartists in words, _and come through expression to profound thought_. 

The Popular Type. 

Now, for some reason it is fashionable just now to account Class 1 themore respectable; a judgment to which, considering that Virgil andShakespeare belong to Class 2, I refuse my assent. It is fashionableto construct an imaginary figure out of the characteristics of Class1, and set him up as the Typical Poet. The poet at whose nativityTennyson assists in the above verses of course belongs to Class 1. Ababe so richly dowered can hardly help his matter overcrowding hisstyle; at least, to start with. 

But this is not all. A poet who starts with this tremendous equipmentcan hardly help being something too much for the generation in whichhe is born. Consequently, the Typical Poet is misunderstood by hiscontemporaries, and probably persecuted. In his own age his is a voicecrying in the wilderness; in the wilderness he speeds the "viewlessarrows of his thought"; which fly far, and take root as they strikeearth, and blossom; and so Truth multiplies, and in the end (mostlikely after his death) the Typical Poet comes by his own. 

Such is the popular conception of the Typical Poet, and I observethat it fascinates even educated people. I have in mind the recentunveiling of Mr. Onslow Ford's Shelley Memorial at University College, Oxford. Those who assisted at that ceremony were for the most part menand women of high culture. Excesses such as affable Members ofParliament commit when distributing school prizes or opening freepublic libraries were clearly out of the question. Yet even here, andalmost within the shadow of Bodley's great library, speaker afterspeaker assumed as axiomatic this curious fallacy--that a Poet isnecessarily a thinker in advance of his age, and therefore peculiarlyliable to persecution at the hands of his contemporaries. 

How supported by History. 

But logic, I believe, still flourishes in Oxford; and induction stillhas its rules. Now, however many different persons Homer may havebeen, I cannot remember that one of him suffered martyrdom, or evendiscomfort, on account of his radical doctrine. I seem to rememberthat Æchylus enjoyed the esteem of his fellow-citizens, sided with theold aristocratic party, and lived long enough to find his owntragedies considered archaic; that Sophocles, towards the end of avery prosperous life, was charged with senile decay and consequentinability to administer his estates--two infirmities which even hisaccusers did not seek to connect with advanced thinking; and thatEuripides, though a technical innovator, stood hardly an inch ahead ofthe fashionable dialectic of his day, and suffered only from theridicule of his comic contemporaries and the disdain of hiswife--misfortunes incident to the most respectable. Pindar and Virgilwere court favorites, repaying their patrons in golden song. Dante, indeed, suffered banishment; but his banishment was just a move in apolitical (or rather a family) game. Petrarch and Ariosto were notuncomfortable in their generations. Chaucer and Shakespeare livedhappy lives and sang in the very key of their own times. Puritanismwaited for its hour of triumph to produce its great poet, who livedunmolested when the hour of triumph passed and that of reprisalssucceeded. Racine was a royal pensioner; Goethe a chamberlain and themost admired figure of his time. Of course, if you hold that thesepoets one and all pale their ineffectual fires before the radiantShelley, our argument must go a few steps farther back. I haveinstanced them as acknowledged kings of song. 

The Case of Tennyson. 

Tennyson was not persecuted. He was not (and more honor to him for hisclearness) even misunderstood. I have never met with the contentionthat he stood an inch ahead of the thought of his time. As for seeingthrough death and life and his own soul, and having the marvel of theeverlasting will spread before him like an open scroll, --well, tobegin with, I doubt if these things ever happened to any man. Heavensurely has been, and is, more reticent than the verse implies. But ifthey ever happened, Tennyson most certainly was not the man theyhappened to. What Tennyson actually sang, till he taught himself tosing better, was:--

 "Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. "

There is not much of the scorn of scorn, or the love of love, or theopen scroll of the everlasting will, about _Cruel Little Lilian_. Butthere _is_ a distinct striving after style--a striving that, aseveryone knows, ended in mastery: and through style Tennyson reachedsuch heights of thought as he was capable of. To the end his thoughtremained inferior to his style: and to the end the two in him wereseparable, whereas in poets of the very first rank they areinseparable. But that towards the end his style lifted his thought toheights of which even _In Memoriam_ gave no promise cannot, I think, be questioned by any student of his collected works. 

Tennyson belongs, if ever poet belonged, to Class 2: and it is theprettiest irony of fate that, having unreasonably belauded Class 1, heis now being found fault with for not conforming to the supposedrequirements of that Class. He, who spoke of the poet as of a seër"through life and death, " is now charged with seeing but a short waybeyond his own nose. The Rev. Stopford Brooke finds that he had littlesympathy with the aspirations of the struggling poor; that he borehimself coldly towards the burning questions of the hour; that, inshort, he stood anywhere but in advance of his age. As if plenty ofpeople were not interested in these things! Why, I cannot step outinto the street without running against somebody who is in advance ofthe times on some point or another. 

Of Virgil and Shakespeare. 

Virgil and Shakespeare were neither martyrs nor preachers despised intheir generation. I have said that as poets they also belong to Class2. Will a champion of the Typical Poet (new style) dispute this, andargue that Virgil and Shakespeare, though they escaped persecution, yet began with matter that overweighted their style--with deepstuttered thoughts--in fine, with a Message to their Time? I thinkthat view can hardly be maintained. We have the _Eclogues_ before the_Æneid_; and _The Comedy of Errors_ before _As You Like It_. Expression comes first; and through expression, thought. These are thegreatest names, or of the greatest: and they belong to Class 2. 

Of Milton. 

Again, no English poetry is more thoroughly informed with thought thanMilton's. Did he find big thoughts hustling within him for utterance?And did he at an early age stutter in numbers till his oppressed soulfound relief? And was it thus that he attained the glorious manner of

 "Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. .. . "

--and so on. No, to be short, it was not. At the age of twenty-four, or thereabouts, he deliberately proposed to himself to be a greatpoet. To this end he practised and studied, and travelled unweariedlyuntil his thirty-first year. Then he tried to make up his mind what towrite about. He took some sheets of paper--they are to be seen at thisday in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge--and set down no lessthan ninety-nine subjects for his proposed _magnum opus_, before hecould decide upon _Paradise Lost_. To be sure, when the _magnum opus_was written it fetched £5 only. But even this does not prove thatMilton was before his age. Perhaps he was behind it. _Paradise Lost_appeared in 1667: in 1657 it might have fetched considerably more than£5. 

If the Typical Poet have few points in common with Shakespeare orMilton, I fear that the Typical Poet begins to be in a bad way. 

Of Coleridge. 

Shall we try Coleridge? He had "great thoughts"--thousands of them. Onthe other hand, he never had the slightest difficulty in utteringthem, in prose. His great achievements in verse--his _Genevieve_, his_Christabel_, his _Kubla Khan_, his _Ancient Mariner_--areachievements of expression. When they appeal from the senses to theintellect their appeal is usually quite simple. 

 "He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small. "

No, I am afraid Coleridge is not the Typical Poet. 

On the whole I suspect the Typical Poet to be a hasty generalizationfrom Shelley. 

POETS ON THEIR OWN ART

May 11, 1895. A Prelude to Poetry. 

"To those who love the poets most, who care most for their ideals, this little book ought to be the one indispensable book of devotion, the _credo_ of the poetic faith. " "This little book" is the volumewith which Mr. Ernest Rhys prefaces the pretty series of Lyrical Poetswhich he is editing for Messrs. Dent & Co. He calls it _The Prelude toPoetry_, and in it he has brought together the most famous argumentsstated from time to time by the English poets in defence and praise oftheir own art. Sidney's magnificent "Apologie" is here, of course, andtwo passages from Ben Jonson's "Discoveries, " Wordsworth's preface tothe second edition of "Lyrical Ballads, " the fourteenth chapter of the"Biographia Literaria, " and Shelley's "Defence. "

Poets as Prose-writers. 

What admirable prose these poets write! Southey, to be sure, is notrepresented in this volume. Had he written at length upon his art--inspite of his confession that, when writing prose, "of what is nowcalled style not a thought enters my head at any time"--we may be surethe reflection would have been even more obvious than it is. Butwithout him this small collection makes out a splendid case againstall that has been said in disparagement of the prose style of poets. Let us pass what Hazlitt said of Coleridge's prose; or rather let usquote it once again for its vivacity, and so pass on--

 "One of his (Coleridge's) sentences winds its 'forlorn way obscure' over the page like a patriarchal procession with camels laden, wreathed turbans, household wealth, the whole riches of the author's mind poured out upon the barren waste of his subject. The palm tree spreads its sterile branches overhead, and the land of promise is seen in the distance. "

All this is very neatly malicious, and particularly the lastco-ordinate sentence. But in the chapter chosen by Mr. Rhys from the"Biographia Literaria" Coleridge's prose is seen at itsbest--obedient, pertinent, at once imaginative and restrained--as inthe conclusion--

 "Finally, good sense is the body of poetic genius, fancy its drapery, motion its life, and imagination the soul that is everywhere, and in each; and forms all into one graceful and intelligent whole. "

The prose of Sidney's _Apologie_ is Sidney's best; and when that hasbeen said, nothing remains but to economize in quoting. I will takethree specimens only. First then, for beauty:--

 "Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapistry, as divers Poets have done, neither with plesant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers: nor whatsoever else may make the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets only deliver a golden: but let those things alone and goe to man, for whom as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her uttermost cunning is imployed, and know whether shee have brought forth so true a lover as _Theagines_, so constant a friende as _Pilades_, so valiant a man as _Orlando_, so right a Prince as _Xenophon's Cyrus_; so excellent a man every way as _Virgil's Aeneas_. .. . "

Next for wit--roguishness, if you like the term better:--

 "And therefore, if _Cato_ misliked _Fulvius_, for carrying _Ennius_ with him to the field, it may be answered, that if _Cato_ misliked it, the noble _Fulvius_ liked it, or else he had not done it. "

And lastly for beauty and wit combined:--

 "For he (the Poet) doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweete a prospect into the way, as will intice any man to enter into it. Nay he doth, as if your journey should lye through a fayre Vineyard, at the first give you a cluster of Grapes: that full of that taste, you may long to passe further. He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margent with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulnesse: but he cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with or prepared for the well inchanting skill of Musicke: and with a tale forsooth he cometh unto you: with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner. "

"Is not this a glorious way to talk?" demanded the Rev. T. E. Brown ofthis last passage, when he talked about Sidney, the other day, in Mr. Henley's _New Review_. "No one can fail, " said Mr. Brown, amiablyassuming the fineness of his own ear to be common to all mankind--"noone can fail to observe the sweetness and the strength, theoutspokenness, the downrightness, and, at the same time, the nervousdelicacy of pausation, the rhythm all ripple and suspended fall, thedainty _but_, the daintier _and forsooth_, as though thepouting of a proud reserve curved the fine lip of him, and had to beatoned for by the homeliness of _the chimney-corner_. "

Everybody admires Sidney's prose. But how of this?--

 "Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science. Emphatically it may be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare has said of man, 'that he looks before and after. ' He is the rock of defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, _in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed_, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. "

It is Wordsworth who speaks--too rhetorically, perhaps. At any rate, the prose will not compare with Sidney's. But it is good prose, nevertheless; and the phrase I have ventured to italicise is superb. 

Their high claims for Poesy. 

As might be expected, the poets in this volume agree in pride of theircalling. We have just listened to Wordsworth. Shelley quotes Tasso'sproud sentence--"Non c'è in mondo chi merita nome di creatore, se nonIddio ed il Poeta": and himself says, "The jury which sits in judgmentupon a poet, belonging as he does to all time, must be composed ofhis peers: it must be impanelled by Time from the selectest of thewise of many generations. " Sidney exalts the poet above the historianand the philosopher; and Coleridge asserts that "no man was ever yet agreat poet without being at the same time a profound philosopher. " BenJonson puts it characteristically: "Every beggarly corporation affordsthe State a mayor or two bailiffs yearly; but _Solus rex, aut poeta, non quotannis nascitur_. " The longer one lives, the more cause onefinds to rejoice that different men have different ways of saying thesame thing. 

Inspiration not Improvisation. 

The agreement of all these poets on some other matters is moreremarkable. Most of them claim _inspiration_ for the greatpractitioners of their art; but wonderful is the unanimity with whichthey dissociate this from _improvisation_. They are sticklers for therules of the game. The Poet does not pour his full heart

 "In profuse strains of _unpremeditated_ art. "

On the contrary, his rapture is the sudden result of longpremeditation. The first and most conspicuous lesson of this volumeseems to be that Poetry is an _art_, and therefore has rules. Nextafter this, one is struck with the carefulness with which thesepractitioners, when it comes to theory, stick to their Aristotle. 

Poetry not mere Metrical Composition

For instance, they are practically unanimous in accepting Aristotle'scontention that it is not the metrical form that makes the poem. "Verse, " says Sidney, "is an ornament and no cause to poetry, sincethere have been many most excellent poets that never versified, andnow swarm many versifiers that need never answer to the name ofpoets. " Wordsworth apologizes for using the word "Poetry" assynonymous with metrical composition. "Much confusion, " he says, "hasbeen introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry andProse, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter ofFact or Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre: nor isthis, in truth, a _strict_ antithesis, because lines and passages ofmetre so naturally occur in writing prose that it would be scarcelypossible to avoid them, even were it desirable. " And Shelley--"It isby no means essential that a poet should accommodate his language tothis traditional form, so that the harmony, which is its spirit, beobserved. .. . The distinction between poets and prose writers is avulgar error. " Shelley goes on to instance Plato and Bacon as truepoets, though they wrote in prose. "The popular division into proseand verse, " he repeats, "is inadmissible in accurate philosophy. "

Its philosophic function. 

Then again, upon what Wordsworth calls "the more philosophicaldistinction" between Poetry and Matter of Fact--quoting, of course, the famous +"Philosophôteron kai spoudaioteron"+ passage in the_Poetics_--it is wonderful with what hearty consent our poets pounceupon this passage, and paraphrase it, and expand it, as the greatjustification of their art: which indeed it is. Sidney gives thepassage at length. Wordsworth writes, "Aristotle, I have been told, hath said that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writings: it isso. " Coleridge quotes Sir John Davies, who wrote of Poesy (surely withan eye on the _Poetics_):

 "From their gross matter she abstracts their forms, And draws a kind of quintessence from things; Which to her proper nature she transforms To bear them light on her celestial wings. 

 "Thus does she, when from individual states She doth abstract the universal kinds; Which then reclothed in divers names and fates Steal access through our senses to our minds. "

And Shelley has a remarkable paraphrase, ending, "The story ofparticular facts is as a mirror which obscures and distorts that whichshould be beautiful: poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful thatwhich is distorted. "

In fine, this book goes far to prove of poetry, as it has been provedover and over again of other arts, that it is the men big enough tobreak the rules who accept and observe them most cheerfully. 

THE ATTITUDE OF THE PUBLIC TOWARDS LETTERS

Sept. 29, 1894. The "Great Heart" of the Public. 

I observe that our hoary friend, the Great Heart of the Public, hasbeen taking his annual outing in September. Thanks to the GermanEmperor and the new head of the House of Orleans, he has had theopportunity of a stroll through the public press arm in arm with hisold crony and adversary, the Divine Right of Kings. And the two havegone once more a-roaming by the light of the moon, to drop a tear, perchance, on the graves of the Thin End of the Wedge and the Stake inthe Country. You know the unhappy story?--how the Wedge drove its thinend into the Stake, with fatal results: and how it died of remorse andwas buried at the cross-roads with the Stake in its inside! It is apathetic tale, and the Great Heart of the Public can always be trustedto discriminate true pathos from false. 

Miss Marie Corelli's Opinion of it. 

It was Mr. G. B. Burgin, in the September number of the _Idler_, wholet the Great Heart loose this time--unwittingly, I am sure; for Mr. Burgin, when he thinks for himself (as he usually does), writes soundsense and capital English. But in the service of Journalism Mr. Burgincalled on Miss Marie Corelli, the authoress of _Barabbas_, and askedwhat she thought of the value of criticism. Miss Corelli "idealisedthe subject by the poetic manner in which she mingled tea andcriticism together. " She said--

 "I think authors do not sufficiently bear in mind the important fact that, in this age of ours, the public _thinks for itself_ much more extensively than we give it credit for. It is a cultured public, and its great brain is fully capable of deciding things. It rather objects to be treated like a child and told 'what to read and what to avoid'; and, moreover, we must not fail to note that it mistrusts criticism generally, and seldom reads 'reviews. ' And why? Simply 'logrolling. ' It is perfectly aware, for instance, that Mr. Theodore Watts is logroller-in-chief to Mr. Swinburne; that Mr. Le Gallienne 'rolls' greatly for Mr. Norman Gale; and that Mr. Andrew Lang tumbles his logs along over everything for as many as his humour fits. .. . "

--I don't know the proportion of tea to criticism in all this: butMiss Corelli can hardly be said to "idealise the subject" here:--

 ". .. The public is the supreme critic; and though it does not write in the _Quarterly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_, it thinks and talks independently of everything and everybody, and on its thought and word alone depends the fate of any piece of literature. "

Mr. Hall Caine's View. 

Then Mr. Burgin called on Mr. Hall Caine, who "had just finishedbreakfast. " Mr. Hall Caine gave reasons which compelled him to believethat "for good or bad, criticism is a tremendous force. " But he, too, confessed that in his opinion the public is the "ultimate critic. " "Itoften happens that the public takes books on trust from the professedguides of literature, but if the books are not _right_, it dropsthem. " And he proceeded to make an observation, with which we may mostcordially agree. "I am feeling, " he said, "increasingly, day by day, that _rightness_ in imaginative writing is more important thansubject, or style, or anything else. If a story is right in its theme, and the evolution of its theme, it will live; if it is not right, itwill die, whatever its secondary literary qualities. "

In what sense the Public is the "Ultimate Critic. "

I say that we may agree with this most cordially: and it need not costus much to own that the public is the "ultimate critic, " if we mean nomore than this, that, since the public holds the purse, it restsultimately with the public to buy, or neglect to buy, an author'sbooks. That, surely, is obvious enough without the aid of finelanguage. But if Mr. Hall Caine mean that the public, withoutinstruction from its betters, is the best judge of a book; if heconsent with Miss Corelli that the general public is a cultured publicwith a great brain, and by the exercise of that great brain approvesitself an infallible judge of the rightness or wrongness of a book, then I would respectfully ask for evidence. The poets and critics ofhis time united in praising Campion as a writer of lyrics: the GreatBrain and Heart of the Public neglected him utterly for threecenturies: then a scholar and critic arose and persuaded the publicthat Campion was a great lyrical writer: and now the public acceptshim as such. Shall we say, then, the Great Heart of the Public is the"ultimate judge" of Campion's lyrics? Perhaps: but we might as wellpraise for his cleanliness a boy who has been held under the pump. When Martin Farquhar Tupper wrote, the Great Heart of the Publicexpanded towards him at once. The public bought his effusions by tensof thousands. Gradually the small voice of skilled criticism madeitself heard, and the public grew ashamed of itself; and, at length, laughed at Tupper. Shall we, then, call the public the ultimate judgeof Tupper? Perhaps: but we might as well praise the continence of aman who turns in disgust from drink on the morning after a drunkenfit. [A]

What is "The Public"?

The proposition that the Man in the Street is a better judge ofliterature than the Critic--the man who knows little than the man whoknows more--wears (to my mind, at least) a slightly imbecile air onthe face of it. It also appears to me that people are either confusingthought or misusing language when they confer the title of "supremecritic" on the last person to be persuaded. And, again, what is "thepublic?" I gather that Miss Corelli's story of _Barabbas_ has had animmense popular success. But so, I believe, has the _Deadwood Dick_series of penny dreadfuls. And the gifted author of _Deadwood Dick_may console himself (as I daresay he does) for the neglect of thecritics by the thought that the Great Brain[B] of the Public is thesupreme judge of literature. But obviously he and Miss Corelli willnot have the same Public in their mind. If for "the Great Brain of thePublic" we substitute "the Great Brain of that Part of the Publicwhich subscribes to Mudie's, " we may lose something of impressiveness, but we shall at least know what we are talking about. 

 * * * * *

June 17, 1893. Mr. Gosse's View. 

Astounding as the statement must appear to any constant reader ofthe Monthly Reviews, it is mainly because Mr. Gosse happens to bea man of letters that his opinion upon literary questions is worthlistening to. In his new book[C] he discusses a dozen or so: andone of them--the question, "What Influence has Democracy uponLiterature?"--not only has a chapter to itself, but seems to lie atthe root of all the rest. I may add that Mr. Gosse's answer is atrifle gloomy. 

 "As we filed slowly out of the Abbey on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 12th of October, 1892, there must have occurred to others, I think, as to myself, a whimsical and half-terrifying sense of the symbolic contrast between what we had left and what we had emerged upon. Inside, the grey and vitreous atmosphere, the reverberations of music moaning somewhere out of sight, the bones and monuments of the noble dead, reverence, antiquity, beauty, rest. Outside, in the raw air, a tribe of hawkers urging upon the edges of a dense and inquisitive crowd a large sheet of pictures of the pursuit of a flea by a 'lady, ' and more insidious salesmen doing a brisk trade in what they falsely pretended to be 'Tennyson's last poem. ' Next day we read in our newspapers affecting accounts of the emotion displayed by the vast crowd outside the Abbey--horny hands dashing away the tear, seamstresses holding 'the little green volumes' to their faces to hide their agitation. Happy for those who could see these with their fairy telescopes out of the garrets of Fleet Street. I, alas!--though I sought assiduously--could mark nothing of the kind. "

Nothing of the kind was there. Why should anything of the kind bethere? Her poetry has been one of England's divinest treasures: butof her population a very few understand it; and the shrine has alwaysbeen guarded by the elect who happen to possess, in varying degrees, certain qualities of mind and ear. It is, as Mr. Gosse puts it, by asustained effort of bluff on the part of these elect that Englishpoetry is kept upon its high pedestal of honor. The worship of it asone of the glories of our birth and state is imposed upon the massesby a small aristocracy of intelligence and taste. 

Mr. Gissing's Testimony. 

What do the "masses" care for poetry? In an appendix Mr. Gosse printsa letter from Mr. George Gissing, who, as everyone knows, has studiedthe popular mind assiduously, and with startling results. Here are afew sentences from his letter:--

 (1) "After fifteen years' observation of the poorer classes of English folk, chiefly in London and the south, I am pretty well assured that, whatever civilising agencies may be at work among the democracy, poetry is not one of them. "

 (2) "The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over his counter; that the exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman;' and that an offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it. '"

 (3) "It was needless folly to pretend that, because one or two of Tennyson's poems became largely known through popular recitation, therefore Tennyson was dear to the heart of the people, a subject of their pride whilst he lived, of their mourning when he died. My point is that _no_ poet holds this place in the esteem of the English lower orders. "

 (4) "Some days before (the funeral) I was sitting in a public room, where two men, retired shopkeepers, exchanged an occasional word as they read the morning's news. 'A great deal here about Lord Tennyson' said one. The 'Lord' was significant. I listened anxiously for his companion's reply. 'Ah, yes. ' The man moved uneasily, and added at once: 'What do you think about this long-distance ride?' In that room (I frequented it on successive days with this object) not a syllable did I hear regarding Tennyson save the sentence faithfully recorded. "

Poetry not beloved by any one Class. 

Mr. Gissing, be it observed, speaks only of the class which he hasstudied: but in talking of "demos, " or, more loosely, of "democracy, "we must be careful not to limit these terms to the "lower" and"lower-middle" classes. For Poetry, who draws her priests and wardersfrom all classes of society, is generally beloved of none. The averagecountry magnate, the average church dignitary, the averageprofessional man, the average commercial traveller--to all these sheis alike unknown: at least, the insensibility of each isdifferentiated by shades so fine that we need not trouble ourselves tomake distinctions. A public school and university education does aslittle for the Squire Westerns one meets at country dinner-tables as athree-guinea subscription to a circulating library for the kind ofmatron one comes upon at a _table d'hôte_. Five minutes after hearingthe news of Browning's death I stopped an acquaintance in the street, a professional man of charming manner, and repeated it to him. Hestared for a moment, and then murmured that he was sorry to hear it. Clearly he did not wish to hurt my feelings by confessing that hehadn't the vaguest idea who Browning might be. And if anybody thinkthis an extreme case, let him turn to the daily papers and read thenames of those who were at Newmarket on that same afternoon when ourgreat poet was laid in the Abbey with every pretence of nationalgrief. The pursuit of one horse by another is doubtless a moreelevating spectacle than "the pursuit of a flea by a 'lady, '" but onthat afternoon even a tepid lover of letters must have found an equalincongruity in both entertainments. 

I do not say that the General Public hates Poetry. But I say thatthose who care about it are few, and those who know about it arefewer. Nor do these assert their right of interference as often asthey might. Just once or twice in the last ten or fifteen years theyhave pulled up some exceptionally coarse weed on which the GeneralPublic had every disposition to graze, and have pitched it over thehedge to Lethe wharf, to root itself and fatten there; and terrible asthose of Polydorus have been the shrieks of the avulsed root. But as arule they have sat and piped upon the stile and considered the goodcow grazing, confident that in the end she must "bite off more thanshe can chew. "

The "Outsiders. "

Still, the aristocracy of letters exists: and in it, if nowhere else, titles, social advantages, and commercial success alike count fornothing; while Royalty itself sits in the Court of the Gentiles. And Iam afraid we must include in the crowd not only those affablepoliticians who from time to time open a Public Library and oblige uswith their views upon literature, little realizing what Hecuba is tothem, and still less what they are to Hecuba, but also those affableteachers of religion, philosophy, and science, who condescendoccasionally to amble through the garden of the Muses, and rearrangeits labels for us while drawing our attention to the rapiddeterioration of the flowerbeds. The author of _The Citizen of theWorld_ once compared the profession of letters in England to a Persianarmy, "where there are many pioneers, several suttlers, numberlessservants, women and children in abundance, and but few soldiers. " Werehe alive to-day he would be forced to include the Volunteers. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In a private letter, from which I am allowed to quote, Mr. HallCaine (October 2nd, 1894) explains and (as I think) amends hisposition:--"If I had said _time_ instead of _the public_, I shouldhave expressed myself exactly. It is impossible for me to work up anyenthusiasm for the service done to literature by criticism as a whole. I have, no doubt, the unenviable advantage over you of having wastedthree mortal months in reading all the literary criticism extant ofthe first quarter of this century. It would be difficult to express mysense of its imbecility, its blundering, and its bad passions. But thegood books it assailed are not lost, and the bad ones it glorified donot survive. It is not that the public has been the better judge, butthat good work has the seeds of life, while bad work carries with itthe seeds of dissolution. This is the key to the story of Wordsworthon the one hand, and to the story of Tupper on the other. Tupper didnot topple down because James Hannay smote him. Fifty James Hannayshad shouted him up before. And if there had not been a growing sensethat the big mountain was a mockery, five hundred James Hannays wouldnot have brought it down. The truth is that it is not the 'critic whoknows' or the public which does not know that determines the ultimatefate of a book--the immediate fate they may both influence. The bookmust do that for itself. If it is right, it lives; if it is wrong, itdies. And the critic who re-establishes a neglected poet is merelyarticulating the growing sense. There have always been a few goodcritics, thank God . .. But the finest critic is the untutoredsentiment of the public, not of to-day or to-morrow or the next day, but of all days together--a sentiment which tells if a thing is rightor wrong by holding on to it or letting it drop. "

Of course, I agree that a book must ultimately depend for its fateupon its own qualities. But when Mr. Hall Caine talks of "a growingsense, " I ask, In whom does this sense first grow? And I answer, Inthe cultured few who enforce it upon the many--as in this very case ofWordsworth. And I hold the credit of the result (apart from theauthor's share) belongs rather to those few persistent advocates thanto those judges who are only "ultimate" in the sense that they are thelast to be convinced. 

[B] If the reader object that I am using the Great Heart and GreatBrain of the Public as interchangeable terms, I would refer him to Mr. Du Maurier's famous Comic Alphabet, letter Z:--

 "Z is a Zoophyte, whose heart's in his head, And whose head's in his turn--rudimentary Z!"

[C] _Questions at Issue_; by Edmund Gosse. London: William Heinemann. 

A CASE OF BOOKSTALL CENSORSHIP

March 16, 1895. The "Woman Who Did, " and Mr. Eason who wouldn't. 

 "In the romantic little town of 'Ighbury, My father kept a Succulating Libary. .. . "

--and, I regret to say, gave himself airs on the strength of it. 

The persons in my instructive little story are--

 H. H. Prince Francis of Teck. 

 Mr. Grant Allen, author of _The Woman Who Did_. 

 Mr. W. T. Stead, Editor of _The Review of Reviews_. 

 Messrs. Eason & Son, booksellers and newsvendors, possessing on the railways of Ireland a monopoly similar to that enjoyed by Messrs. W. H. Smith & Son on the railways of Great Britain. 

 Mr. James O'Hara, of 18, Cope Street, Dublin. 

 A Clerk. 

Now, on the appearance of Mr. Grant Allen's _The Woman Who Did_, Mr. Stead conceived the desire of criticising it as the "Book of theMonth" in _The Review of Reviews_ for February, 1895. He stronglydissents from the doctrine of _The Woman Who Did_, and he alsobelieves that the book indicts, and goes far to destroy, its owndoctrine. This opinion, I may say, is shared by many critics. He says"Wedlock is to Mr. Grant Allen _Nehushtan_. And the odd thing about itis that the net effect of the book which he has written with hisheart's blood to destroy this said _Nehushtan_ can hardly fail tostrengthen the foundation of reasoned conviction upon which marriagerests. " And again--"Those who do not know the author, but who takewhat I must regard as the saner view of the relations of the sexes, will rejoice at what might have been a potent force for evil has beenso strangely overruled as to become a reinforcement of the garrisondefending the citadel its author desires so ardently to overthrow. From the point of view of the fervent apostle of Free Love, this is aBoomerang of a Book. "

Believing this--that the book would be its own best antidote--Mr. Stead epitomized it in his _Review_, printed copious extracts, andwound up by indicating his own views and what he deemed the true moralof the discussion. The _Review_ was published and, so far as Messrs. W. H. Smith & Son were concerned, passed without comment. But to theEditor's surprise (he tells the story in the _Westminster Gazette_ ofthe 2nd inst. ), no sooner was it placed on the market in Ireland thanhe received word that every copy had been recalled from thebookstalls, and that Messrs. Eason had refused to sell a single copy. On telegraphing for more information, Mr. Stead was sent the followingletter:--

 "DEAR SIR, --Allen's book is an avowed defence of Free Love, and a direct attack upon the Christian view of marriage. Mr. Stead criticises Allen's views adversely, but we do not think the antidote can destroy the ill-effects of the poison, and we decline to be made the vehicle for the distribution of attacks upon the most fundamental institution of the Christian state. --Yours faithfully, ------. "

Mr. Stead thereupon wrote to the managing Director of Messrs. Eason &Son, and received this reply:--

 "DEAR SIR, --We have considered afresh the character of the February number of your _Review_ so far as it relates to the notice of Grant Allen's book, and we are more and more confirmed in the belief that its influence has been, and is, most pernicious. 

 "Grant Allen is not much heard of in Ireland, and the laudations you pronounce on him as a writer, so far as we know him, appear wholly unmerited. 

 "At any rate, he appears in your _Review_ as the advocate for Free Love, and it seems to us strange that you should place his work in the exaggerated importance of 'The Book of the Month, ' accompanied by eighteen pages of comment and quotation, in which there is a publicity given to the work out of all proportion to its merits. 

 "I do not doubt that the topic of Free Love engages the attention of the corrupt Londoner. There are plenty of such persons who are only too glad to get the sanction of writers for the maintenance and practice of their evil thoughts, but the purest and best lives in all parts of the field of Christian philanthropy will mourn the publicity you have given to this evil book. It is not even improbable that the perusal of Grant Allen's book, which you have lifted into importance as 'The Book of the Month, ' may determine the action of souls to their spiritual ruin. 

 "The problem of indirect influence is full of mystery, but, as the hour of our departure comes near, the possible consequences to other minds of the example and teaching of our lives may quicken our perceptions, and we may see and deeply regret our actions when not directed by the highest authority, the will of God. --We are, dear Sir, yours very truly (for Eason & Son, Limited), "CHARLES EASON, Managing Director. "

Exception may be taken to this letter on many points, some trivial andsome important. Of the trivial points we may note with interest Mr. Eason's assumption that his opinion is wanted on the literary meritsof the ware he vends; and, with concern, the rather slipshod manner inwhich he allows himself and his assistants to speak of a gentleman as"Allen, " or "Grant Allen, " without the usual prefix. But no one canfail to see that this is an honest letter--the production of a manconscious of responsibility and struggling to do his best incircumstances he imperfectly understands. Nor do I think this view ofMr. Eason need be seriously modified upon perusal of a letter receivedby Mr. Stead from a Mr. James O'Hara, of 18, Cope Street, Dublin, andprinted in the _Westminster Gazette_ of March 11th. Mr. O'Harawrites:--

 "DEAR SIR, --The following may interest you and your readers. I was a subscriber to the library owned by C. Eason & Co. , Limited, and in December asked them for _Napoleon and the Fair Sex_, by Masson. The librarian informed me Mr. Eason had decided not to circulate it, as it contained improper details, which Mr. Eason considered immoral. A copy was also refused to one of the best-known pressmen in Dublin, a man of mature years and experience. 

 "Three days afterwards I saw a young man ask the librarian for the same book, and Eason's manager presented it to him with a low bow. I remarked on this circumstance to Mr. Charles Eason, who told me that he had issued it to this one subscriber only, because he was Prince Francis of Teck. 

 "I told him it was likely, from the description he had given me of it, to be more injurious to a young man such as Prince Francis of Teck than to me; but he replied: 'Oh, these high-up people _are different_. Besides, they are so influential we cannot refuse them. However, if you wish, you can now have the book. '

 "I told Mr. Eason that I did not wish to read it ever since he had told me when I first applied for it that it was quite improper. "

The two excuses produced by Mr. Eason do not agree very well together. The first gives us to understand that, in Mr. Eason's opinion, ordinary moral principles cannot be applied to persons of royal blood. The second gives us to understand that though, in Mr. Eason's opinion, ordinary moral principles _can_ be applied to princes, the applicationwould involve more risk than Mr. Eason cares to undertake. Each of hisexcuses, taken apart, is intelligible enough. Taken together they canhardly be called consistent. But the effects of royal and semi-royalsplendor upon the moral eyesight are well known, and need not be dwelton here. After all, what concerns us is not Mr. Eason's attitudetowards Prince Francis of Teck, but Mr. Eason's attitude towards thereading public. And in this respect, from one point of view--whichhappens to be his own--Mr. Eason's attitude seems to meirreproachable. He is clearly alive to his responsibility, and ishonestly concerned that the goods he purveys to the public shall begoods of which his conscience approves. Here is no grocer who sandshis sugar before hurrying to family prayer. Here is a man who carrieshis religion into his business, and stakes his honor on the purity ofhis wares. I think it would be wrong in the extreme to deride Mr. Eason's action in the matter of _The Woman Who Did_ and Mr. Stead'sreview. He is doing his best, as Mr. Stead cheerfully allows. 

The reasonable Objection to Bookstall Censorship. 

But, as I said above, he is doing his best under circumstances heimperfectly understands--and, let me add here, in a position which isunfair to him. That Mr. Eason imperfectly understands his positionwill be plain (I think) to anyone who studies his reply to Mr. Stead. But let me make the point clear; for it is the crucial point in thediscussion of the modern Bookstall Censorship. A great deal may besaid against setting up a censorship of literature. A great deal maybe said in favor of a censorship. But if a censorship there must be, the censor should be deliberately chosen for his office, and, inexercising his power, should be directly responsible to the publicconscience. If a censorship there must be, let the community choose aman whose qualifications have been weighed, a man in whose judgment itdecides that it can rely. But that Tom or Dick or Harry, or Tom DickHarry & Co. (Limited), by the process of collaring a commercialmonopoly from the railway companies, should be exalted into thesupreme arbiters of what men or women may or may not be allowed toread--this surely is unjustifiable by any argument? Mr. Eason may onthe whole be doing more good than harm. He is plainly a verywell-meaning man of business. If he knows a good book from a bad--andthe public has no reason to suppose that he does--I can very wellbelieve that when his moral and literary judgment came into conflictwith his business interests, he would sacrifice his businessinterests. But the interests of good literature and profitablebusiness cannot always be identical; and whenever they conflict theyput Mr. Eason into a false position. As managing director of Messrs. Eason & Son, he must consider his shareholders; as supreme arbiter ofletters, he stands directly answerable to the public conscience. Iprotest, therefore, that these functions should never be combined inone man. As readers of THE SPEAKER know, I range myself on the side ofthose who would have literature free. But even our opponents, whodesire control, must desire a form of control such as reasonapproves. 

THE POOR LITTLE PENNY DREADFUL

Oct. 5, 1895. Our "Crusaders. "

The poor little Penny Dreadful has been catching it once more. Oncemore the British Press has stripped to its massive waist and solemnlysquared up to this hardened young offender. It calls this remarkableperformance a "Crusade. "

I like these Crusades. They remind one of that merry passage in_Pickwick_ (p. 254 in the first edition):--

 "Whether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species of insanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this display of Mr. Weller's valour, is uncertain; but certain it is, that he no sooner saw Mr. Grummer fall, than _he made a terrific onslaught on a small boy who stood next to him_; whereupon Mr. Snodgrass--"

[Pay attention to Mr. Snodgrass, if you please, and cast your memoriesback a year or two, to the utterances of a famous Church Congress onthe National Vice of Gambling. ]

 "--whereupon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly Christian spirit, and in order that he might take no one unawares, announced in a very loud tone that he was going to begin, and proceeded to take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was immediately surrounded and secured; and it is but common justice both to him and to Mr. Winkle to say that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue either themselves or Mr. Weller, who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then reformed, the chairmen resumed their stations, and the march was re-commenced. "

"The chairmen resumed their stations, and the march was re-commenced. "Is it any wonder that Dickens and Labiche have found no fitsuccessors? One can imagine the latter laying down his pen andconfessing himself beaten at his own game; for really this periodical"crusade" upon the Penny Dreadful has all the qualities of the verybest vaudeville--the same bland exhibition of _bourgeois_ logic, thesame wanton appreciation of evidence, the same sententious alacrity inseizing the immediate explanation--the more trivial the better--thesame inability to reach the remote cause, the same profoundunconsciousness of absurdity. 

You remember _La Grammaire_? Caboussat's cow has eaten a piece ofbroken glass, with fatal results. Machut, the veterinary, comes:--

 _Caboussat. _ "Un morceau de verre . .. Est-ce drole? Une vache de quatre ans. "

 _Machut. _ "Ah! monsieur, les vaches . .. ça avale du verre à tout âge. J'en ai connu une qui a mangé une éponge à laver les cabriolets . .. à sept ans! Elle en est morte. "

 _Caboussat. _ "Ce que c'est que notre pauvre humanité!"

Penny Dreadfuls and Matricide. 

Our friends have been occupied with the case of a half-witted boy whoconsumed Penny Dreadfuls and afterwards went and killed his mother. They infer that he killed his mother because he had read PennyDreadfuls (_post hoc ergo propter hoc_) and they conclude verynaturally that Penny Dreadfuls should be suppressed. But beforeroundly pronouncing the doom of this--to me unattractive--branch offiction, would it not be well to inquire a trifle more deeply intocause and effect? In the first place matricide is so utterly unnaturala crime that there must be something abominably peculiar in a form ofliterature that persuades to it. But a year or two back, on theoccasion of a former crusade, I took the pains to study aconsiderable number of Penny Dreadfuls. My reading embraced allthose--I believe I am right in saying all--which were reviewed, a fewdays back, in the _Daily Chronicle_; and some others. I give you myword I could find nothing peculiar about them. They were even ratherostentatiously on the side of virtue. As for the bloodshed in them, itwould not compare with that in many of the five-shilling adventurestories at that time read so eagerly by boys of the middle and upperclasses. The style was ridiculous, of course: but a bad style excitesnobody but a reviewer, and does not even excite him to deeds of thekind we are now trying to account for. The reviewer in the _DailyChronicle_ thinks worse of these books than I do. But he certainlyfailed to quote anything from them that by the wildest fancy could beinterpreted as sanctioning such a crime as matricide. 

The Cause to be sought in the Boy rather than in the Book. 

Let us for a moment turn our attention from the Penny Dreadful to theboy--from the _éponge á laver les cabriolets_ to _notre pauvrehumanité_. Now--to speak quite seriously--it is well known to everydoctor and every schoolmaster (and should be known, if it is not, toevery parent), that all boys sooner or later pass through a crisis ingrowth during which absolutely nothing can be predicted of theirbehavior. At such times honest boys have given way to lying and theft, gentle boys have developed an unexpected savagery, ordinary boys--"thesmall apple-eating urchins whom we know"--have fallen into morbidbrooding upon unhealthy subjects. In the immense majority of cases thecrisis is soon over and the boy is himself again; but while it lasts, the disease will draw its sustenance from all manner ofthings--things, it may be, in themselves quite innocent. I avoidparticularizing for many reasons; but any observant doctor willconfirm what I have said. Now the moderately affluent boy who readsfive-shilling stories of adventure has many advantages at this periodover the poor boy who reads Penny Dreadfuls. To begin with, the crisishas a tendency to attack him later. Secondly, he meets it fortified bya better training and more definite ideas of the difference betweenright and wrong, virtue and vice. Thirdly (and this is veryimportant), he is probably under school discipline at the time--whichmeans, that he is to some extent watched and shielded. When I thinkof these advantages, I frankly confess that the difference in theliterature these two boys read seems to me to count for very little. Imyself have written "adventure-stories" before now: stories which, Isuppose--or, at any rate, hope--would come into the class of "PureLiterature, " as the term is understood by those who have been writingon this subject in the newspapers. They were, I hope, better writtenthan the run of Penny Dreadfuls, and perhaps with more discriminationof taste in the choice of adventures. But I certainly do not feel ableto claim that their effect upon a perverted mind would be innocuous. 

Fallacy of the "Crusade. "

For indeed it is not possible to name any book out of which aperverted mind will not draw food for its disease. The whole fallacylies in supposing literature the cause of the disease. Evil men arenot evil because they read bad books: they read bad books because theyare evil: and being evil, or diseased, they are quickly able toextract evil or disease even from very good books. There is talk ofdisseminating the works of our best authors, at a cheap rate, in thehope that they will drive the Penny Dreadful out of the market. Buthas good literature at the cheapest driven the middle classes fromtheir false gods? And let it be remembered, to the credit of thesepoor boys, that they do buy their books. The middle classes take_their_ poison on hire or exchange. 

But perhaps the full enormity of the cant about Penny Dreadfulscan best be perceived by travelling to and fro for a weekbetween London and Paris and observing the books read by thosewho travel with first-class tickets. I think a fond belief inIvanhoe-within-the-reach-of-all would not long survive thatexperiment. 

IBSEN'S "PEER GYNT"

Oct. 7, 1892. A Masterpiece. 

 "_Peer Gynt_ takes its place, as we hold, on the summits of literature precisely because it means so much more than the poet consciously intended. Is not this one of the characteristics of the masterpiece, that everyone can read in it his own secret? In the material world (though Nature is very innocent of symbolic intention) each of us finds for himself the symbols that have relevance and value for him; and so it is with the poems that are instinct with true vitality. "

I was glad to come across the above passage in Messrs. William andCharles Archer's introduction to their new translation of Ibsen's_Peer Gynt_ (London: Walter Scott), because I can now, with a clearconscience, thank the writers for their book, even though I fail tofind some of the things they find in it. The play's the thing afterall. _Peer Gynt_ is a great poem: let us shake hands over that. Itwill remain a great poem when we have ceased pulling it about to findwhat is inside or search out texts for homilies in defence of our ownparticular views of life. The world's literature stands unaffected, though Archdeacon Farrar use it for chapter-headings and Sir JohnLubbock wield it as a mallet to drive home self-evident truths. 

Not a Pamphlet. 

_Peer Gynt_ is an extremely modern story founded on old Norwegianfolk-lore--the folk-lore which Asbjörnsen and Moe collected, andDasent translated for our delight in childhood. Old and new arecuriously mixed; but the result is piquant and not in the leastabsurd, because the story rests on problems which are neither old nornew, but eternal, and on emotions which are neither older nor newerthan the breast of man. To be sure, the true devotee of Ibsen will notbe content with this. You will be told by Herr Jaeger, Ibsen'sbiographer, that _Peer Gynt_ is an attack on Norwegian romanticism. The poem, by the way, is romantic to the core--so romantic, indeed, that the culminating situation, and the page for which everything hasbeen a preparation, have to be deplored by Messrs. Archer as "a merecommonplace of romanticism, which Ibsen had not outgrown when he wrote_Peer Gynt_. " But your true votary is for ever taking his god off thepedestal of the true artist to set him on the tub of thehot-gospeller; even so genuine a specimen of impressionist work as_Hedda Gabler_ being claimed by him for a sermon. And if ever you havebeen moved by _Ghosts_, or _Brand_, or _Peer Gynt_ to exclaim "This ispoetry!" you have only to turn to Herr Jaeger--whose criticism, likehis namesake's underclothing, should be labelled "All Pure NaturalWool"--to find that you were mistaken and that it is reallypamphleteering. 

Yet Enforcing a Moral. 

To be sure, in one sense _Peer Gynt_ is a sermon upon a text. That isto say, it is written primarily to expound one view of man's duty, notto give a mere representation of life. The problem, not the picture, is the main thing. But then the problem, not the picture, is the mainthing in _Alcestis_, _Hamlet_, _Faust_. In _Peer Gynt_ the poet's ownsolution of the problem is presented with more insistence than in_Alcestis_, _Hamlet_, or _Faust_: but the problem is wider, too. 

The problem is, What is self? and how shall a man be himself? And thepoet's answer is, "Self is only found by being lost, gained by beinggiven away": an answer at least as old as the gospels. The eponymoushero of the story is a man essentially half-hearted, "the incarnationof a compromising dread of self-committal to any one course, " a fellowwho says, "Ay, think of it--wish it done--_will_ it to boot, But _do_ it----. No, that's past my understanding!"

--who is only stung to action by pique, or by what is called the"instinct of self-preservation, " an instinct which, as Ibsen shows, isthe very last that will preserve self. 

The Story. 

This fellow, Peer Gynt, wins the love of Solveig, a woman essentiallywhole-hearted, who has no dread of self-committal, who surrendersself. Solveig, in short, stands in perfect antithesis to Peer. WhenPeer is an outlaw she deserts her father's house and follows him tohis hut in the forest. The scene in which she presents herself beforePeer and claims to share his lot is worthy to stand beside the balladof the Nut-browne Mayde: indeed, as a confessed romantic I must own tothinking Solveig one of the most beautiful figures in poetry. Peerdeserts her, and she lives in the hut alone and grows an old womanwhile her lover roams the world, seeking everywhere and through thewildest adventures the satisfaction of his Self, acting everywhere onthe Troll's motto, "To thyself be enough, " and finding everywhere hismajor premiss turned against him, to his own discomfiture, by anironical fate. We have one glimpse of Solveig, meanwhile, in a littlescene of eight lines. She is now a middle-aged woman, up in her foresthut in the far north. She sits spinning in the sunshine outside herdoor and sings:--

 _"Maybe both the winter and spring will pass by, And the next summer too, and the whole of the year; But thou wilt come one day. .. . * * * * * God strengthen thee, whereso thou goest in the world! God gladden thee, if at His footstool thou stand! Here will I await thee till thou comest again; And if thou wait up yonder, then there we'll meet, my friend!"_

At last Peer, an old man, comes home. On the heath around his old huthe finds (in a passage which the translators call "fantastic, "intending, I hope, approval by this word) the thoughts he has missedthinking, the watchword he has failed to utter, the tears he hasmissed shedding, the deed he has missed doing. The thoughts arethread-balls, the watchword withered leaves, the tears dewdrops, etc. Also he finds on that heath a Button-Moulder with an immense ladle. The Button-Moulder explains to Peer that he must go into this ladle, for his time has come. He has neither been a good man nor a sturdysinner, but a half-and-half fellow without any real self in him. Suchmen are dross, badly cast buttons with no loops to them, and must go, by the Master's orders, into the melting-pot again. Is there noescape? None, unless Peer can find the loop of the button, his realSelf, the Peer Gynt that God made. After vain and frantic searchingacross the heath, Peer reaches the door of his own old hut. Solveigstands on the threshold. 

As Peer flings himself to earth before her, calling out upon her todenounce him, she sits down by his side and says--

 "_Thou hast made all my life as a beautiful song. Blessed be thou that at last thou hast come! Blessed, thrice-blessed our Whitsun-morn meeting_!"

"But, " says Peer, "I am lost, unless thou canst answer riddles. " "Tellme them, " tranquilly answers Solveig. And Peer asks, while theButton-Moulder listens behind the hut--

 "_Canst thou tell me where Peer Gynt has been since we parted_?"

 Solveig. --_Been_?

 Peer. -- _With his destiny's seal on his brow; Been, as in God's thought he first sprang forth? Canst thou tell me? If not, I must get me home_, -- _Go down to the mist-shrouded regions_. 

 Solveig (smiling). --_Oh, that riddle is easy_. 

 Peer. -- _Then tell what thou knowest! Where was I, as myself, as the whole man, the true man? Where was I, with God's sigil upon my brow_?

 Solveig. --_In my faith, in my hope, in my love_. 

A Shirking of the Ethical Problem?

"This, " says the Messrs. Archer, in effect, "may be--indeedis--magnificent: but it is not Ibsen. " To quote their very words--

 "The redemption of the hero through a woman's love . .. We take to be a mere commonplace of romanticism, which Ibsen, though he satirised it, had by no means fully outgrown when he wrote _Peer Gynt_. Peer's return to Solveig is (in the original) a passage of the most poignant lyric beauty, but it is surely a shirking, not a solution, of the ethical problem. It would be impossible to the Ibsen of to-day, who knows (none better) that _No man can save his brother's soul, or pay his brother's debt_. "

In a footnote to the italicized words Messrs. Archer add thequotation--

 "No, nor woman, neither. "

 * * * * *

Oct. 22, 1892. The main Problem. 

"Peer's return to Solveig is surely a shirking, not a solution of theethical problem. " Of what ethical problem? The main ethical problem ofthe poem is, What is self? And how shall a man be himself? As Mr. Wicksteed puts it in his "Four Lectures on Henrik Ibsen, " "What is itto be one's self? God _meant something_ when He made each one of us. For a man to embody that meaning of God in his words and deeds, and sobecome, in a degree, 'a word of God made flesh' is to be himself. Butthus to be himself he must slay himself. That is to say, he must slaythe craving to make himself the centre round which others revolve, andmust strive to find his true orbit, and swing, self poised, round thegreat central light. But what if a poor devil can never puzzle outwhat God _did_ mean when He made him? Why, then he must _feel_ it. Buthow often your 'feeling' misses fire! Ay, there you have it. The devilhas no stancher ally than _want of perception_. "

And its Solution. 

This is a fair statement of Ibsen's problem and his solution of it. Inthe poem he solves it by the aid of two characters, two diagrams wemay say. Diagram I. Is Peer Gynt, a man who is always striving to makehimself the centre round which others revolve, who never sacrificeshis Self generously for another's good, nor surrenders it to a decidedcourse of action. Diagram II. Is Solveig, a woman who has no dread ofself-committal, who surrenders Self and is, in short, Peer's perfectantithesis. When Peer is an outlaw she forsakes all and follows him tohis hut in the forest. Peer deserts her and roams the world, where hefinds his theory of Self upset by one adventure after another and atlast reduced to absurdity in the madhouse at Cairo. But though his owntheory is discredited, he has not yet found the true one. To find thishe must be brought face to face in the last scene with his desertedwife. There, for the first time, he asks the question and receives theanswer. "Where, " he asks, "has Peer Gynt's true self been since weparted:--

 "Where was I, as myself, as the whole man, the true man? Where was I with God's sigil upon my brow?"

And Solveig answers:--

 "In my faith, in my hope, in my love. "

In these words we have the main ethical problem solved; and Peer's_perception_ of the truth (_vide_ Mr. Wicksteed's remarks quotedabove) is the one necessary climax of the poem. We do not care afarthing--at least, I do not care a farthing--whether Peer escape theButton-Moulder or not. It may be too late for him, or there may be yettime to live another life; but whatever the case may be, it doesn'talter what Ibsen set out to prove. The problem which Ibsen shirks (ifindeed he does shirk it) is a subsidiary problem--a rider, so tospeak. Can Solveig by her love redeem Peer Gynt? Can the woman savethe man's soul? Will she, after all, cheat the Button-Moulder of hisvictim?

The poet, by giving Solveig the last word, seems to think it possible. According to Mr. Archer, the Ibsen of to-day would know it to beimpossible. He knows (none better) that "No man can save his brother'ssoul or pay his brother's debt. " "No, nor women neither, " adds Mr. Archer. 

Is Peer's Redemption a romantic Fallacy?

But is this so? _Peer Gynt_ was published in 1867. I turn to _A Doll'sHouse_, written twelve years later, and I find there a woman preparingto redeem a man just as Solveig prepares to redeem Peer. I find in Mr. Archer's translation of that play the following page of dialogue:--

 _Mrs. Linden_: There's no happiness in working for oneself, Nils; give me somebody and something to work for. 

 _Krogstad_: No, no; that can never be. It's simply a woman's romantic notion of self-sacrifice. 

 _Mrs. Linden_: Have you ever found me romantic?

 _Krogstad_: Would you really--? Tell me, do you know my past?

 _Mrs. Linden_: Yes. 

 _Krogstad_: And do you know what people say of me?

 _Mrs. Linden_: Didn't you say just now that with me you could have been another man?

 _Krogstad_: I am sure of it. 

 _Mrs. Linden_: Is it too late?

 _Krogstad_: Christina, do you know what you are doing? Yes, you do; I see it in your face. Have you the courage--?

 _Mrs. Linden_: I need someone to tend, and your children need a mother. You need me, and I--I need you. Nils, I believe in your better self. With you I fear nothing. 

Ibsen's hopes of Enfranchised Women. 

Again, we are not told if Mrs. Linden's experiment is successful; butIbsen certainly gives no hint that she is likely to fail. This was in1879. In 1885 Ibsen paid a visit to Norway and made a speech to someworkingmen at Drontheim, in which this passage occurred:--

 "Democracy by itself cannot solve the social question. We must introduce an aristocratic element into our life. I am not referring, of course, to an aristocracy of birth, or of purse, or even of intellect. I mean an aristocracy of character, of will, of mind. That alone can make us free. From two classes will this aristocracy I desire come to us--_from our women and our workmen_. The social revolution, now preparing in Europe, is chiefly concerned with the future of the workers and the women. On this I set all my hopes and expectations. .. . "

I think it would be easy to multiply instances showing that, thoughIbsen may hold that no man can save his brother's soul, he does notextend this disability to women, but hopes and believes, on thecontrary, that women will redeem mankind. On men he builds littlehope. To speak roughly, men are all in Peer Gynt's case, or TorvaldHelmer's. They are swathed in timid conventions, blindfolded withselfishness, so that they cannot perceive, and unable with their ownhands to tear off these bandages. They are incapable of the highestrenunciation. "No man, " says Torvald Helmer, "sacrifices his honor, even for one he loves. " Those who heard Miss Achurch deliver Nora'sreply will not easily forget it. "Millions of women have done so. " Theeffect in the theatre was tremendous. This sentence clinched the wholeplay. 

Millions of women are, like Solveig, capable of renouncing all forlove, of surrendering self altogether; and, as I read Ibsen, it isprecisely on this power of renunciation that he builds his hope ofman's redemption. So that, unless I err greatly, the scene in _PeerGynt_ which Mr. Archer calls a shirking of the ethical problem, isjust the solution which Ibsen has been persistent in presenting to theworld. 

Let it be understood, of course, that it is only your Solveigs andMrs. Lindens who can thus save a brother's soul: women who have madetheir own way in the world, thinking for themselves, working forthemselves, freed from the conventions which man would impose on them. I know Mr. Archer will not retort on me with Nora, who leaves herhusband and children, and claims that her first duty is to herself. Nora is just the woman who cannot redeem a man. Her Doll's Housetraining is the very opposite of Solveig's and Mrs. Linden's. She is asilly girl brought up amid conventions, and awakened, by one blow, tothe responsibilities of life. That she should at once know the rightcourse to take would be incredible in real life, and impossible in aplay the action of which has been evolved as inevitably as real life. Many critics have supposed Ibsen to commend Nora's conduct in the lastact of the play. He neither sanctions nor condemns. But he doescontrast her in the play with Mrs. Linden, and I do not think thatcontrast can be too carefully studied. 

MR. SWINBURNE'S LATER MANNER

May 5, 1894. Aloofness of Mr. Swinburne's Muse. 

There was a time--let us say, in the early seventies--when many youngmen tried to write like Mr. Swinburne. Remarkably small success waitedon their efforts. Still their numbers and their youth and (for a whilealso) their persistency seemed to promise a new school of poesy, withMr. Swinburne for its head and great exemplar: exemplar rather thanhead, for Mr. Swinburne's attitude amid all this devotion was ratherthat of the god than of the priest. He sang, and left the worshippersto work up their own enthusiasm. And to this attitude he has beenconstant. Unstinting, and occasionally unmeasured, in praise anddispraise of other men, he has allowed his own reputation the nobleliberty to look after itself. Nothing, for instance, could have beenfiner than the careless, almost disdainful, dignity of his bearing inthe months that followed Tennyson's death. The cats were out upon thetiles, then, and his was the luminous, expressive silence of a sphere. One felt, "whether he received it or no, here is the man who can wearthe crown. "

And Her Tendency towards Abstractions. 

It was not, however, the aloofness of Mr. Swinburne's bearing thatchecked the formation of a Swinburnian school of poetry. The cause laydeeper, and has come more and more into the light in the course of Mr. Swinburne's poetic development--let me say, his thoroughly normaldevelopment. We can see now that from the first such a school, such asuccessful following, was an impossibility. The fact is that Mr. Swinburne has not only genius, but an extremely rare and individualgenius. The germ of this individuality may be found, easily enough, in"Atalanta" and the Ballads; but it luxuriates in his later poems andthroughout them--flower and leaf and stem. It was hardly more naturalin 1870 to confess the magic of the great chorus, "Before thebeginning of years, " or of "Dolores, " than to embark upon the vainadventure of imitating them. I cannot imagine a youth in all GreatBritain so green or unknowing as to attempt an imitation of "ANympholept, " perhaps the finest poem in the volume before me. 

I say "in Great Britain;" because peculiar as Mr. Swinburne's geniuswould be in any country, it is doubly peculiar as the endowment of anEnglish poet. If there be one quality beloved above others by theinhabitants of this island, it is concreteness; and I suppose therenever was a poet in the world who used less concreteness of speechthan Mr. Swinburne. Mr. Palgrave once noted that the landscape ofKeats falls short of the landscape of Shelley in its comparative lackof the larger features of sky and earth; Keats's was "foreground work"for the most part. But what shall be said of Shelley's universe afterthe immense vague regions inhabited by Mr. Swinburne's muse? She singsof the sea; but we never behold a sail, never a harbor: she sings ofpassion--among the stars. We seem never to touch earth; page afterpage is full of thought--for, vast as the strain may be, it is neverempty--but we cannot apply it. And all this is extremely distressingto the Briton, who loves practice as his birthright. He comes on aJacobite song. "Now, at any rate, " he tells himself, "we arrive atsomething definite: some allusion, however small, to Bonny PrinceCharlie. " He reads--

 "Faith speaks when hope dissembles; Faith lives when hope lies dead: If death as life dissembles, And all that night assembles Of stars at dawn lie dead, Faint hope that smiles and trembles May tell not well for dread: But faith has heard it said. "

"Very beautiful, " says the Briton; "but why call this a 'JacobiteSong'?" Some thorough-going admirer of Mr. Swinburne will ask, nodoubt, if I prefer gush about Bonny Prince Charlie. Most decidedly Ido not. I am merely pointing out that the poet cares so little for thecommon human prejudice in favor of concreteness of speech as to giveus a Jacobite song which, for all its indebtedness to the historicalfacts of the Jacobite Risings, might just as well have been put in themouth of Judas Maccabæus. 

Somebody--I forget for the moment who it was--compared Poetry withAntæus, who was strong when his feet touched Earth, his mother;weaker when held aloft in air. The justice of this criticism I haveno space here to discuss; but the difference is patent enough betweenpoetry such as this of Herrick--

 "When as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. "

Or this, of Burns--

 "The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The boat rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonny Mary. "

Or this, of Shakespeare--

 "When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight. "

Or this, of Milton--

 "the broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb, Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening from the top of Fesolé, Or in Valdarno. .. . "

And such lines as these by Mr. Swinburne--

 "The dark dumb godhead innate in the fair world's life Imbues the rapture of dawn and of noon with dread, Infects the peace of the star-shod night with strife, Informs with terror the sorrow that guards the dead. No service of bended knee or of humbled head May soothe or subdue the God who has change to wife: And life with death is as morning with evening wed. "

Take Burns's song, "It was a' for our right-fu' King, " and set itbeside the Jacobite song quoted above, and it is clear at once thatwith Mr. Swinburne we pass from the particular and concrete to thegeneral and abstract. And in this direction Mr. Swinburne's muse hassteadily marched. In his "Erechtheus" he tells how the gods gavePallas the lordship of Athens--

 "The lordship and love of the lovely land, The grace of the town that hath on it for crown But a headband to wear Of violets one-hued with her hair. "

Here at least we were allowed a picture of Athens: the violet crownwas something definite. But now, when Mr. Swinburne sings of England, we have to precipitate our impressions from lines fluid as these:--

 "Things of night at her glance took flight: the strengths of darkness recoiled and sank: Sank the fires of the murderous pyres whereon wild agony writhed and shrank: Rose the light of the reign of right from gulfs of years that the darkness drank. "

Or--

 "Change darkens and lightens around her, alternate in hope and in fear to be: Hope knows not if fear speak truth, nor fear whether hope be not blind as she: But the sun is in heaven that beholds her immortal, and girdled with life by the sea. "

I suspect, then, that a hundred years hence, when criticism speakscalm judgment upon all Mr. Swinburne's writings, she will find thathis earlier and more definite poems are the edge of his blade, andsuch volumes as "Astrophel" the heavy metal behind it. The formerpenetrated the affections of his countrymen with ease: the latterfollowed more difficultly through the outer tissues of a peoplenotoriously pachydermatous to abstract speech. And criticism will thenknow if Mr. Swinburne brought sufficient impact to drive the wholemass of metal deep. 

A Voice chanting in the Void. 

At present in these later volumes his must seem to us a godlike voicechanting in the void. For, fit or unfit as we may be to grasp theelusive substance of his strains, all must confess the voice of thesinger to be divine. At once in the range and suppleness of his musiche is not merely the first of our living poets, but incomparable. Inlearning he has Robert Bridges for a rival, and no other. But noamount of learning could give us 228 pages of music that from first tolast has not a flaw. Rather, his marvellous ear has taken him safelythrough metres set by his learning as so many traps. There is onemetre, for instance, that recurs again and again in this volume. Hereis a specimen of it:--

 "Music bright as the soul of light, for wings an eagle, for notes a dove, Leaps and shines from the lustrous lines wherethrough thy soul from afar above Shone and sang till the darkness rang with light whose fire is the fount of love. "

These lines are written of Sir Philip Sidney. Could another man havewritten them they had stood even better for Mr. Swinburne. But we areconsidering the metre, not the meaning. Now the metre may have greatmerits. I am disposed to say that, having fascinated Mr. Swinburne, itmust have great merits. That I dislike it is, no doubt, my fault, orrather my misfortune. But undoubtedly it is a metre that no man butMr. Swinburne could handle without producing a monotony varied only bydiscords. 

A MORNING WITH A BOOK

April 29, 1893. Hazlitt's Stipulation. 

 "Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at present ask--the _Ultima Thule_ of my wandering desires. Do you not then wish for-- _a friend in your retreat Whom you may whisper, 'Solitude is sweet'?_

 Expected, well enough: gone, still better. Such attractions are strengthened by distance. "

So Hazlitt wrote in his _Farewell to Essay Writing_. There never wassuch an epicure of his moods as Hazlitt. Others might add Omar'sstipulation--

 "--and Thou Beside me singing in the wilderness. "

But this addition would have spoiled Hazlitt's enjoyment. Let usremember that his love affairs had been unprosperous. "Suchattractions, " he would object, "are strengthened by distance. " In anycase, the book and singer go ill together, and most of us will declarefor a spell of each in turn. 

What are "The Best Books"?

Suppose we choose the book. What kind of book shall it be? Shall it bean old book which we have forgotten just sufficiently to tastesurprise as its felicities come back to us, and remember justsufficiently to escape the attentive strain of a first reading? Orshall it be a new book by an author we love, to be glanced throughwith no critical purpose (this may be deferred to the second reading), but merely for the lazy pleasure of recognizing the familiar brain atwork, and feeling happy, perhaps, at the success of a friend? There isno doubt which Hazlitt would have chosen; he has told us in his essay_On Reading Old Books_. But after a recent experience I am not surethat I agree with him. 

That your taste should approve only the best thoughts of the bestminds is a pretty counsel, but one of perfection, and is found inpractice to breed prigs. It sets a man sailing round in a viciouscircle. What is the best thought of the best minds? That approved bythe man of highest culture. Who is the man of highest culture? Hewhose taste approves the best thoughts of the best minds. To escapefrom this foolish whirlpool, some of our stoutest bottoms run forthat discredited harbor of refuge--Popular Acceptance: a harbor fullof shoals, of which nobody has provided even the sketch of a chart. 

Some years ago, when the _Pall Mall Gazette_ sent round to all sortsand conditions of eminent men, inviting lists of "The Hundred BestBooks"--the first serious attempt to introduce a decimal system intoGreat Britain--I remember that these eminent men's replies disclosednothing so wonderful as their unanimity. We were prepared for Sir JohnLubbock, but not, I think, for the host of celebrities who followedhis hygienic example, and made a habit of taking the Rig Vedas to bedwith them. Altogether their replies afforded plenty of material for atheory that to have every other body's taste in literature is thefirst condition of eminence in every branch of the public service. Butin one of the lists--I think it was Sir Monier Williams's--theunexpected really happened. Sir Monier thought that Mr. T. E. Brown's_The Doctor_ was one of the best books in the world. 

Now, the poems of Mr. T. E. Brown are not known to the million. But, like Mr. Robert Bridges, Mr. Brown has always had a band of readers towhom his name is more than that of many an acknowledged classic. Ifancy it is a case of liking deeply or scarce at all. Those of us whoare not celebrities may be allowed to have favorites who are not thefavorites of others, writers who (fortuitously, perhaps) have helpedus at some crisis of our life, have spoken to us the appropriate wordat the moment of need, and for that reason sit cathedrally enthronedin our affections. To explain why the author of _Betsy Lee_, _TommyBig-Eyes_ and _The Doctor_ is more to me than most poets--why to opena new book of his is one of the most exciting literary events that canbefall me in now my twenty-ninth year--would take some time, and theexplanation might poorly satisfy the reader after all. 

My Morning with a Book. 

But I set out to describe a morning with a book. The book was Mr. Brown's _Old John, and other Poems_, published but a few days back byMessrs. Macmillan & Co. The morning was spent in a very small gardenoverlooking a harbor. Hazlitt's conditions were fulfilled. I hadenjoyed enough food and sleep to last me for some little time: fewpeople, I imagine, have complained of the cold, these last few weeks:and the book was not only new to me for the most part, but certain toplease. Moreover, a small incident had already put me in the best ofhumors. Just as I was settling down to read, a small tug came down theharbor with a barque in tow whose nationality I recognized before shecleared a corner and showed the Norwegian colors drooping from herpeak. I reached for the field-glass and read her name--_Henrik Ibsen_!I imagined Mr. William Archer applauding as I ran to my own flag-staffand dipped the British ensign to that name. The Norwegians on deckstood puzzled for a moment, but, taking the compliment to themselves, gave me a cheerful hail, while one or two ran aft and dipped theNorwegian flag in response. It was still running frantically up anddown the halliards when I returned to my seat, and the lines of thebark were softening to beauty in the distance--for, to tell the truth, she had looked a crazy and not altogether seaworthy craft--as I openedmy book, and, by a stroke of luck, at that fine poem, _The Schooner_. 

 "Just mark that schooner westward far at sea-- 'Tis but an hour ago When she was lying hoggish at the quay, And men ran to and fro And tugged, and stamped, and shoved, and pushed, and swore. And ever an anon, with crapulous glee, Grinned homage to viragoes on the shore. 

 "So to the jetty gradual she was hauled: Then one the tiller took, And chewed, and spat upon his hand, and bawled; And one the canvas shook Forth like a mouldy bat; and one, with nods And smiles, lay on the bowsprit end, and called And cursed the Harbour-master by his gods. 

 "And rotten from the gunwale to the keel, Rat riddled, bilge bestank, Slime-slobbered, horrible, I saw her reel And drag her oozy flank, And sprawl among the deft young waves, that laughed And leapt, and turned in many a sportive wheel As she thumped onward with her lumbering draught. 

 "And now, behold! a shadow of repose Upon a line of gray She sleeps, that transverse cuts the evening rose, She sleeps and dreams away, Soft blended in a unity of rest All jars, and strifes obscene, and turbulent throes 'Neath the broad benediction of the West--

 "Sleeps; and methinks she changes as she sleeps, And dies, and is a spirit pure; Lo! on her deck, an angel pilot keeps His lonely watch secure; And at the entrance of Heaven's dockyard waits Till from night's leash the fine-breathed morning leaps And that strong hand within unbars the gates. "

It is very far from being the finest poem in the volume. It has notthe noble humanity of _Catherine Kinrade_--and if this be not a greatpoem I know nothing about poetry--nor the rapture of _Jessie_, nor theawful pathos of _Mater Dolorosa_, nor the gentle pathos of _AberStations_, nor the fine religious feeling of _Planting_ and_Disguises_. But it came so pat to the occasion, and used the occasionso deftly to take hold of one's sympathy, that these other poems wereread in the very mood that, I am sure, their author would have askedfor them. One has not often such luck in reading--"Never the time andthe place and the author all together, " if I may do this violence toBrowning's line. Yet I trust that in any mood I should have had thesense to pay its meed of admiration to this volume. 

Now, having carefully read the opinions of some half-a-dozenreviewers upon it, I can only wonder and leave the question to myreader, warning him by no means to miss _Mater Dalorosa_ and_Catherine Kinrade_. If he remain cold to these two poems, then Ishall still preserve my own opinion. 

MR. JOHN DAVIDSON

April 7, 1894. His Plays. 

For some weeks now I have been meaning to write about Mr. JohnDavidson's "Plays" (Elkin Mathews and John Lane), and always shirkingthe task at the last moment. The book is an exceedingly difficult oneto write about, and I am not at all sure that after a few sentences Ishall not stick my hands in my pockets and walk off to somethingeasier. The recent fine weather has, however, made me desperate. Thewindows of the room in which I sit face S. And S. -E. ; consequently adeal of sunshine comes in upon my writing-table. In ninety-nine casesout of the hundred this makes for idleness; in this, the hundredthcase, it constrains to energy, because it is rapidly bleaching thepuce-colored boards in which Mr. Davidson's plays are bound--and(which is worse) bleaching them unevenly. I have tried (let themiserable truth be confessed) turning the book daily, as one turns apiece of toast--But this is not criticism of Mr. Davidson's "Plays. "

His Style full of Imagination and Wit. 

Now it would be easy and pleasant to express my great admiration ofMr. Davidson's Muse, and justify it by a score of extracts and so makean end: and nobody (except perhaps Mr. Davidson himself) would know mydishonesty. For indeed and out of doubt he is in some respects themost richly-endowed of all our younger poets. Of wit and ofimagination he has almost a plethora: they crowd this book, and allhis books, from end to end. And his frequent felicity of phrase ishardly less remarkable. You may turn page after page, and with eachpage the truth of this will become more obvious. Let me add his quickeye for natural beauty, his penetrating instinct for the principlesthat lie beneath its phenomena, his sympathy with all men's moregenerous emotions--and still I have a store of satisfactoryillustrations at hand for the mere trouble of turning the leaves. Consider, for instance, the imagery in his description of the fight byBannockburn--

 Now are they hand to hand! How short a front! How close! _They're sewn together with steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword, _ _Spear across lance and death the purfled seam!_ I never saw so fierce, so lock'd a fight. That tireless brand that like a pliant flail Threshes the lives from sheaves of Englishmen-- Know you who wields it? Douglas, who but he! A noble meets him now. Clifford it is! No bitterer foes seek out each other there. Parried! That told! And that! Clifford, good night! And Douglas shouts to Randolf; Edward Bruce Cheers on the Steward; while the King's voice rings In every Scotch ear: such a narrow strait Confines this firth of war!

 _Young Friar_: "God gives me strength Again to gaze with eyes unseared. _Jewels! These must be jewels peering in the grass. Cloven from helms, or on them: dead men's eyes Scarce shine so bright. The banners dip and mount Like masts at sea. .. . _"

Or consider the fanciful melody of the Fairies' song in _AnUnhistorical Pastoral_--

 "Weave the dance and sing the song; _Subterranean depths prolong The rainy patter of our feet;_ Heights of air are rendered sweet By our singing. Let us sing, Breathing softly, fairily, Swelling sweetly, airily, Till earth and sky our echo ring. Rustling leaves chime with our song: Fairy bells its close prolong Ding-dong, ding-dong. "

--Or the closely-packed wit in such passages as these--

 _Brown_: "This world, This oyster with its valves of toil and play, Would round his corners for its own good ease, And make a pearl of him if he'd plunge in. * * * * * _Jones_: And in this matter we may all be pearls. 

 _Smith_: Be worldlings, truly. I would rather be A shred of glass that sparkles in the sun, And keeps a lowly rainbow of its own, Than one of these so trim and patent pearls With hearts of sand veneered, sewed up and down The stiff brocade society affects. "

I have opened the book at random for these quotations. Its pages arestuffed with scores as good. Nor will any but the least intelligentreviewer upbraid Mr. Davidson for deriving so much of his inspirationdirectly from Shakespeare. Mr. Davidson is still a young man; but thefirst of these plays, _An Unhistorical Pastoral_, was first printed solong ago as 1877; and the last, _Scaramouch in Naxos; a Pantomime_, in1888. They are the work therefore of a very young man, who must usemodels while feeling his way to a style and method of his own. 

Lack of "Architectonic" Quality. 

But--there is a "but"; and I am coming at length to my difficulty withMr. Davidson's work. Oddly enough, this difficulty may be referred tothe circumstance that Mr. Davidson's poetry touches Shakespeare'sgreat circle at a second point. Wordsworth, it will be remembered, once said that Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic(Wordsworth, by the way, was rather fond of pointing out the thingsthat Shakespeare could not have done). "Shakespeare _could_ not havewritten an Epic; he would have died of plethora of thought. "Substitute "wit" for "thought, " and you have my difficulty with Mr. Davidson. It is given to few men to have great wit: it is given tofewer to carry a great wit lightly. In Mr. Davidson's case itluxuriates over the page and seems persistently to choke his sense ofform. One image suggests another, one phrase springs under the veryshadow of another until the fabric of his poem is completely hiddenbeneath luxuriant flowers of speech. Either they hide it from theauthor himself; or, conscious of his lack of architectonic skill, hedeliberately trails these creepers over his ill-constructed walls. Ithink the former is the true explanation, but am not sure. 

Let me be cautious here, or some remarks I made the other day uponanother poet--Mr. Hosken, author of _Phaon and Sappho_, and _Verses bythe Way_--will be brought up against me. Defending Mr. Hosken againstcertain critics who had complained of the lack of dramatic power inhis tragedies, I said, "Be it allowed that he has little dramaticpower, and that (since the poem professed to be a tragedy) dramaticpower was what you reasonably looked for. But an alert critic, considering the work of a beginner, will have an eye for thebye-strokes as well as the main ones: and if the author, while missingthe main, prove effective with the bye--if Mr. Hosken, while failingto construct a satisfactory drama, gave evidence of strength in manyfine meditative passages--then at the worst he stands convicted of ayouthful error in choosing a literary form unsuited to convey histhought. "

Not in the "Plays" only. 

These observations I believe to be just, and having entered the_caveat_ in Mr. Hosken's case, I should observe it in Mr. Davidson'salso, did these five youthful plays stand alone. But Mr. Davidson haspublished much since these plays first appeared--works both in proseand verse--_Fleet Street Eclogues_, _Ninian Jamieson_, _A PracticalNovelist_, _A Random Itinerary_, _Baptist Lake_: and because I havefollowed his writings (I think from his first coming to London) withthe greatest interest, I may possibly be excused for speaking a wordof warning. I am quite certain that Mr. Davidson will never bore me:but I wish I could be half so certain that he will in time producesomething in true perspective; a fabric duly proportioned, each lineof which from the beginning shall guide the reader to an end which theauthor has in view; something which

 "_Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. _"

_Sibi constet_, be it remarked. A work of art may stand very far fromNature, provided its own parts are consistent. Heaven forbid that acritic should decry an author for being fantastic, so long as he istrue to his fantasy. 

But Mr. Davidson's wit is so brilliant within the circles of itstemporary coruscation as to leave the outline of his work in aconstant penumbra. Indeed, when he wishes to unburden his mind of anidea, he seems to have less capacity than many men of half hisability to determine the form best suited for conveying it. Ifanything can be certain which has not been tried, it is that his story_A Practical Novelist_ should have been cast in dramatic form. Hisvastly clever _Perfervid: _or_ the Career of Ninian Jamieson_ is castin two parts which neither unite to make a whole, nor are sufficientlyindependent to stand complete in themselves. I find it characteristicthat his _Random Itinerary_--that fresh and agreeable narrative ofsuburban travel--should conclude with a crashing poem, magnificent initself, but utterly out of key with the rest of the book. Turn to the_Compleat Angler_, and note the exquisite congruity of the songsquoted by Walton with the prose in which they are set, and thedifference will be apparent at once. Fate seems to dog Mr. Davidsoneven into his illustrations. _A Random Itinerary_ and this book of_Plays_ (both published by Messrs. Mathews and Lane) have each aconspicuously clever frontispiece. But the illustrator of _A RandomItinerary_ has chosen as his subject the very poem which I havementioned as out of harmony with the book; and I must protest that thevilely sensual faces in Mr. Beardsley's frontispiece to these _Plays_are hopelessly out of keeping with the sunny paganism of _Scaramouchin Naxos_. There is nothing Greek about Mr. Beardsley's figures: theironly relationship with the Olympians is derived through the goddessAselgeia. 

With all this I have to repeat that Mr. Davidson is in some respectsthe most richly endowed of all the younger poets. The grand mannercomes more easily to him than to any other: and if he can cultivate asense of form and use this sense as a curb upon his wit, he has allthe qualities that take a poet far. 

 * * * * *

Nov. 24, 1984. "Ballads and Songs. "

At last there is no mistake about it: Mr. John Davidson has come byhis own. And by "his own" I do not mean popularity--though I hopethat in time he will have enough of this and to spare--but mastery ofhis poetic method. This new volume of "Ballads and Songs" (London:John Lane) justifies our hopes and removes our chief fear. Youremember Mr. T. E. Brown's fine verses on "Poets and Poets"?--

 He fishes in the night of deep sea pools: For him the nets hang long and low, Cork-buoyed and strong; the silver-gleaming schools Come with the ebb and flow Of universal tides, and all the channels glow. 

 Or holding with his hand the weighted line He sounds the languor of the neaps, Or feels what current of the springing brine The cord divergent sweeps, The throb of what great heart bestirs the middle deeps. 

 Thou also weavest meshes, fine and thin, And leaguer'st all the forest ways; But of that sea and the great heart therein Thou knowest nought; whole days Thou toil'st, and hast thy end--good store of pies and jays. 

Mr. Davidson has never allowed us to doubt to which of these twoclasses he belongs. "For him the nets hang long and low. " But thoughit may satisfy the Pumblechook within us to recall our pleasantprophesyings, we shall find it more salutary to remember our fears. Wewatched Mr. Davidson struggling in the thicket of his own fancies, andsaw him too often break his shins over his own wit. We asked: Will hein the end overcome the defect of his qualities? Will he remain unableto see the wood for the trees? Or will he some day be giving us poemsof which the whole conception and structure shall be as beautiful asthe casual fragment or the single line? For this architectonic qualityis just that "invidious distinction" which the fabled undergraduatedeclined to draw between the major and minor prophets. 

The "Ballad of a Nun. "

Since its appearance, a few weeks back, all the critics have spoken of"A Ballad of a Nun, " and admitted its surprising strength and beauty. They have left me in the plight of that belated fiddle in "RejectedAddresses, " or of the gentleman who had to be content with saying"ditto" to Mr. Burke. For once they seem unanimous, and for once theyare right. The poem is beautiful indeed in detail:

 "The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm; Clouds scattered largesses of rain; The sounding cities, rich and warm, Smouldered and glittered in the plain. "

Dickens, reading for the first time Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women, "laid down the book, saying, "What a treat it is to come across afellow who can _write_!" The verse that moved him to exclaim it wasthis--

 "Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates; And hushed seraglios. "

It is not necessary to compare these two stanzas. Tennyson's depicts aconfused and moving dream; Mr. Davidson's a wide earthly prospect. Thepoint to notice in each is the superlative skill with which the poetchooses the essential points of the picture and presents them so as toconvey their full meaning, appealing at once to the senses and theintelligence. Tennyson, who is handling a mental condition in whichthe sensations are less sharply and logically separated than in awaking vision, can enforce this second appeal--this appeal to theintelligence--by introducing the indefinite "divers woes" between thedefinite "sheets of water" and the definite "ranges of glimmeringvaults with iron grates": just as Wordsworth, to convey the vagueunanalyzed charm of singing, combines the indefinite "old unhappyfar-off things" with the definite "battles long ago. " Mr. Davidson, onthe other hand, is describing what the eye sees, and conveying whatthe mind suspects, in their waking hours, and is therefore restrictedin his use of the abstract and indefinite. Notice, therefore, how hequalifies that which can be seen--the sun, the clouds, the plain, thecities that "smoulder" and "glitter"--with the epithets "sounding, ""rich, " and "warm, " each an inference rather than a direct sensation:for nobody imagines that the sound of the cities actually rang in theear of the Nun who watched them from the mountain-side. The wholepicture has the effect of one of those wide conventional landscapeswhich old painters delighted to spread beyond the court-yard ofNazareth, or behind the pillars of the temple at Jerusalem. My attemptto analyze it is something of a folly; to understand it is impossible:

 "but _if_ I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, "--

I should at length comprehend the divine and inexplicable gift ofsong. 

The "Ballad of the Making of a Poet. "

But beautiful as it is in detail, this poem, and at least one other inthe little volume, have the great merit which has hitherto beenlacking in the best of Mr. Davidson's work. They are thoroughlyconsidered; seen as solid wholes; seen not only in front but round atthe back. In fact, they are natural growths of Mr. Davidson'sphilosophy of life. In his "Ballad of the Making of a Poet" Mr. Davidson lets us know his conception of the poet's proper function. 

 "I am a man apart: A mouthpiece for the creeds of all the world; A soulless life that angels may possess Or demons haunt, wherein the foulest things May loll at ease beside the loveliest; A martyr for all mundane moods to tear; The slave of every passion; and the slave Of heat and cold, of darkness and of light; A trembling lyre for every wind to sound. * * * * * Within my heart I'll gather all the universe, and sing As sweetly as the spheres; and I shall be The first of men to understand himself. .. . "

Making, of course, full concessions to the demands of poeticaltreatment, we may assume pretty confidently that Mr. Davidson intendedthis "Ballad in Blank Verse of the Making of a Poet" for a soul'sautobiography, of a kind. If so, I trust he will forgive me fordoubting if he is at all likely to fulfil the poet's office as heconceives it here, or even to approach within measurable distance ofhis ideal--

 "A trembling lyre for every wind to sound. "

That it is one way in which a poet may attain, I am not just nowdenying. But luckily men attain in many ways: and the man who sitshimself down of fixed purpose to be an Æolian harp for the winds ofthe world, is of all men the least likely to be merely Æolian. For thefirst demand of Æolian sound is that the instrument should have notheories of its own; and explicitly to proclaim yourself Æolian isimplicitly to proclaim yourself didactic. As a matter of fact, boththe "Ballad of the Making of a Poet" and the "Ballad of a Nun" containsharply pointed morals very stoutly driven home. In each the poet hasmade up his mind; he has a theory of life, and presents that theory tous under cover of a parable. The beauty of the "Ballad of a Nun"--orso much of it as stands beyond and above mere beauty oflanguage--consists in this, that it is informed, and consciouslyinformed, by a spirit of tolerance so exceedingly wide that to matchit I can find one poem and one only among those of recent years: Imean "Catherine Kinrade. " In Mr. Brown's poem the Bishop is welcomedinto Heaven by the half-wilted harlot he had once condemned to painfuland public punishment. In Mr. Davidson's poem, Mary, the Mother ofHeaven, herself takes the form and place of the wandering nun andfills it until the penitent returns. Take either poem: take Mr. Brown's--

 "Awe-stricken, he was 'ware How on the Emerald stair A woman sat divinely clothed in white, And at her knees four cherubs bright. That laid Their heads within their lap. Then, trembling, he essayed To speak--'Christ's mother, pity me!' Then answered she-- 'Sir, I am Catherine Kinrade. '"

Or take Mr. Davidson's--in a way, its converse--

 "The wandress raised her tenderly; She touched her wet and fast-shut eyes; 'Look, sister; sister, look at me; Look; can you see through my disguise?'

 She looked and saw her own sad face, And trembled, wondering, 'Who art thou?' 'God sent me down to fill your place; I am the Virgin Mary now. '

 And with the word, God's mother shone; The wanderer whispered 'Mary, hail!' The vision helped her to put on Bracelet and fillet, ring and veil. 

 'You are sister to the mountains now, And sister to the day and night; Sister to God. ' And on her brow She kissed her thrice and left her sight. "

The voice in each case is that of a prophet rather than that of a reedshaken by the wind, or an Æolian harp played upon by the same. 

 * * * * *

March, 1895. Second Thoughts. 

I have to add that, apart from the beautiful language in which theyare presented, Mr. Davidson's doctrines do not appeal to me. I cannotaccept his picture of the poet's as "a soulless life . .. Wherein thefoulest things may loll at ease beside the loveliest. " It seems to meat least as obligatory on a poet as on other men to keep his gardenweeded and his conscience active. Indeed, I believe some asceticism ofsoul to be a condition of all really great poetry. Also Mr. Davidsonappears to be confusing charity with an approbation of things in thestrict sense damnable when he makes the Mother of Christ abet a Nunwhose wanderings have no nobler excuse than a carnal desire--_savoirenfin ce que c'est un homme_. Between forgiving a lapsed man or womanand abetting the lapse I now, in a cooler hour, see an immense, anessential, moral difference. But I confess that the foregoing paperwas written while my sense of this difference was temporarily blindedunder the spell of Mr. Davidson's beautiful verse. 

It may still be that his Nun had some nobler motive than I am able, after two or three readings of the ballad, to discover. In that case Ican only ask pardon for my obtuseness. 

BJÖRNSTERNE BJÖRNSON

June 1, 1895. Björnson's First Manner. 

I see that the stories promised in Mr. Heinemann's new series oftranslations of Björnson are _Synnövé Solbakken_, _Arne_, _A HappyBoy_, _The Fisher Maiden_, _The Bridal March_, _Magnhild_, and_Captain Mansana_. The first, _Synnövé Solbakken_, appeared in 1857. The others are dated thus:--_Arne_ in 1858, _A Happy Boy_ in 1860, _The Fisher Maiden_ in 1868, _The Bridal March_ in 1873, _Magnhild_ in1877, and _Captain Mansana_ in 1879. There are some very significantgaps here, the most important being the eight years' gap between _AHappy Boy_ and _The Fisher Maiden_. Again, after 1879 Björnson ceasedto write novels for a while, returning to the charge in 1884 with_Flags are Flying in Town and Haven_, and following up with _In God'sWay_, 1889. Translations of these two novels have also been publishedby Mr. Heinemann (the former under an altered title, _The Heritage ofthe Kurts_) and, to use Mr. Gosse's words, are the works, by whichBjörnson is best known to the present generation of Englishmen. "Theypossess elements which have proved excessively attractive to certainsections of our public; indeed, in the case of _In God's Way_, a novelwhich was by no means successful in its own country at its originalpublication, has enjoyed an aftermath of popularity in Scandinavia, founded on reflected warmth from its English admirers. "

Taking, then, Björnson's fiction apart from his other writings (withwhich I confess myself unacquainted), we find that it falls into threeperiods, pretty sharply divided. The earliest is the idyllic period, pure and simple, and includes _Synnövé_, _Arne_, and _A Happy Boy_. Then with _The Fisher Maiden_ we enter on a stage of transition. It isstill the idyll; but it grows self-conscious, elaborate, confused bythe realism that was coming into fashion all over Europe; and thetrouble and confusion grow until we reach _Magnhild_. With _Flags areFlying_ and _In God's Way_ we reach a third stage--the stage ofrealism, some readers would say. I should not agree. But these talescertainly differ remarkably from their predecessors. They are muchlonger, to begin with; in them, too, realism at length preponderates;and they are probably as near to pure realism as Björnson will everget. 

If asked to label these three periods, I should call them the periodsof (1) Simplicity, (2) Confusion, (3) Dire Confusion. 

I speak, of course, as a foreigner, obliged to read Björnson intranslations. But perhaps the disability is not so important as itseems at first sight. Translations cannot hide Björnson's genius; norobscure the truth that his genius is essentially idyllic. Now if oneform of literary expression suffers more than another by translationit is the idyll. Its bloom is peculiarly delicate; its freshnesspeculiarly quick to disappear under much handling of any kind. But allthe translations leave _Arne_ a masterpiece, and _Synnövé_ and _TheHappy Boy_. 

How many artists have been twisted from their natural bent by the longvogue of "naturalism" we shall never know. We must make the best ofthe great works which have been produced under its influence, and becontent with that. But we may say with some confidence that Björnson'sgenius was unfortunate in the date of its maturity. He was born on the8th of December, 1832, in a lonely farmhouse among the mountains, atthe head of the long valley called Osterdalen; his father being priestof Kvikne parish, one of the most savage in all Norway. After sixyears the family removed to Naesset, in the Romsdal, "a spot asenchanting and as genial as Kvikne is the reverse. " Mr. Gosse, whoprefaces Mr. Heinemann's new series with a study of Björnson'swritings, quotes a curious passage in which Björnson records theimpression of physical beauty made upon his childish mind by thephysical beauty of Naesset:--

 "Here in the parsonage of Naesset--one of the loveliest places in Norway, where the land lies broadly spreading where two fjords meet, with the green braeside above it, with waterfalls and farmhouses on the opposite shore, with billowy meadows and cattle away towards the foot of the valley, and, far overhead, along the line of the fjord, mountains shooting promontory after promontory out into the lake, a big farmhouse at the extremity of each--here in the parsonage of Naesset, where I would stand at the close of the day and gaze at the sunlight playing over mountain and fjord, until I wept, as though I had done something wrong; and where I, descending on my snow-shoes into some valley, would pause as though bewitched by a loveliness, by a longing, which I had not the power to explain, but which was so great that above the highest ecstasy of joy I would feel the deepest apprehension and distress--here in the parsonage of Naesset were awakened my earliest sensations. "

The passage is obviously important. And Björnson shows how muchimportance he attaches to the experience by introducing it, orsomething like it, time after time into his stories. Readers of _InGod's Way_--the latest of the novels under discussion--will rememberits opening chapter well. 

It was good fortune indeed that a boy of such gifts should pass hisearly boyhood in such surroundings. Nor did the luck end here. Whilethe young Björnson accumulated these impressions, the peasant-romance, or idyll of country life, was taking its place and growing into favoras one of the most beautiful forms of modern prose-fiction. Immermannwrote _Der Oberhof_ in 1839. Weill and Auerbach took up the running in1841 and 1843. George Sand followed, and Fritz Reuter. Björnson beganto write in 1856. _Synnövé Solbakken_ and _Arne_ came in on the highflood of this movement. "These two stories, " writes Mr. Gosse, "seemto me to be almost perfect; they have an enchanting lyrical quality, without bitterness or passion, which I look for elsewhere in vain inthe prose literature of the second half of the century. " To my mind, without any doubt, they and _A Happy Boy_ are the best work Björnsonhas ever done in fiction, or is ever likely to do. For they aresimple, direct, congruous; all of one piece as a flower is of a piecewith its root. And never since has Björnson written a tale altogetherof one piece. 

His later Manner. 

For here the luck ended. All over Europe there began to spreadinfluences that may have been good for some artists, but were (we maysay) peculiarly injurious to so _naïf_ and, at the same time, sopersonal a writer as Björnson. I think another age will find much thesame cause to mourn over Daudet when it compares his later novels withthe promise of _Lettres de Mon Moulin_ and _Le Petit Chose_. Naturalism demands nothing more severely than an impersonal treatmentof its themes. Of three very personal and romantic writers, our ownStevenson escaped the pit into which both Björnson and Daudetstumbled. You may say the temptation came later to him. But thetemptation to follow an European fashion does, as a rule, befall aBriton last of all men, for reasons of which we need not feel proud:and the date of Mr. Hardy's stumbling is fairly recent, after all. Björnson, at any rate, began very soon to be troubled. Between 1864and 1874, from his thirty-second to his forty-second year, hisinvention seemed, to some extent, paralyzed. _The Fisher Maiden_, theone story written during that time, starts as beautifully as _Arne_;but it grows complicated and introspective: the psychologicalexperiences of the stage-struck heroine are not in the same key as theopening chapters. Passing over nine years, we find _Magnhild_ muchmore vague and involved--

 "Here he is visibly affected by French models, and by the methods of the naturalists, but he is trying to combine them with his own simpler traditions of rustic realism. .. . The author felt himself greatly moved by fermenting ideas and ambitions which he had not completely mastered. .. . There is a kind of uncomfortable discrepancy between the scene and the style, a breath of Paris and the boulevards blowing through the pine-trees of a puritanical Norwegian village. .. . But the book is a most interesting link between the early peasant-stories and the great novels of his latest period. "

Well, of these same "great novels"--of _Flags are Flying_ and _InGod's Way_--people must speak as they think. They seem to me thelaborious productions of a man forcing himself still further andfurther from his right and natural bent. In them, says Mr. Gosse, "Björnson returns, in measure, to the poetical elements of his youth. He is now capable again, as for instance in the episode of Ragni'ssymbolical walk in the woodlands, _In God's Way_, of passages of pureidealism. " Yes, he returns--"in measure. " He is "capable of idyllicpassages. " In other words, his nature reasserts itself, and he remainsan imperfect convert. "He has striven hard to be a realist, and attimes he has seemed to acquiesce altogether in the naturalisticformula, but in truth he has never had anything essential in commonwith M. Zola. " In other words, he has fallen between two stools. Hehas tried to expel nature with a pitchfork and still she runs backupon him. He has put his hand to the plough and has looked back: or(if you take my view of "the naturalistic formula") he has sinned, buthas not sinned with his whole heart. For to produce a homogeneousstory, either the acquired Zola or the native Björnson must have beencast out utterly. 

Value of Early Impressions to a Novelist. 

I have quoted an example of the impressions of Björnson's childhood. Ido not think critics have ever quite realized the extent to whichwriters of fiction--especially those who use a personal style--dependupon the remembered impressions of childhood. Such impressions--nomatter how fantastic--are an author's firsthand stock: and in usingthem he comes much closer to nature than when he collects any numberof scientifically approved data to maintain some view of life which hehas derived from books. Compare _Flags are Flying_ with _Arne_, andyou will see my point. The longer book is ten times as realistic intreatment, and about one-tenth as true to life. 

MR. GEORGE MOORE

March 31, 1894. "Esther Waters. "

It is good, after all, to come across a novel written by a man who canwrite a novel. We have been much in the company of the Amateur oflate, and I for one am very weary of him--weary of his preposterousgoings-out and comings-in, of his smart ineptitudes, of his solemnzeal in reforming the decayed art of fiction, of his repeated failuresto discover beneficence in all those institutions, from the Common Lawof England to the Scheme of the Universe, which have managed to leavehim and his aspirations out of count. I am weary of him and of hisdeceased wife's sister, and of their fell determination to discovereach other's soul in a bottle of hay. Above all, I am weary of hiswritings, because he cannot write, neither has he the humility to sitdown and learn. 

Mr. George Moore, on the other hand, has steadily labored to makehimself a fine artist, and his training has led him through manystrange places. I should guess that among living novelists few havestarted with so scant an equipment. As far as one can tell he had, tobegin with, neither a fertile invention nor a subtle dramaticinstinct, nor an accurate ear for language. A week ago I should havesaid this very confidently: after reading _Esther Waters_ I say itless confidently, but believe it to be true, nevertheless. Mr. Moorehas written novels that are full of faults. These faults have beenexposed mercilessly, for Mr. Moore has made many enemies. But he hasalways possessed an artistic conscience and an immense courage. Heanswered his critics briskly enough at the time, but an onlooker ofcommon sagacity could perceive that the really convincing answer washeld in reserve--that, as they say in America, Mr. Moore "allowed" hewas going to write a big novel one of these days, and meanwhile we hadbetter hold our judgment upon Mr. Moore's capacity open to revision. 

What, then, is to be said of _Esther Waters_, this volume of a modest377 pages, upon which Mr. Moore has been at work for at least twoyears?

"Esther" and Mr. Hardy's "Tess. "

Well, in the first place, I say, without hesitation, that _EstherWaters_ is the most important novel published in England during thesetwo years. We have been suffering from the Amateur during that period, and no doubt (though it seems hard) every nation has the Amateur itdeserves. To find a book to compare with _Esther Waters_ we must goback to December, 1891, and to Mr. Hardy's _Tess of theD'Urbervilles_. It happens that a certain similarity in the motives ofthese two stories makes comparison easy. Each starts with theseduction of a young girl; and each is mainly concerned with hersubsequent adventures. From the beginning the advantage of probabilityis with the younger novelist. Mr. Moore's "William Latch" is athoroughly natural figure, and remains a natural figure to the end ofthe book: an uneducated man and full of failings, but a man always, and therefore to be forgiven by the reader only a little less readilythan Esther herself forgives him. Mr. Hardy's "Alec D'Urberville" is agrotesque and violent lay figure, a wholly incredible cad. Mr. Hardy, by killing Tess's child, takes away the one means by which his heroinecould have been led to return to D'Urberville without any loss of thereader's sympathy. Mr. Moore allows Esther's child to live, and thushas at hand the material for one of the most beautiful stories ofmaternal love ever imagined by a writer. I dislike extravagance ofspeech, and would run my pen through these words could I remember, inany novel I have read, a more heroic story than this of Esther Waters, a poor maid-of-all-work, without money, friends, or character, fighting for her child against the world, and in the end draggingvictory out of the struggle. In spite of the Æschylean gloom in whichMr. Hardy wraps the story of Tess, I contend that Esther's fight is, from end to end, the more heroic. 

Also Esther's story seems to me informed with a saner philosophy oflife. There is gloom in her story; and many of the circumstances aresordid enough; but throughout I see the recognition that man and womancan at least improve and dignify their lot in this world. Many peoplebelieve _Tess_ to be the finest of its author's achievements. Adevoted admirer of Mr. Hardy's genius, I decline altogether toconsent. To my mind, among recent developments of the English novelnothing is more lamentable than the manner in which thisdistinguished writer has allowed himself of late to fancy that theriddles of life are solved by pulling mouths at Providence (orwhatever men choose to call the Supreme Power) and depicting it as asavage and omnipotent bully, directing human affairs after the fashionof a practical joker fresh from a village ale-house. For to thisteaching his more recent writings plainly tend; and alike in _Tess_and _Life's Little Ironies_ the part played by the "President of theImmortals" is no sublimer--save in the amount of force exerted--thanthat of a lout who pulls a chair suddenly from under an old woman. Now, by wedding Necessity with uncouth Jocularity, Mr. Hardy may havefound an hypothesis that solves for him all the difficulties of life. I am not concerned in this place to deny that it may be the trueexplanation. I have merely to point out that art and criticism musttake some time in getting accustomed to it, and that meanwhile thetraditions of both are so far agreed in allowing a certain amount offree will to direct the actions of men and women that a tale whichshould be all necessity and no free will would, in effect, benecessity's own contrary--a merely wanton freak. 

For, in effect, it comes to this:--The story of Tess, in whichattention is so urgently directed to the hand of Destiny, is not feltto be inevitable, but freakish. The story of Esther Waters, in which apoor servant-girl is allowed to grapple with her destiny and, after afashion, to defeat it, is felt (or has been felt by one reader, at anyrate) to be absolutely inevitable. To reconcile us to the black flagabove Wintoncester prison as to the appointed end of Tess's career, acurse at least as deep as that of Pelops should have been laid on theD'Urberville family. Tess's curse does not lie by nature on all women;nor on all Dorset women; nor on all Dorset women who have illegitimatechildren; for a very few even of these are hanged. We feel that we arenot concerned with a type, but with an individual case deliberatelychosen by the author; and no amount of talk about the "President ofthe Immortals" and his "Sport" can persuade us to the contrary. WithEsther Waters, on the other hand, we feel we are assisting in thecombat of a human life against its natural destiny; we perceive thatthe woman has a chance of winning; we are happy when she wins; and weare the better for helping her with our sympathy in the struggle. That is why, using the word in the Aristotelian sense, I maintain that_Esther Waters_ is a more "philosophical" work than _Tess_. 

The atmosphere of the low-class gambling in which Mr. Moore'scharacters breathe and live is no doubt a result of his careful studyof Zola. It is, as everyone knows, M. Zola's habit to take one of themany pursuits of men--from War and Religion down to Haberdashery andVeterinary Surgery--and expand it into an atmosphere for a novel. Butin Mr. Moore's case it may safely be urged that gambling on racehorsesactually is the atmosphere in which a million or two of Londoners passtheir lives. Their hopes, their very chances of a satisfying meal, hang from day to day on the performances of horses they have neverseen. I cannot profess to judge with what accuracy Mr. Moore hasreproduced the niceties of handicapping, bookmaking, place-betting, and the rest, the fluctuations of the gambling market, and theircauses. I gather that extraordinary care has been bestowed upon thesedetails; but criticism here must be left to experts, I only know that, not once or twice only in the course of his narrative, Mr. Mooremakes us study the odds against a horse almost as eagerly as if itcarried our own money: because it does indeed carry for a while thedestiny of Esther Waters--and yet for a while only. We feel that, whichever horse wins the ultimate issues are inevitable. 

It will be gathered from what I have said that Mr. Moore has vastlyoutstripped his own public form, even as shown in _A Mummer's Wife_. But it may be as well to set down, beyond possibility ofmisapprehension, my belief that in _Esther Waters_ we have the mostartistic, the most complete, and the most inevitable work of fictionthat has been written in England for at least two years. Its plainnessof speech may offend many. It may not be a favorite in the circulatinglibraries or on the bookstalls. But I shall be surprised if it failsof the place I predict for it in the esteem of those who know the trueaims of fiction and respect the conscientious practice of that greatart. 

MRS. MARGARET L. WOODS

Nov. 28, 1891. "Esther Vanhomrigh. "

Among considerable novelists who have handled historicalsubjects--that is to say, who have brought into their story men andwomen who really lived and events which have really taken place--youwill find one rule strictly observed, and no single infringement of itthat has been followed by success. This rule is that the historicalcharacters and events should be mingled with poetical characters andevents, and _made subservient to them_. And it holds of books aswidely dissimilar as _La Vicomte de Bragelonne_ and _La Guerre et laPaix_; _The Abbot_ and _John Inglesant_. In history Louis XIV. AndNapoleon are the most salient men of their time: in fiction they fallback and give prominence to D'Artagnan and the Prince André. They maybe admirably painted, but unless they take a subordinate place in thecomposition, the artist scores a failure. 

A Disability of "Historical Fiction. "

The reason of this is, of course, very simple. If an artist is tohave full power over his characters, to know their hearts, to governtheir emotions and sway them at his will, they must be his owncreatures and the life in them derived from him. He must have anentirely free hand with them. But the personages of history have anindependent life of their own, and with them his hand is tied. Thackeray has a freehold on the soul of Beatrix Esmond, but he takesthe soul of Marlborough furnished, on a short lease, and has to renderan account to the Muse of History. He is lord of one and mere occupierof the other. Nor will it do to say that an artist by sympathetic andintelligent study can master the motives of any group of historicalcharacters sufficiently for his purpose. For, since they haveanticipated him and lived their lives without his help, they leave himbut a choice between two poor courses. If he narrate their lives andadventures as they really befel, he is writing history. If, on theother hand, he disregard historical accuracy, he might just as wellhave used another set of characters or have given his characters othernames. Indeed, it would be much better. For if Alcibiades went as amatter of fact to Sparta and as a matter of fiction you make him stayat home, you merely advertise to the world that there was something inAlcibiades you don't understand. And if you are writing about anAlcibiades whom you don't quite understand, you will save your readerssome risk of confusion by calling him Charicles. 

Now Jonathan Swift and Esther Johnson and Esther Vanhomrigh reallylived; and by living, became historical. But Mrs. Woods sets forth totranslate them back into fiction, not as subordinate characters, butas protagonists. She has chosen to work within the difficult limits Ihave indicated. But there are others which might easily have crampedher hand even more closely. 

A Tale of Passion to be told in Terms of Reason. 

The story of Swift and Esther Vanhomrigh is a story of passion, andruns on the confines of madness. But it happened in the Age of Reason. Doubtless men and women felt madness and passion in that age:doubtless, too, they spoke of madness and passion, but not in theirliterature. And now that the lips are dust and the fiery conversationslost, Mrs. Woods has only their written prose to turn to for help. Tosatisfy the pedant she must tell her story of passion in terms ofreason. In one respect Thackeray had a more difficult task in_Esmond_; for he aimed to make his book a reflection, in every pageand line, of the days of Queen Anne. Not only had he, like Mrs. Woods, to make his characters and their talk consistent with that age; butevery word of the story is supposed to be told by a gentleman of thatage, whereas Mrs. Woods in her narrative prose may use the language ofher own century. On the other hand, the story of _Esmond_ deals withcomparatively temperate emotions. There is nothing in Thackeray'smasterpiece to strain the prose of the Age of Reason. It is pitched inthe key of those times, and the prose of those times is sufficient andexactly sufficient for it. That it should be so is all the more toThackeray's honor, for the artist is to be praised in the conceptionas duly as in the execution of his work. But, the conception beinggranted, I think _Esther Vanhomrigh_ must have been a harder book than_Esmond_ to write. 

For even the prose of Swift himself is inadequate to Swift. He was agreat and glaring anomaly who never fell into perspective with his agewhile he lived, and can hardly be pulled into perspective now with thedrawing materials which are left to us. Men of like abundant geniusare rarely measurable in language used by their contemporaries; andthis is perhaps the reason why they disquiet their contemporaries soconfoundedly. Where in the books written by tye-bewigged gentlemen, orin the letters written by Swift himself, can you find words to explainthat turbulent and potent man? He bursts the capacity of Addison'sphrase and Pope's couplet. He was too big for a bishop's chair, andnow, if a novelist attempt to clothe him in the garments of his time, he splits them down the back. 

It is in meeting this difficulty that Mrs. Woods seems to me todisplay the courage and intelligence of a true artist. She is bound tobe praised by many for her erudition; but perhaps she will let methank her for having trodden upon her erudition. In the first volumeit threatened to overload and sink her. But no sooner does she beginto catch the wind of her subject than she tosses all this superfluouscargo overboard. From the point where passion creeps into the storythis learning is carried lightly and seems to be worn unconsciously. Instead of cataloguing the age, she comprehends it. 

To me the warmth and pathos she packs into her eighteenth-centuryconversation, without modernizing it thereby, is something amazing. For this alone the book would be notable; and it can be proved to comeof divination, simply because nothing exists from which she could havecopied it. More obvious, though not more wonderful, is her femininegift of rendering a scene vivid for us by describing it, not as it is, but as it excites her own intelligence or feelings. Let me explainmyself: for it is the sorry fate of a book so interesting andsuggestive as _Esther Vanhomrigh_ to divert the critic from praise ofthe writer to consider a dozen problems which the writer raises. 

Women and "le don pittoresque. "

Well, then, M. Jules Lemaître has said somewhere--and withconsiderable truth--that women when they write have not _le donpittoresque_. By this he means that they do not strive to depict ascene exactly as it strikes upon their senses, but as they perceiveit after testing its effect upon their emotions and experience. Suppose now we have to describe a moonlit night in May. Mrs. Woodsbegins as a man might begin, thus--

 "The few and twinkling lights disappeared from the roadside cottages. The full white moon was high in the cloudless deep of heaven, and the sounds of the warm summer night were all about their path; the splash of leaping fish, the sleepy chirrup of birds disturbed by some night-wandering creature; the song of the reed-warbler, the persistent churring of the night jar, and the occasional hoot of the owl, far off on some ancestral tree. "

Now all this, except, perhaps, the "ancestral" tree, is a directpicture, and with it some men might stop. But no woman could stophere, and Mrs. Woods does not. She goes on--

 "It was such an exquisite May night, full of the mystery and beauty of moonlight and the scent of hawthorn, as makes the earth an Eden in which none but lovers should walk--happy lovers or young poets, whose large eyes, so blind in the daylight world of men, can see God walking in the Garden. " . .. 

You see it is sensation no longer, but reflection and emotion. 

Now I am only saying that women cannot avoid this. I am notcondemning it. On the contrary, it is beautiful in Mrs. Woods's hand, and sometimes luminously true. Take this, for instance, of theinterior of a city church:--

 "It had none of the dim impressiveness of a mediæval church, that seems reared with a view to Heaven rather than Earth, and whose arches, massive or soaring, neither gain nor lose by the accidental presence of ephemeral human creatures below them. No, the building seemed to cry out for a congregation, and the mind's eye involuntarily peopled it with its Sunday complement of substantial citizens and their families. "

This is not a picturesque but a reflective description. Yet how itilluminates! If we had never thought of it before we know now, onceand for all, the essential difference between a Gothic church and oneof Wren's building. And further, since Mrs. Woods is writing of an agethat slighted Gothic for the architecture of Wren and his followers, we get a brilliant side-flash to help our comprehension. It is a hintonly, but it assures us as we read that we are in the eighteenthcentury, when men and women were of more account than soaringaspirations. 

And the conclusion is that if Mrs. Woods could not conquer thedifficulties which beset any attempt to make protagonists of twohistorical characters, if she was obliged to follow the facts to thedetriment of composition, she has vitalized and recreated a dead agein a fashion to make us all wonder. _Esther Vanhomrigh_ is a greatfeat, and its authoress is one of the few of whom almost anything maybe expected. 

 * * * * *

Jan. 26, 1895. "The Vagabonds. "

In her latest book, [A] Mrs. Woods returns to that class of life--sofar as life may be classified--which she handled so memorably in _AVillage Tragedy_. There are differences, though. As the titlesindicate, the life in the earlier story was stationary: in the latterit is nomadic--the characters are artistes in a travelling show. Thisat once suggests comparison with M. Edmond de Goncourt's _Les FrèresZemganno_; or rather a contrast: for the two stories, conceived invery similar surroundings, differ in at least two vital respects. 

Compared with "Les Frères Zemganno. "

For what, in short, is the story of _Les Frères Zemganno_? Twobrothers, Gianni and Nello, tumblers in a show that travels round thevillage fairs and small country towns of France, are seized with anambition to excel in their calling. They make their way to England, where they spend some years clowning in various circuses. Then theyreturn to make their _debut_ in Paris. Gianni has invented at length atrick act, a feat that will make the brothers famous. They areperforming it for the first time in public, when a circus girl, whohas a spite against Nello, causes him to fall and break both his legs. He can perform no more: and henceforward, as he watches his brotherperforming, a strange jealousy awakes and grows in him, causing himagony whenever Gianni touches a trapèze. Gianni discovers this andrenounces his art. 

Now here in the first place it is to be noted that the whole storydepends upon the circus profession, and the brothers' love for it anddesire to excel in it. The catastrophe; Nello's jealousy; Gianni'sself-sacrifice; are inseparable from the atmosphere of the book. Thecatastrophe is a professional catastrophe; the jealousy a professionaljealousy; the sacrifice a sacrifice of a profession. And in the secondplace we know, even if we had not his own word for it, that M. DeGoncourt--contrary to his habit--deliberately etherealized theatmosphere of the circus-ring and idealized the surroundings. He callshis tale an essay in poetic realism, "Je me suis trouvé dans une deces heures de la vie, vieillissantes, maladives, lâches devant letravail poignant et angoisseux de mes autres livres, en un état del'âme où la vérité trop vraie m'était antipathique à moi aussi!--etj'ai fait cette fois de l'imagination dans du rêve mêlé à dusouvenir. " We know from the Goncourt Journals exactly what is meant by"du souvenir. " We know that M. Edmond de Goncourt is but translatinginto the language of the circus-ring and symbolizing in the story ofGianni and Nello the story of his own literary collaboration with hisbrother Jules--a collaboration of quite singular intimacy, that ceasedonly with Jules's death in 1870. Possibly, as M. Zola once suggested, M. Edmond de Goncourt did at first intend to depict the circus-life, after his wont, in true "naturalistic" manner, softening andextenuating nothing: but "par une délicatesse qui s'explique, il areculé devant le milieu brutal de cirques, devant certaines laideurset certaines monstruosités des personnages qu'il choisis-sait. " Thetwo facts remain that in _Les Frères Zemganno_ M. De Goncourt (1) madeprofessional life in a circus the very blood and tissue of his story;and (2) that he softened the details of that life, and to a certaindegree idealized it. 

Turning to Mrs. Woods's book and taking these two points in reverseorder, we find to begin with that she idealizes nothing and softensnext to nothing. Where she does soften, she softens only for literaryeffect--to give a word its due force, or a picture its proper values. She does not, for instance, accurately report the oaths andblasphemies:--

 "The tents and booths of the show were disappearing rapidly like stage scenery. The red-faced Manager, Joe, and several others in authority, ran hither and thither shouting their orders to a crowd of workmen in jackets and fustian trousers, who were piling rolls of canvas, and heavy chests, and mountains of planks and long vibrating poles, on the great waggons. Others were harnessing the big powerful horses to the carts, horses that were mostly white, and wore large red collars. The scene was so busy, so full of movement, that it would have been exhilarating had not the fresh morning air been full of senseless blasphemies and other deformities of speech, uttered casually and constantly, without any apparent consciousness on the part of the speakers that they were using strong language. Probably the lady who dropped toads and vipers from her lips whenever she opened them came in process of time to consider them the usual accompaniments of conversation. "

There are a great many reasons against copious profanity of speech. Here you have the artistic reason, and, by implication, that whichforbids its use in literature--namely, its ineffectiveness. But thoughshe selects, Mrs. Woods does not refine. She exhibits the life of thetravelling show in its habitual squalor as well as in its occasionalbrightness. How she has managed it passes my understanding: but herbook leaves the impression of confident familiarity with this kind oflife, of knowledge not merely accumulated, but assimilated. Knowing aswe do that Mrs. Woods was not brought up in a circus, we infer thatshe must have spent much labor in research: but, taken by itself, herbook permits no such inference. The truth is that in the case of agenuine artist no line can be drawn between knowledge and imagination. Probably--almost certainly--Mrs. Woods has to a remarkable degree thatgift which Mr. Henry James describes as "the faculty which when yougive it an inch takes an ell, and which for an artist is a muchgreater source of strength than any accident of residence or of placein the social scale . .. The power to guess the unseen from the seen, to trace the implication of things, to judge the whole piece by thepattern; the condition of feeling life in general so completely thatyou are well on your way to knowing a particular corner of it. " Bethis as it may, Mrs. Woods has written a novel which, for mastery ofan unfamiliar _milieu_, is almost fit to stand beside _Esther Waters_. I say "almost": for, although Mrs. Woods's mastery is easier and lessconscious than Mr. Moore's, it neither goes so deep to the springs ofaction nor bears so intimately on the conduct of the story. But ofthis later. 

If one thing more than another convinces me that Mrs. Woods hasthoroughly realized these queer characters of hers, it is that shemakes them so much like other people. Whatever our profession may be, we are generally silent upon the instincts that led us to adoptit--unless, indeed, we happen to be writers and make a living out ofself-analysis. So these strollers are silent upon the attractivenessof their calling. But they crave as openly as any of us fordistinction, and they worship "respectability" as heartily andoutspokenly as any of the country-folk for whose amusement they tumbleand pull faces. It is no small merit in this book that it reveals howmuch and yet how very little divides the performers in the ring fromthe audience in the sixpenny seats. I wish I had space to quote aparticularly fine passage--you will find it on pp. 72-74--in whichMrs. Woods describes the progress of these motley characters throughMidland lanes on a fresh spring morning; the shambling white horseswith their red collars, the painted vans, the cages "where bears paceduneasily and strange birds thrust uncouth heads out into thesunshine, " the two elephants and the camel padding through the dustand brushing the dew off English hedges, the hermetically sealedomnibus in which the artistes bumped and dozed, while thewardrobe-woman, Mrs. Thompson, held forth undeterred on "thoseadvantages of birth, house-rent, and furniture, which made herdiscomforts of real importance, whatever those of the other ladies inthe show might be. "

But in bringing her Vagabonds into relation with ordinary Englishlife, Mrs. Woods loses all, or nearly all, of that esotericprofessional interest which, at first sight, would seem the chiefreason for choosing circus people to write about. The story of _LesFrères Zemganno_ has, as I have said, this esoteric professionalinterest. The story of _The Vagabonds_ is the story of a husband andof a young wife who does not love him, but discovers that she lovesanother man--a story as old as the hills and common to every rank andevery calling. Mrs. Woods has made the husband a middle-aged clown, the wife a girl with strict notions about respectability, and thelover, Fritz, a handsome young German gymnast. But there was nofundamental reason for this choice of professions. The tale might beevery bit as true of a grocer, and a grocer's wife, and a grocer'sassistant. Once or twice, indeed, in the earlier chapters we havepromise of a more peculiar story when we read of Mrs. Morris'sobjection to seeing her husband play the clown. "No woman, " she says, "that hadn't been brought up to the business would like to see herhusband look like that. " And of Joe Morris we read that he took anartistic pride in his clowning. But there follows no serious strugglebetween love and art--no such struggle, for instance, as Zola hasworked out to tragic issues in his _L'Œuvre_. Mrs. Morris's shame ather husband's ridiculous appearance merely heightens the contrast inher eyes between him and the handsome young gymnast. 

But though the circus-business is not essential, Mrs. Woods makes mosteffective use of it. I will select one notable illustration of this. When Mrs. Morris at length makes her confession--it is in the wagon, and at night--the unhappy husband wraps her up carefully in her bedand creeps away with his grief to the barn where Chang, a ferociouselephant amenable only to him, has been stabled:--

 "He opened the door; the barn was pitch dark, but as he entered he could hear the noise of the chain which had been fastened to the elephant's legs being suddenly dragged. He spoke to Chang, and the noise ceased. Then running up a short ladder which was close to the door, he threw himself down on the straw and stared up into the darkness, which to his aching eyes seemed spangled with many colours. Presently he was startled by something warm touching him on the face. 

 "'Who's there?' he called out. 

 "There was no answer, but the soft thing, something like a hand, felt him cautiously and caressingly all over. 

 "'Oh, it's you, Chang, my boy, is it?' said Joe. 'What! are you glad to have me, old chappie? No humbug about yer, are yer sure? No lies?'"

The circus-business is employed again in the catastrophe: but, to mymind, far less happily. In spite of very admirable writing, thereremains something ridiculous in the spectacle of an injured husband, armed with a Winchester rifle and mounted on a frantic elephant, pursuing his wife's lover by moonlight across an English common andfinally "treeing" him up a sign-post. Mrs. Woods, indeed, means it tobe grotesque: but I think it is something more. 

The problem of the story is the commonest in fiction. And when I addthat the injured husband has been married before and that his firstwife, honestly supposed to be dead, returns to threaten his happiness, you will see that Mrs. Woods sets forth upon a path trodden by manyhundreds of thousands of incompetent feet. To start with such asituation almost suggests bravado. If it be bravado, it is entirelyjustified as the tale proceeds: for amid the crowd of failures Mrs. Woods's solution wears the singular distinction of truth. That thebook is written in restrained and beautiful English goes withoutsaying: but the best tribute one can pay to the writing of it is tosay that its style and its truthfulness are at one. If complaint mustbe made, it is the vulgar complaint against truth--that it leaves onea trifle cold. A less perfect story might have aroused more emotion. Yet I for one would not barter the pages that tell of Joe Morris'sfinal surrender of his wife--with their justness of imagination andsobriety of speech--for any amount of pity and terror. 

A word on the few merely descriptive passages in the book. Mrs. Woods's scene-painting has all a Frenchman's accomplishment with theaddition of that open-air feeling and intimate knowledge of thephenomena of "out-of-doors" which a Frenchman seldom or never attainsto. Though not, perhaps, her strongest gift, it is the one by whichshe stands most conspicuously above her contemporaries. The morecredit, then, that she uses it so temperately. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _The Vagabonds_. By Margaret L. Woods. London: Smith, Elder & Co. 

MR. HALL CAINE

August 11, 1894. "The Manxman. "

Mr. Hall Caine's new novel _The Manxman_ (London: William Heinemann)is a big piece of work altogether. But, on finishing the tale, Iturned back to the beginning and read the first 125 pages over again, and then came to a stop. I wish that portion of the book could bedealt with separately. It cannot: for it but sets the problem in humanpassion and conduct which the remaining 300 pages have to solve. Nevertheless the temptation is too much for me. 

As one who thought he knew how good Mr. Hall Caine can be at his best, I must confess to a shock of delight, or rather a growing sense ofdelighted amazement, while reading those 125 pages. Yet the story is avery simple one--a story of two friends and a woman. The two friendsare Philip Christian and Pete Quilliam: Philip talented, accomplished, ambitious, of good family, and eager to win back the social positionwhich his father had lost by an imprudent marriage; Pete a namelessboy--the bastard son of Philip's uncle and a gawky country-girl--ignorant, brave, simple-minded, and incurably generous. The boys have grown uptogether, and in love are almost more than brothers when the time comesfor them to part for a while--Philip leaving home for school, whilePete goes as mill-boy to one Cæsar Cregeen, who combined the occupationsof miller and landlord of "The Manx Fairy" public-house. And now entersthe woman--a happy child when first we make her acquaintance--in theshape of Katherine Cregeen, the daughter of Pete's employer. With herpoor simple Pete falls over head and ears in love. Philip, too, whenhome for his holidays, is drawn by the same dark eyes; but stands asidefor his friend. Naturally, the miller will not hear of Pete, a landless, moneyless, nameless, lad, as a suitor for his daughter; and so Pete sailsfor Kimberley to make his fortune, confiding Kitty to Philip's care. 

It seems that the task undertaken by Philip--that of watching over hisfriend's sweetheart--is a familiar one in the Isle of Man, and he whodischarges it is known by a familiar name. 

 "They call him the _Dooiney Molla_--literally, the 'man-praiser'; and his primary function is that of an informal, unmercenary, purely friendly and philanthropic match-maker, introduced by the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is a splendid fellow, with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects, and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, less frequent, though scarcely less familiar; and it is that of a lover by proxy, or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianship over the girl while the man himself is off 'at the herrings, ' or away 'at the mackerel, ' or abroad on wider voyages. "

And now, of course, begins Philip Christian's ordeal: for Kittydiscovers that she loves him and not Pete, and he that he loves Kittymadly. On the other hand there is the imperative duty to keep faithwith his absent friend; and more than this. His future is full of highhope; the eyes of his countrymen and of the Governor himself arebeginning to fasten on him as the most promising youth in the island;it is even likely that he will be made Deemster, and so win back allthe position that his father threw away. But to marry Kitty--even ifhe can bring himself to break faith with Pete--will be to marrybeneath him, to repeat his father's disaster, and estrange the favorof all the high "society" of the island. Therefore, even when thefirst line of resistance is broken down by a report that Pete is dead, Philip determines to cut himself free from the temptation. But thegirl, who feels that he is slipping away from her, now takes fate intoher own hands. It is the day of harvest-home--the "Melliah"--on herfather's farm. Philip has come to put an end to her hopes, and sheknows it. The "Melliah" is cut and the usual frolic begins:

 "Then the young fellows went racing over the field, vaulting the stooks, stretching a straw rope for the girls to jump over, heightening and tightening it to trip them up, and slackening it and twirling it to make them skip. And the girls were falling with a laugh, and, leaping up again and flying off like the dust, tearing their frocks and dropping their sun-bonnets as if the barley-grains they had been reaping had got into their blood. 

 "In the midst of this maddening frolic, while Cæsar and the others were kneeling by the barley-stack, Kate snatched Philip's hat from his head and shot like a gleam into the depths of the glen. 

 "Philip dragged up his coat by one of its arms and fled after her. "

Here, then, in Sulby Glen, the girl stakes her last throw--the lastthrow of every woman--and wins. It is the woman--a truly Celtictouch--who wooes the man, and secures her love and, in the end, hershame. 

 "When a good woman falls from honour, is it merely that she is the victim of a momentary intoxication, of stress of passion, of the fever of instinct? No. It is mainly that she is the slave of the sweetest, tenderest, most spiritual, and pathetic of all human fallacies--the fallacy that by giving herself to the man she loves she attaches him to herself for ever. This is the real betrayer of nearly all good women that are betrayed. It lies at the root of tens of thousands of the cases that make up the merciless story of man's sin and woman's weakness. Alas! it is only the woman who clings the closer. The impulse of the man is to draw apart. He must conquer it, or she is lost. Such is the old cruel difference and inequality of man and woman as Nature made them--the old trick, the old tragedy. "

And meanwhile Pete is not dead; but recovered, and coming home. 

Here, on p. 125, ends the second act of the drama: and the telling hasbeen quite masterly. The passage quoted above has hitherto been theauthor's solitary comment. Everything has been presented in that fineobjective manner which is the triumph of story-telling. As I read, Ibegan to say to myself, "This is good"; and in a little while, "Ah, but this is very good"; and at length, "But this is amazing. If he canonly keep this up, he will have written one of the finest novels ofhis time. " The whole story was laid out so easily; with such humor, such apparent carelessness, such an instinct for the right stroke inthe right place, and no more than the right stroke; the bigscenes--Pete's love-making in the dawn and Kate's victory in SulbyGlen--were so poetically conceived (I use the adverb in its strictestsense) and so beautifully written; above all, the story remained sotrue to the soil on which it was constructed. A sworn admirer of Mr. Brown's _Betsy Lee_ and _The Doctor_ has no doubt great advantage overother people in approaching _The Manxman_. Who, that has read his_Fo'c's'le Yarns_ worthily, can fail to feel kindly towards the littleisland and its shy, home-loving folk? And--by what means I do notknow--Mr. Hall Caine has managed from time to time to catch Mr. Brown's very humor and set it to shine on his page. The secret, Isuppose, is their common possession as Manxmen: and, like all the bestart, theirs is true to its country and its material. 

Pete comes home, suspecting no harm; still childish of heart and loudof voice--a trifle too loud, by the way; his shouts begin to irritatethe reader, and the reader begins to feel how sorely they must haveirritated his wife: for the unhappy Kate is forced, after all, intomarrying Pete. And so the tragedy begins. 

I wish, with my heart, I could congratulate Mr. Hall Caine as warmlyupon the remainder of the book as upon its first two parts. He is toosure an artist to miss the solution--the only adequate solution--ofthe problem. The purification of Philip Christian and Kitty must come, if at all, "as by fire"; and Mr. Hall Caine is not afraid to take usthrough the deepest fire. No suffering daunts him--neither the anguishof Kitty, writhing against her marriage with Pete, nor the desperatepathos of Pete after his wife has run away, pretending to theneighbors that she has only gone to Liverpool for her health, andactually writing letters and addressing parcels to himself and postingthem from out-of-the-way towns to deceive the local postman; nor themoral ruination of Philip, with whom Kitty is living in hiding; norhis final redemption by the ordeal of a public confession before thegreat company assembled to see him reach the height of worldlyambition and be appointed governor of his native island. 

And yet--I have a suspicion that Mr. Hall Caine, who deals bypreference with the elemental emotions, would rejoice in the epithet"Æschylean" applied to his work. The epithet would not be unwarranted:but it is precisely when most consciously Æschylean that Mr. HallCaine, in my poor judgment, comes to grief. This is but to say that hepossesses the defects of his qualities. There is altogether too muchof the "Go to: let me be Titanic" about the book. Æschylus has grown atrifle too well aware of his reputation, has taken to underscoring hispoints, and tends to prolixity in consequence. Mr. Hall Caine has nota little of Hugo's audacity, but, with it, not a little of Hugo'sdiffuseness. Standing, like Destiny, with scourge lifted over thenaked backs of his two poor sinners, he spares them no singlestroke--not so much as a little one. Every detail that can possiblyheighten their suffering is brought out in its place, until we feelthat Life, after all, is more careless, and tell ourselves that Fatedoes not measure out her revenge with an inch rule. We see themachinery of pathos at work: and we are rather made incredulous thanmoved when the machinery works so accurately that Philip is made tobetray Pete on the very night when Pete goes out to beat a big drum inPhilip's honor. Nor is this by any means the only harrowingcoincidence of the kind. Worse than this--for its effect upon us as awork of art--our emotions are so flogged and out-tired by detail afterdetail that they cannot rise at the last big fence, and so the sceneof Philip's confession in the Courthouse misses half its effect. It isa fine scene. I am no bigoted admirer of Hawthorne--a very cold one, indeed--and should be the last to say that the famous scene in _TheScarlet Letter_ cannot be improved upon. Nor do I make any doubt that, as originally conceived by Mr. Hall Caine, the story had its dulyeffective climax here. But still less do I doubt that the climax, andtherefore the whole story, would have been twice as impressive had thebook, from p. 125 onwards, contained just half its present number ofwords. But whether this opinion be right or wrong, the book remains abig book, and its story a beautiful story. 

MR. ANTHONY HOPE

Oct. 27, 1894. "The God in the Car" and "The Indiscretionof the Duchess. "

As I set down the titles of these two new stories by Mr. Anthony Hope, it occurs to me that combined they would make an excellent title for athird story yet to be written. For Mr. Hope's duchess, if by anychance she found herself travelling with a god in a car, wouldinfallibly seize the occasion for a _tour de force_ in charmingindiscretion. That the car would travel for some part of the distancein that position of unstable equilibrium known to skaters as the"outside edge" may, I think, be taken for granted. But far be it fromme to imagine bungling developments of the situation I here suggest toMr. Hope's singular and agreeable talents. Like Mr. Stevenson'ssmatterer, who was asked, "What would be the result of putting a poundof potassium in a pot of porter?" I content myself with anticipating"that there would probably be a number of interesting bye-products. "

Be it understood that I suggest only a combination of the titles--notof the two stories as Mr. Hope has written them: for these move onlevels altogether different. The constant reader of _The Speaker's_"Causeries" will be familiar with the two propositions--not in theleast contradictory--that a novel should be true to life, and that itis quite impossible for a novel to be true to life. He will also knowhow they are reconciled. A story, of whatever kind, must follow lifeat a certain remove. It is a good and consistent story if it keep atthat remove from first till last. Let us have the old tag once more:

 "Servetur ad inum Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. "

A good story and real life are such that, being produced in eitherdirection and to any extent, they never meet. The distance between theparallels does not count: or rather, it is just a matter for theauthor to choose. It is here that Mr. Howells makes his mistake, whospeaks contemptuously of Romance as _Puss in Boots_. _Puss in Boots_is a masterpiece in its way, and in its way just as true tolife--_i. E. _, to its distance from life--as that very differentmasterpiece _Silas Lapham_. When Mr. Howells objects to the figure ofVautrin in _Le Père Goriot_, he criticizes well: Vautrin in that taleis out of drawing and therefore monstrous. But to bring a similarobjection against Porthos in _Le Vicomte de Bragelonne_ would be verybad criticism; for it would ignore all the postulates of the story. Inreal life Vautrin and Porthos would be equally monstrous: in thestories Vautrin is monstrous and Porthos is not. 

But though the distance from real life at which an author conducts histale is just a matter for his own choice, it usually happens to himafter a while, either from taste or habit, to choose a particulardistance and stick to it, or near it, henceforth in all his writings. Thus Scott has his own distance, and Jane Austen hers. Balzac, Hugo, Charlotte Brontë, Dickens, Tolstoi, Mr. Howells himself--all thesehave their favorite distances, and all are different and cannot beconfused. But a young writer usually starts in some uncertainty onthis point. He has to find his range, and will quite likely lead offwith a miss or a ricochet, as Mr. Hardy led off with _DesperateRemedies_ before finding the target with _Under the Greenwood Tree_. Now Mr. Hope--the application of these profound remarks is coming atlast--being a young writer, hovers in choice between two ranges. Hehas found the target with both, and cannot make up his mind betweenthem: and I for one hope he will keep up his practice at both: for hisexperiments are most interesting, and in the course of them he isgiving us capital books. Of the two before me, _The God in the Car_belongs to the same class as his earliest work--his _Father Stafford_, for instance, a novel that did not win one-tenth of the notice itdeserved. It is practice at short range. It moves very close to reallife. Real people, of course, do not converse as briskly and wittilyas do Mr. Hope's characters: but these have nothing of the impossiblein them, and even in the whole business of Omofaga there is nothingmore fantastic than its delightful name. The book is genuinely tragic;but the tragedy lies rather in what the reader is left to imagine thanin what actually occurs upon the stage. That it never comes to a moreexplicit and vulgar issue stands not so much to the credit of theheroine (as I suppose we must call Mrs. Dennison) as to the force ofcircumstances as manipulated in the tactful grasp of Mr. Hope. Nor isit to be imputed to him for a fault that the critical chapter xvii. Reminds us in half a dozen oddly indirect ways of a certain chapter in_Richard Feverel_. The place, the situation, the reader's suspense, are similar; but the actors, their emotions, their purposes are vastlydifferent. It is a fine chapter, and the page with which it opens isthe worst in the book--a solitary purple patch of "fine writing. " Iobserve without surprise that the reviewers--whose admiring attentionis seldom caught but by something out of proportion--have beenfastening upon it and quoting it ecstatically. 

_The Indiscretion of the Duchess_ is the tale in Mr. Hope's secondmanner--the manner of _The Prisoner of Zenda_. Story for story, itfalls a trifle sort of _The Prisoner of Zenda_. As a set-off, thetelling is firmer, surer, more accomplished. In each an aimless, superficially cynical, but naturally amiable English gentleman findshimself casually involved in circumstances which appeal first to hissportsmanlike love of adventure, and so by degrees to his chivalry, his sense of honor, and his passions. At first amused, then perplexed, then nettled, then involved heart and soul, he is left to fight hisway through with the native weapons of his order--courage, tact, honesty, wit, strength of self-sacrifice, aptitude for affairs. The_donnée_ of these tales, their spirit, their postulates, are nakedlyromantic. In them the author deliberately lends enchantment to hisview by withdrawing to a convenient distance from real life. But, oncemore, the enchantment is everything and the distance nothing. If Imust find fault with the later of the stories, it will not be with itsgeneral extravagance--for extravagance is part of the secret ofRomance--but with the sordid and very nasty Madame Delhasse. She wouldbe repulsive enough in any case: but as Marie's mother she ispeculiarly repulsive and, let me add, improbable. Nobody looks forheredity in a tale of this sort: but even in the fairy tales it isalways the heroine's _step_-mother who ends very fitly with a rolldownhill in a barrel full of spikes. 

But great as are the differences between _The God in the Car_ and _TheIndiscretion of the Duchess_--and I ought to say that the formercarries (as it ought) more weight of metal--they have their points ofsimilarity. Both illustrate conspicuously Mr. Hope's gift ofadvancing the action of his story by the sprightly conversation of hischaracters. There is a touch of Dumas in their talk, and more than atouch of Sterne--the Sterne of the _Sentimental Journey_. 

 "I beg your pardon, madame, " said I, with a whirl of my hat. 

 "I beg your pardon, sir, " said the lady, with an inclination of her head. 

 "One is so careless in entering rooms hurriedly, " I observed. 

 "Oh, but it is stupid to stand just by the door!" insisted the lady. 

To sum up, these are two most entertaining books by one of the writersfor whose next book one searches eagerly in the publishers' lists. If, however, he will not resent one small word of caution, it is that heshould not let us find his name there too often. As far as we can see, he cannot write too much for us. But he may very easily write too muchfor his own health. 

"TRILBY"

Sept. 14, 1895. Hypnotic Fiction. 

A number of people--and I am one--cannot "abide" hypnotism in fiction. In my own case the dislike has been merely instinctive, and I havenever yet found time to examine the instinct and discover whether ornot it is just and reasonable. The appearance of a one-volume editionof _Trilby_--undoubtedly the most successful tale that has ever dealtwith hypnotism--and the success of the dramatic version of _Trilby_presented a few days ago by Mr. Tree, invite one to apply the test. Clearly there are large numbers of people who enjoy hypnotic fiction, or whose prejudices have been effectively subdued by Mr. Du Maurier'stact and talent. Must we then confess that our instinct has beenunjust and unreasonable, and give it up? Or--since we _must_ like_Trilby_, and there is no help for it--shall we enjoy the tale underprotest and in spite of its hypnotism?

Analysis of an Aversion. 

I think my first objection to these hypnotic tales is the terror theyinspire. I am not talking of ordinary human terror, which, of course, is the basis of much of the best tragedy. We are terrified by thestory of Macbeth; but it is with a rational and a salutary terror. Weare aware all the while that the moral laws are at work. We see ahideous calamity looming, approaching, imminent: but we can see thatit is the effect of causes which have been duly exhibited to us. Wecan reason it out: we know where we stand: our conscience approves thepunishment even while our pity calls out against it. And when the blowfalls, it shakes away none of our belief in the advantages of virtuousconduct. It leaves the good old impregnable position, "Be virtuous andyou will be happy, " stronger than ever. But the terror of thesehypnotic stories resembles that of a child in a dark room. Forartistic reasons too obvious to need pointing out, the hypnotizer inthese stories is always the villain of the piece. For the same orsimilar reasons, the "subject" is always a person worthy of oursympathy, and is usually a woman. Let us suppose it to be a good andbeautiful woman--for that is the commonest case. The gives us tounderstand that by hypnotism this good and beautiful woman is for awhile completely in the power of a man who is _ex hypothesi_ a beast, and who _ex hypothesi_ can make her commit any excesses that hisbeastliness may suggest. Obviously we are removed outside the moralorder altogether; and in its place we are presented with a state ofthings in which innocence, honesty, love, and the rest are entirely atthe disposal and under the rule of malevolent brutality; the result, as presented to us, being qualified only by such tact as the authormay choose to display. That Mr. Du Maurier has displayed great tact isextremely creditable to Mr. Du Maurier, and might have been predictedof him. But it does not alter the fact that a form of fiction whichleaves us at the mercy of an author's tact is a very dangerous form ina world which contains so few Du Mauriers. It is lamentable enough tohave to exclaim--as we must over so much of human history--

 "Ah! what avails the sceptred race And what the form divine?. .. "

But it must be quite intolerable when a story leaves us demanding, "What avail native innocence, truthfulness, chastity, when all thesecan be changed into guile and uncleanliness at the mere suggestion ofa dirty mesmerist?"

The answer to this, I suppose, will be, "But hypnotism is a scientificfact. People can be hypnotized, and are hypnotized. Are you one ofthose who would exclude the novelist from this and that field of humanexperience?" And then I am quite prepared to hear the old tag, "_Homosum_, " etc. , once more misapplied. 

Limitation of Hypnotic Fiction. 

Let us distinguish. Hypnotism is a proved fact: people are hypnotized. Hypnotism is not a delimited fact: nobody yet knows precisely itsconditions or its effects; or, if the discovery has been made, it hascertainly not yet found its way to the novelists. For them it is asyet chiefly a field of fancy. They invent vagaries for it as theyinvent ghosts. And as for the "_humananum nihil a me alienum_"defence, my strongest objection to hypnotic fiction is its inhumanity. An experience is not human in the proper artistic sense (with whichalone we are concerned) merely because it has befallen a man or awoman. There was an Irishman, the other day, who through mereinadvertence cut off his own head with a scythe. But the story israther inhuman than not. Still less right have we to call everythinghuman which can be supposed by the most liberal stretch of theimagination to have happened to a man or a woman. A story is onlyhuman in so far as it is governed by the laws which are recognized asdetermining human action. Now according as we regard human action, itstwo great determinants will be free will or necessity. But hypnotismentirely does away with free will: and for necessity, fatal orcircumstantial, it substitutes the lawless and irresponsibleimperative of a casual individual man, who (in fiction) usuallyhappens to be a scoundrel. 

A story may be human even though it discard one or more of therecognized conditions of human life. Thus in the confessedlysupernatural story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the conflict betweenthe two Jekylls is human enough and morally significant, because itanswers to a conflict which is waged day by day--though as a rule lesstremendously--in the soul of every human being. But the double Trilbysignifies nothing. She is naturally in love with Little Billee: she isalso in love with Svengali, but quite unnaturally and irresponsibly. There is no real conflict. As Gecko says of Svengali--

 "He had but to say '_Dors!_' and she suddenly became an unconscious Trilby of marble, who could produce wonderful sounds--just the sounds he wanted and nothing else--and think his thoughts and wish his wishes--and love him at his bidding with a strange, unreal, factitious love . .. Just his own love for himself turned inside out--à l'envers--and reflected back on him as from a mirror . .. Un écho, un simulacre, quoi? pas autre chose!. .. It was not worth having! I was not even jealous!"

This last passage, I think, suggests that Mr. Du Maurier would haveproduced a much less charming story, indeed, but a vastly moreartistic one, had he directed his readers' attention rather upon thetragedy of Svengali than upon the tragedy of Trilby. For Svengali'sposition as complete master of a woman's will and yet unable to callforth more than a factitious love--"just his own love for himselfturned inside out and reflected back on him as from a mirror"--is areally tragic one, and a fine variation on the old Frankenstein_motif_. The tragedy of Frankenstein resides in Frankenstein himself, not in his creature. 

An Incongruous Story. 

In short, _Trilby_ seems--as _Peter Ibbetson_ seemed--to fall into twoparts, the natural and supernatural, which will not join. They mightpossibly join if Mr. Du Maurier had not made the natural soexceedingly domestic, had he been less successful with the Trilby, andLittle Billee, and Taffy, and the Laird, for all of whom he has taughtus so extravagant a liking. But his very success with these domestic(if oddly domestic) figures, and with the very domestic tale of LittleBillee's affair of the heart, proves our greatest stumbling-block whenwe are invited to follow the machinations of the superlative Svengali. That the story of Svengali and of Trilby's voice is a good story onlya duffer would deny. So is Gautier's _La Morte Amoureuse_; perhaps thebest story of its kind ever written. But suppose Thackeray had taken_La Morte Amoureuse_ and tried to write it into _Pendennis!_

MR. STOCKTON

Sept. 21, 1895. Stevenson's Testimony. 

In his chapter of "Personal Memories, " printed in the _CenturyMagazine_ of July last, Mr. Gosse speaks of the peculiar esteem inwhich Mr. Frank R. Stockton's stories were held by Robert LouisStevenson. "When I was going to America to lecture, he wasparticularly anxious that I should lay at the feet of Mr. Frank R. Stockton his homage, couched in the following lines:--

 My Stockton if I failed to like, It were a sheer depravity; For I went down with the 'Thomas Hyke, ' And up with the 'Negative Gravity. '

He adored these tales of Mr. Stockton's, a taste which must be sharedby all good men. "

It is shared at any rate by some thousands of people on this side ofthe Atlantic. Only, one is not quite sure how far their admirationextends. As far as can be guessed--for I have never come across anyBritish attempt at a serious appreciation of Mr. Stockton--thegeneral disposition is to regard him as an amusing kind of "cuss" witha queer kink in his fancy, who writes puzzling little stories thatmake you smile. As for taking him seriously, "why he doesn't evenprofess to write seriously"--an absurd objection, of course; but goodenough for the present-day reviewer, who sits up all night in orderthat the public may have his earliest possible opinion on theReminiscences of Bishop A, or the Personal Recollections ofField-Marshal B, or a Tour taken in Ireland by the Honorable Mrs. C. For criticism just now, as a mere matter of business convenience, provides a relative importance for books before they appear; and inthis classification the space allotted to fiction and labelled"important" is crowded for the moment with works dealing withreligious or sexual difficulties. Everyone has read _Rudder Grange_, _The Lady or the Tiger?_ and _A Borrowed Month_; but somehow fewpeople seem to think of them as subjects for serious criticism. 

"Classical" qualities. 

And yet these stories are almost classics. That is to say, they havethe classical qualities, and only need time to ripen them intoclassics: for nothing but age divides a story of the quality of _TheLady or the Tiger?_ (for instance) from a story of the quality of _RipVan Winkle_. They are full of wit; but the wit never chokes the style, which is simple and pellucid. Their fanciful postulates being granted, they are absolutely rational. And they are in a high degree original. Originality, good temper, good sense, moderation, wit--these areclassical qualities: and he is a rare benefactor who employs them allfor the amusement of the world. 

A Comparison. 

At first sight it may seem absurd to compare Mr. Stockton with Defoe. You can scarcely imagine two men with more dissimilar notions of thevalue of gracefulness and humor, or with more divergent aims inwriting. Mr. Stockton is nothing if not fanciful, and Defoe is hardlyfanciful at all. Nevertheless in reading one I am constantly remindedof the other. You must remember Mr. Stockton's habit is to confine hiseccentricities of fancy to the postulates of a tale. He starts withsome wildly unusual--but, as a rule, not impossible--conjuncture ofcircumstances. This being granted, however, he deduces his storylogically and precisely, appealing never to our passions and almostconstantly to our common sense. His people are as full of common-senseas Defoe's. They may have more pluck than the average man or woman, and they usually have more adaptability; but they apply toextraordinary circumstances the good unsentimental reasoning ofordinary life, and usually with the happiest results. The shipwreck ofMrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine was extraordinary enough, but theirsubsequent conduct was rational almost to precision: and instory-telling rationality does for fancy what economy of emotionalutterances does for emotion. We may apply to Mr. Stockton's tales aremark which Mr. Saintsbury let fall some years ago upondream-literature. He was speaking particularly of Flaubert's_Tentation de Saint Antoine_:--

 "The capacities of dreams and hallucinations for literary treatment are undoubted. But most writers, including even De Quincey, who have tried this style, have erred, inasmuch as they have endeavoured to throw a portion of the mystery with which the waking mind invests dreams over the dream itself. Anyone's experience is sufficient to show that this is wrong. The events of dreams as they happen are quite plain and matter-of-fact, and it is only in the intervals, and, so to speak, the scene-shifting of dreaming, that any suspicion of strangeness occurs to the dreamer. "

A dream, however wild, is quite plain and matter-of-fact to thedreamer; therefore, for verisimilitude, the narrative of a dreamshould be quite plain and matter-of-fact. In the same way the narratorof an extremely fanciful tale should--since verisimilitude is thefirst aim of story-telling--attempt to exclude all suspicion of theunnatural from his reader's mind. And this is only done by persuadinghim that no suspicion of the unnatural occurred to the actors in thestory. And this again is best managed by making his characters personsof sound every-day common sense. "If _these_ are not upset by whatbefalls them, why"--is the unconscious inference--"why in the worldshould _I_ be upset?"

So, in spite of the enormous difference between the two writers, therehas been no one since Defoe who so carefully as Mr. Stockton regulatesthe actions of his characters by strict common sense. Nor do I at themoment remember any writer who comes closer to Defoe in mathematicalcare for detail. In the case of the True-born Englishman thiscarefulness was sometimes overdone--as when he makes Colonel Jackremember with exactness the lists of articles he stole as a boy, andtheir value. In the _Adventures of Captain Horn_ the machinery whichconceals and guards the Peruvian treasure is so elaborately describedthat one is tempted to believe Mr. Stockton must have constructed aworking model of it with his own hands before he sat down to write thebook. In a way, this accuracy of detail is part of the common-sensecharacter of the narrative, and undoubtedly helps the verisimilitudeenormously. 

A Genuine American. 

But to my mind Mr. Stockton's characters are even more original thanthe machinery of his stories. And in their originality they reflectnot only Mr. Stockton himself, but the race from which they and theirauthor spring. In fact, they seem to me about the most genuinelyAmerican things in American fiction. After all, when one comes tothink of it, Mrs. Lecks and Captain Horn merely illustrate that readyadaptation of Anglo-Saxon pluck and businesslike common sense tosavage and unusual circumstances which has been the real secret of thecolonization of the North American Continent. Captain Horn'sdiscovery and winning of the treasure may differ accidentally, but donot differ in essence, from a thousand true tales of commercialtriumph in the great Central Plain or on the Pacific Slope. And in theheroine of the book we recognize those very qualities and aptitudesfor which we have all learnt to admire and esteem the American girl. They are hero and heroine, and so of course we are presented with thebetter side of a national character; but then it has been the betterside which has done the business. The bitterest critic of thingsAmerican will not deny that Mr. Stockton's characters are typicalAmericans, and could not belong to any other nation in the world. Norcan he deny that they combine sobriety with pluck, and businesslikebehavior with good feeling; that they are as full of honor as ofresource, and as sportsmanlike as sagacious. That people with suchcharacteristics should be recognizable by us as typical Americans is asufficient answer to half the nonsense which is being talked just now_à propos_ of a recent silly contest for the America Cup. 

Nationality apart, if anyone wants a good stirring story, _CaptainHorn_ is the story for his money. It has loose ends, and theconcluding chapter ties up an end that might well have been leftloose; but if a better story of adventure has been written of late Iwish somebody would tell me its name. 

BOW-WOW

August 26, 1893. Dauntless Anthology. 

It is really very difficult to know what to say to Mr. MaynardLeonard, editor of _The Dog in British Poetry_ (London: David Nutt). His case is something the same as Archdeacon Farrar's. The critic whodesires amendment in the Archdeacon's prose, and suggests thatsomething might be done by a study of Butler or Hume or Cobbett orNewman, is met with the cheerful retort, "But I have studied thesewriters, and admire them even more than you do. " The position isimpregnable; and the Archdeacon is only asserting that two and twomake four when he goes on to confess that, "with the best will in theworld to profit by the criticisms of his books, he has never profitedin the least by any of them. "

Now, Mr. Leonard has at least this much in common with ArchdeaconFarrar, that before him criticism must sit down with folded hands. Inthe lightness of his heart he accepts every fresh argument againstsuch and such a course as an added reason for following it:--

 "While this collection of poems was being made, " he tells us, "a well-known author and critic took occasion to gently ridicule (_sic_) anthologies and anthologists. He suggested, as if the force of foolishness could no further go, that the next anthology would deal with dogs. "

"Undismayed by this, " to use his own words, Mr. Leonard proceeded toprove it. Now it is obvious that no man can set a term to literaryactivity if it depend on the Briton's notorious unwillingness torecognize that he is beaten. I might dare, for instance, a Scotsman tocompile an anthology on "The Eel in British Poetry"; but of what availis it to challenge an indomitable race?

I am sorry Mr. Leonard has not given the name of this critic; but havea notion it must be Mr. Andrew Lang, though I am sure he is innocentof the split infinitive quoted above. It really ought to be Mr. Lang, if only for the humor of the means by which Mr. Leonard proposes tosilence him. "I am confident, " says he, "that the voice of the greatdog-loving public in this country would drown that of the critic inquestion. " Mr. Leonard's metaphors, you see, like the dyer's hand, aresubdued to what they work in. But is not the picture delightful? Mr. Lang, the gentle of speech; who, with his master Walton, "studies tobe quiet"; who tells us in his very latest verse

 "I've maistly had my fill O' this world's din"--

--Mr. Lang set down in the midst of a really representative dog show, say at Birmingham or the Crystal Palace, and there howled down! His_blandi susurri_ drowned in the combined clamor of mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and "the great dog-loving public in this country"!

"_Solvitur ululando_, " hopes Mr. Leonard; and we will wait for thevoice of the great dog-loving public to uplift itself and settle thequestion. Here, at any rate, is the book, beautiful in shape, andprinted by the Constables upon sumptuous paper. And the title-pagebears a rubric and a reference to Tobias' dog. "It is no need, " saysWyclif in one of his sermons, "to busy us what hight Tobies' hound";but Wyclif had never to reckon with a great dog-loving public. And Mr. Leonard, having considered his work and dedicated it "To theCynics"--which, I suppose, is Greek for "dog-loving public"--observes, "It is rather remarkable that no one has yet published such a book asthis. " Perhaps it is. 

But if we take it for granted (1) that it was worth doing, and (2)that whatever be worth doing is worth doing well, then Mr. Leonard hasreason for his complacency. "It was never my intention, " he says, "togather together a complete collection of even British poems aboutdogs. "--When will _that_ come, I wonder?--"I have sought to secure arepresentative rather than an exhaustive anthology. " His selectionsfrom a mass of poetry ranging from Homer to Mr. Mallock are judicious. He is not concerned (he assures us) to defend the poetical merits ofall this verse:--

 "--O, the wise contentment Th' anthologist doth find!"

--but he has provided it with notes--and capital notes they are--witha magnificent Table of Contents, an Index of Authors, an Index ofFirst Lines, an Index of Dogs Mentioned by Name in the Poems, and anIndex of the Species of Dogs Mentioned. So that, even if he misstransportation to an equal sky, the dog has better treatment on earththan most authors. And Mr. Nutt and the Messrs. Constable have donetheir best; and everyone knows how good is that best. And the wonderis, as Dr. Johnson remarked (concerning a dog, by the way), not thatthe thing is done so well, but that it should be done at all. 

OF SEASONABLE NUMBERS:

_A Baconian Essay_

Dec. 26, 1891. 

That was a Wittie Invective made by _Montaigny_ upon the _Antipodean_, Who said they must be Thieves that pulled on their breeches whenHonest Folk were scarce abed. So is it Obnoxious to them that purvey_Christmas Numbers_, _Annuals_, and the like, that they commonly writeunder _Sirius_ his star as it were _Capricornus_, feigning to Scateand Carol and blow warm upon their Fingers, while yet they might beculling of Strawberries. And all to this end, that Editors may takethe cake. I know One, the Father of a long Family, that will sit awhole June night without queeching in a Vessell of Refrigerated Watertill he be Ingaged with hard Ice, that the _Publick_ may be docked nopennyweight of the Sentiments incident to the _Nativity_. For we belike Grapes, and goe to Press in August. But methinks these rigours dopostulate a _Robur Corporis_ more than ordinary (whereas 'tis but onein ten if a Novelist overtop in Physique); and besides will often failof the effect. As I _myself_ have asked--the Pseudonym being butgauze--

 "O! Who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?"

Yet sometimes, because some things are in kind very Casuall, which ifthey escape prove Excellent (as the man who by Inadvertence inheritedthe throne of the _Grand Turk_ with all appertayning) so that the kindis inferiour, being subject to Perill, but that which is Excellentbeing proved superiour, as the Blossom of March and the Blossom ofMay, whereof the French verse goeth:--

 "Bourgeon de Mars, enfant de Paris; Si un eschape, il en vaut dix. "

--so, as I was saying (till the Mischief infected my Protasis), albeitthe gross of writings will moulder between _St. John's_ feast and _St. Stephen's_, yet, if one survive, 'tis odds he will prove Money in yourPocket. Therefore I counsel that you preoccupate and tie him, byEaster at the latest, to _Forty thousand words_, naming a Figure inexcess: for Operation shrinketh all things, as was observed byGalenus, who said to his Friend, "I will cut off your Leg, and thenyou will be lesse by a Foot. " Also you will do well to provide a_Pictura_ in Chromo-Lithography. For the Glaziers like it, and no harmdone if they blush not: which is easily avoided by making it out of alittle Child and a Puppy-dog, or else a Mother, or some such trivialAccompaniment. But Phryne marrs all. It was even rashly done of thatEditor who issued a Coloured Plate, calling it "_Phryne Behind theAreopagus_": for though nothing was Seen, the pillars and Grecianelders intervening, yet 'twas Felt a great pity. And the Fellow ranfor it, saying flimsily:--

 "Populus me sibilat. At mihi plaudo. "

Whereas I rather praise the dictum of that other writer, who said, "Inthis house I had sooner be turned over on the Drawing-room Table thanroll under that in the Dining-room, " meaning to reflect on the wine, but the Hostess took it for a compliment. 

But to speak of the Letter Press. For the Sea you will use ClarkRussell; for the East, Rudyard Kipling; for _Blood_, Haggard; forneat pastorall Subjects, Thomas Hardy, so he be within Bounds. Imislike his "Noble Dames. " Barrie has a prettier witt; but Besant willkeep in all weathers, and serve as right _Pemmican_. As for conundrumsand poetry, they are but Toys: I have seen as good in crackers; whichwe pull, not as meaning to read or guess, but read and guess to coverthe Shame of our Employment. Yet for Conundrums, if you hold theAnswers till your next issue they Raise the Wind among Fools. 

He that hath _Wife and Children_ hath given Hostages to _LittleFolks_: he will hardly redeem but by sacrifice of a Christmas Tree. The learned Poggius, that had twelve Sons and Daughters, used to noteruefully that he might never escape but by purchase of a _dozenAnnuals_, citing this to prove how greatly Tastes will diverge amongthe Extreamely Young, even though they come of the same geniture. Sowill Printed Matter multiply faster than our Parents. Yet 'tisdiscutable that this phrensy of _Annuals_ groweth staler byRecurrence. As that Helvetian lamented, whose Cuckoo-clock failed ofa ready Purchaser, and he had to live with it. "_What Again?_" saidhe, and "_Surely Spring is not come yet, dash it?_" Also I cannotstomach that our Authors portend a Severity of Weather unseasonable inthese Muggy Latitudes. I will eat my Hat if for these twentyChristmasses I have made six Slides worthy the Mention. Yet I know anAuthor that had his _Hero and Heroine_ consent together very prettily;but 'twas in a _Thaw_, and the Editor being stout, the match wasbroken off unblessedly, till a Pact was made that it should indeed bea Thaw, but sufficient only to let the Heroine drop through the Iceand be Rescewed. 

Without _Ghosts_, we twiddle thumbs. .. .