THE BIBLIOTAPH

And Other People

BY

LEON H. VINCENT

BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANYThe Riverside Press, Cambridge1899

COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY LEON H. VINCENTALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO MY FATHERTHE REV. B. T. VINCENT, D. D. THIS LITTLE VOLUME ISDedicatedWITH LOVE AND ADMIRATION

Four of these papers--the first Bibliotaph, and the notes on Keats, Gautier, and Stevenson's _St. Ives_--are reprinted from the _AtlanticMonthly_ by the kind permission of the editor. 

I am also indebted to the literary editor of the _SpringfieldRepublican_ and to the editors of _Poet-Lore_, respectively, forallowing me to reprint the paper on _Thomas Hardy_ and the lecture on_An Elizabethan Novelist_. 

CONTENTS

THE BIBLIOTAPH: A PORTRAIT NOT WHOLLY IMAGINARYTHE BIBLIOTAPH: HIS FRIENDS, SCRAP-BOOKS, AND 'BINS'LAST WORDS ON THE BIBLIOTAPHTHOMAS HARDYA READING IN THE LETTERS OF JOHN KEATSAN ELIZABETHAN NOVELISTTHE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FAIR-MINDED MANCONCERNING A RED WAISTCOATSTEVENSON: THE VAGABOND AND THE PHILOSOPHERSTEVENSON'S ST. IVES

THE BIBLIOTAPH AND OTHER PEOPLE

THE BIBLIOTAPH: A PORTRAIT NOT WHOLLY IMAGINARY

A popular and fairly orthodox opinion concerningbook-collectors is that their vices are many, their virtues of anegative sort, and their ways altogether past finding out. Yet themost hostile critic is bound to admit that the fraternity ofbibliophiles is eminently picturesque. If their doings areinscrutable, they are also romantic; if their vices are numerous, theheinousness of those vices is mitigated by the fact that it ispossible to sin humorously. Regard him how you will, the sayings anddoings of the collector give life and color to the pages of thosebooks which treat of books. He is amusing when he is purely animaginary creature. For example, there was one Thomas Blinton. Everyone who has ever read the volume called _Books and Bookmen_ knowsabout Thomas Blinton. He was a man who wickedly adorned his volumeswith morocco bindings, while his wife 'sighed in vain for some old_point d'Alençon lace_. ' He was a man who was capable of biddingfifteen pounds for a Foppens edition of the essays of Montaigne, though fifteen pounds happened to be 'exactly the amount which he owedhis plumber and gas-fitter, a worthy man with a large family. ' Fromthis fictitious Thomas Blinton all the way back to Richard Heber, whowas very real, and who piled up books as other men heap togethervulgar riches, book-collectors have been a picturesque folk. 

The name of Heber suggests the thought that all men who buy books arenot bibliophiles. He alone is worthy the title who acquires hisvolumes with something like passion. One may buy books like agentleman, and that is very well. One may buy books like a gentlemanand a scholar, which counts for something more. But to be truly of theelect one must resemble Richard Heber, and buy books like a gentleman, a scholar, and a madman. 

You may find an account of Heber in an old file of _The Gentleman'sMagazine_. He began in his youth by making a library of the classics. Then he became interested in rare English books, and collected them_con amore_ for thirty years. He was very rich, and he had never givenhostages to fortune; it was therefore possible for him to indulge hisfine passion without stint. He bought only the best books, and hebought them by thousands and by tens of thousands. He would have heldas foolishness that saying from the Greek which exhorts one to donothing too much. According to Heber's theory, it is impossible tohave too many good books. Usually one library is supposed to be enoughfor one man. Heber was satisfied only with eight libraries, and thenhe was hardly satisfied. He had a library in his house at Hodnet. 'Hisresidence in Pimlico, where he died, was filled, like Magliabecchi'sat Florence, with books from the top to the bottom; every chair, everytable, every passage containing piles of erudition. ' He had a house inYork Street which was crowded with books. He had a library in Oxford, one at Paris, one at Antwerp, one at Brussels, and one at Ghent. Themost accurate estimate of his collections places the number at 146, 827volumes. Heber is believed to have spent half a million dollars forbooks. After his death the collections were dispersed. The cataloguewas published in twelve parts, and the sales lasted over three years. 

Heber had a witty way of explaining why he possessed so many copies ofthe same book. When taxed with the sin of buying duplicates he repliedin this manner: 'Why, you see, sir, no man can comfortably do without_three_ copies of a book. One he must have for his show copy, and hewill probably keep it at his country house; another he will requirefor his own use and reference; and unless he is inclined to part withthis, which is very inconvenient, or risk the injury of his best copy, he must needs have a third at the service of his friends. '

In the pursuit of a coveted volume Heber was indefatigable. He was notof those Sybaritic buyers who sit in their offices while agents anddealers do the work. 'On hearing of a curious book he has been knownto put himself into the mail-coach, and travel three, four, or fivehundred miles to obtain it, fearful to trust his commission to aletter. ' He knew the solid comfort to be had in reading a bookcatalogue. Dealers were in the habit of sending him the advance sheetsof their lists. He ordered books from his death-bed, and for anythingwe know to the contrary died with a catalogue in his fingers. 

A life devoted to such a passion is a stumbling-block to thepractical man, and to the Philistine foolishness. Yet you may hear menpraised because up to the day of death they were diligent inbusiness, --business which added to life nothing more significant thanthat useful thing called money. Thoreau used to say that if a manspent half his time in the woods for the love of the woods he was indanger of being looked upon as a loafer; but if he spent all his timeas a speculator, shearing off those woods and making Earth bald beforeher time, he was regarded as an upright and industrious citizen. 

Heber had a genius for friendship as well as for gathering togetherchoice books. Sir Walter Scott addressed verses to him. ProfessorPorson wrote emendations for him in his favorite copy of _Athenæus_. To him was inscribed Dr. Ferrier's poetical epistle on Bibliomania. His virtues were celebrated by Dibdin and by Burton. In brief, thesketch of Heber in The_ Gentleman's Magazine_ for January, 1834, contains a list of forty-six names, --all men of distinction by birth, learning, or genius, and all men who were proud to call Richard Heberfriend. He was a mighty hunter of books. He was genial, scholarly, generous. Out-of-door men will be pleased to know that he was activephysically. He was a tremendous walker, and enjoyed tiring out hisbailiff by an all-day tramp. 

Of many good things said of him this is one of the best: 'The learnedand curious, whether rich or poor, have always free access to hislibrary. ' Thus was it possible for Scott very truthfully to say toHeber, 'Thy volumes open as thy heart. '

No life of this Prince of Book-Hunters has been written, I believe. Some one with access to the material, and a sympathy with the love ofbooks as books, should write a memoir of Heber the Magnificent. Itought not to be a large volume, but it might well be about the size ofHenry Stevens's _Recollections of James_ _Lenox_. And if it wereequally readable it were a readable book indeed. 

Dibdin thought that Heber's tastes were so catholic as to make itdifficult to classify him among hunters of books. The implication isthat most men can be classified. They have their specialties. Whatpleases one collector much pleases another but little or not at all. Collectors differ radically in the attitude they take with respect totheir volumes. One man buys books to read, another buys them to gloatover, a third that he may fortify them behind glass doors and keep thekey in his pocket. Therefore have learned words been devised to makeapparent the varieties of motive and taste. These words begin with_biblio_; you may have a _biblio_ almost anything. 

Two interesting types of maniac are known respectively as thebibliotaph and the biblioclast. A biblioclast is one who indulgeshimself in the questionable pleasure of mutilating books in order moresumptuously to fit out a particular volume. The disease is English inorigin, though some of the worst cases have been observed in America. Clergymen and presidents of colleges have been known to be seized withit. The victim becomes more or less irresponsible, and presently runsmad. Such an one was John Bagford, of diabolical memory, who mutilatednot less than ten thousand volumes to form his vast collection oftitle-pages. John Bagford died an unrepentant sinner, lamenting withone of his later breaths that he could not live long enough to gethold of a genuine Caxton and rip the initial page out of that. 

The bibliotaph buries books; not literally, but sometimes with as mucheffect as if he had put his books underground. There are severalvarieties of him. The dog-in-the-manger bibliotaph is the worst; heuses his books but little himself, and allows others to use them notat all. On the other hand, a man may be a bibliotaph simply frominability to get at his books. He may be homeless, a bachelor, adenizen of boarding-houses, a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Hemay keep his books in storage or accumulate them in the country, against the day when he shall have a town house with proper library. 

The most genial lover of books who has walked city streets for many aday was a bibliotaph. He accumulated books for years in the hugegarret of a farmhouse standing upon the outskirts of a WestchesterCounty village. A good relative 'mothered' the books for him in hisabsence. When the collection outgrew the garret it was moved into abig village store. It was the wonder of the place. The country folkflattened their noses against the panes and tried to peer into thegloom beyond the half-drawn shades. The neighboring stores were incomparison miracles of business activity. On one side was aharness-shop; on the other a nondescript establishment at which onemight buy anything, from sunbonnets and corsets to canned salmon andfresh eggs. Between these centres of village life stood the silenttomb for books. The stranger within the gates had this curiositypointed out to him along with the new High School and the Soldiers'Monument. 

By shading one's eyes to keep away the glare of the light, it waspossible to make out tall carved oaken cases with glass doors, whichlined the walls. They gave distinction to the place. It was notdifficult to understand the point of view of the dressmaker fromacross the way who stepped over to satisfy her curiosity concerningthe stranger, and his concerning the books, and who said in a friendlymanner as she peered through a rent in the adjoining shade, 'It'salmost like a cathedral, ain't it?'

To an inquiry about the owner of the books she replied that he wasbrought up in that county; that there were people around there whosaid that he had been an exhorter years ago; her impression was thatnow he was a 'political revivalist, ' if I knew what that was. 

The phrase seemed hopeless, but light was thrown upon it when, later, I learned that this man of many buried books gave addresses upon theresponsibilities of citizenship, upon the higher politics, and uponthemes of like character. They said that he was humorous. The farmersliked to hear him speak. But it was rumored that he went to colleges, too. The dressmaker thought that the buying of so many books was'wicked. ' 'He goes from New York to Beersheba, and from Chicago toDan, buying books. Never reads 'em because he hardly ever comes here. '

It became possible to identify the Bibliotaph of the country storewith a certain mature youth who some time since 'gave his friends theslip, chose land-travel or seafaring, ' and has not returned to buildthe town house with proper library. They who observed him closelythought that he resembled Heber in certain ways. Perhaps this factalone would justify an attempt at a verbal portrait. But theadditional circumstance that, in days when people with the slightestexcuse therefor have themselves regularly photographed, thisold-fashioned youth refused to allow his 'likeness' to be taken, --thiscircumstance must do what it can to extenuate minuteness of detail inthe picture, as well as over-attention to points of which a photographwould have taken no account. 

You are to conceive of a man between thirty-eight and forty years ofage, big-bodied, rapidly acquiring that rotund shape which is thoughtbecoming to bishops, about six feet high though stooping a little, prodigiously active, walking with incredible rapidity, having largelimbs, large feet, large though well-shaped and very white hands; inshort, a huge fellow physically, as big of heart as of body, and, inthe affectionate thought of those who knew him best, as big ofintellect as of heart. 

His head might be described as leonine. It was a massive head, coveredwith a tremendous mane of brown hair. This was never worn long, but itwas so thick and of such fine texture that it constituted a realbeauty. He had no conceit of it, being innocent of that peculiarGerman type of vanity which runs to hair, yet he could not preventpeople from commenting on his extraordinary hirsute adornment. Theiroccasional remarks excited his mirth. If they spoke of it again, hewould protest. Once, among a small party of his closest friends, theconversation turned upon the subject of hair, and then upon the beautyof _his_ hair; whereupon he cried out, 'I am embarrassed by thisunnecessary display of interest in my Samsonian assertiveness. '

He loved to tease certain of his acquaintances who, though youngerthan himself, were rapidly losing their natural head-covering. Heprodded them with ingeniously worded reflections upon their unhappycondition. He would take as a motto Erasmus's unkind salutation, 'Benesit tibi cum tuo calvitio, ' and multiply amusing variations upon it. He delighted in sending them prescriptions and advertisements clippedfrom newspapers and medical journals. He quoted at them the remark ofa pale, bald, blond young literary aspirant, who, seeing him, theBibliotaph, passing by, exclaimed audibly and almost passionately, 'Oh, I perfectly adore _hair_!'

Of his clothes it might be said that he did not wear them, but ratherdwelt at large in them. They were made by high-priced tailors and werefashionably cut, but he lived in them so violently--that is, traveledso much, walked so much, sat so long and so hard, gestured soearnestly, and carried in his many pockets such an extraordinarycollection of notebooks, indelible pencils, card-cases, stamp-boxes, penknives, gold toothpicks, thermometers, and what not--that withintwenty-four hours after he had donned new clothes all the artisticmerits of the garments were obliterated; they were, from every pointof view, hopelessly degenerate. 

He was a scrupulously clean man, but there was a kind of civilizedwildness in his appearance which astonished people; and in perversemoments he liked to terrify those who knew him but little by affirmingthat he was a near relative of Christopher Smart, and then explainingin mirth-provoking phrases that one of the arguments used for provingSmart's insanity was that he did not love clean linen. 

His appetite was large, as became a large and active person. He was avery valiant trencher-man; and yet he could not have been said to loveeating for eating's sake. He ate when he was hungry, and found nodifficulty in being hungry three times a day. He should have been anEnglishman, for he enjoyed a late supper. In the proper season thisconsisted of a bountiful serving of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, witha glass of lemonade. As a variant upon the beverage he took milk. Hewas the only man I have known, whether book-hunter or layman, whocould sleep peacefully upon a supper of cucumbers and milk. 

There is probably no occult relation between first editions andonions. The Bibliotaph was mightily pleased with both: the one, hesaid, appealed to him æsthetically, the other dietetically. Heremarked of some particularly large Spanish onions that there was 'aglobular wholesomeness about them which was very gratifying;' andafter eating one he observed expansively that he felt 'as if he hadswallowed the earth and the fullness thereof. ' His easy, good-humoredexaggerations and his odd comments upon the viands made him a pleasanttable companion: as when he described a Parker House Sultana Roll bysaying that 'it looked like the sanguinary output of the whole Crimeanwar. '

High-priced restaurants did not please him as well as humbler and lessobtrusive places. But it was all one, --Delmonico's, the Bellevue, astool in the Twelfth Street Market, or a German café on Van BurenStreet. The humors of certain eating-houses gave him infinite delight. He went frequently to the Diner's Own Home, the proprietor of which, being both cook and Christian, had hit upon the novel plan of givingScriptural advice and practical suggestions by placards on the walls. The Bibliotaph enjoyed this juxtaposition of signs: the first read, 'The very God of peace sanctify you wholly;' the second, 'Look out foryour Hat and Coat. '

The Bibliotaph had no home, and was reputed to live in his post-officebox. He contributed to the support of at least three clubs, but wasvery little seen at any one of them. He enjoyed the large cities, andwas contented in whichever one he happened to find himself. He wasemphatically a city man, but what city was of less import. He knewthem all, and was happy in each. He had his favorite hotel, hisfavorite bath, his work, bushels of newspapers and periodicals, friends who rejoiced in his coming as children in the near advent ofChristmas, and finally book-shops in which to browse at his pleasure. It was interesting to hear him talk about city life. One of his quaintmannerisms consisted in modifying a well-known quotation to suit hisconversational needs. 'Why, sir, ' he would remark, 'Fleet Street has avery animated appearance, but I think the full tide of human existenceis at the corner of Madison and State. '

His knowledge of cities was both extensive and peculiar. I have heardhim name in order all the hotels on Broadway, beginning at the lowerend and coming up as far as hotels exist, branching off upon theparallel and cross streets where there were noted caravansaries, andconnecting every name with an event of importance, or with the lifeand fortunes of some noted man who had been guest at that particularinn. This was knowledge more becoming in a guide, perhaps, but it willillustrate the encyclopædic fullness of his miscellaneous information. 

As was natural and becoming in a man born within forty miles of themetropolis, he liked best the large cities of the East, and was leastcontent in small Western cities. But this was the outcome of noilliberal prejudice, and there was a quizzical smile upon his lips anda teasing look in his eyes when he bantered a Westerner. 'A man, ' hewould sometimes say, 'may come by the mystery of childbirth into Omahaor Kansas City and be content, but he can't come by Boston, New York, or Philadelphia. ' Then, a moment later, paraphrasing his remark, hewould add, 'To go to Omaha or Kansas City by way of New York andPhiladelphia is like being translated heavenward with such violencethat one _passes through_--into a less comfortable region!'

Strange to say, the conversation of this most omnivorous ofbook-collectors was less of books than of men. True, he was deeplyversed in bibliographical details and dangerously accurate in his talkabout them, but, after all, the personality back of the book was thesupremely interesting thing. He abounded in anecdote, and coulddescribe graphically the men he had met, the orators he had heard, theoccasions of importance where he had been an interested spectator. Hisconversation was delightfully fresh and racy because of the vividnessof the original impressions, the unusual force of the ideas which werethe copies of these impressions, and the fine artistic sense whichenabled him to determine at once what points should be omitted, andwhat words should be used most fittingly to express the ideasretained. 

He had no pride in his conversational power. He was always modest, butnever diffident. I have seen him sit, a respectful listener, absolutely silent, while some ordinary chatterer held the company'sattention for an hour. Many good talkers are unhappy unless they havethe privilege of exercising their gifts. Not so he. Sometimes he hadalmost to be compelled to begin. On such occasions one of hisintimates was wont to quote from Boswell: 'Leave him to me, sir; I'llmake him rear. '

The superficial parts of his talk were more easily retained. In merebanter, good-humored give-and-take, that froth and bubble ofconversational intercourse, he was delightful. His hostess, the wifeof a well-known comedian, apologized to him for having to move him outof the large guest-chamber into another one, smaller and higherup, --this because of an unexpected accession of visitors. He repliedthat it did not incommode him; and as for being up another flight ofstairs, 'it was a comfort to him to know that when he was in a stateof somnolent helplessness he was as near heaven as it was possible toget in an actor's house. ' The same lady was taking him roundly to taskon some minor point in which he had quite justly offended her;whereupon he turned to her husband and said, 'Jane worships but littleat the shrine of politeness because so much of her time is mortgagedto the shrine of truth. '

When asked to suggest an appropriate and brief cablegram to be sent toa gentleman who on the following day would become sixty years of age, and who had taken full measure of life's joys, he responded, 'Send himthis: "_You don't look it, but you've lived like it. _"'

His skill in witty retort often expressed itself by accepting a verbalattack as justified, and elaborating it in a way to throw into shadowthe assault of the critic. At a small and familiar supper of bookishmen, when there was general dissatisfaction over an expensive butill-made salad, he alone ate with apparent relish. The host, who wasof like mind with his guests, said, 'The Bibliotaph doesn't care forthe quality of his food, if it has filling power. ' To which he at onceresponded, 'You merely imply that I am like a robin: I eat cherrieswhen I may, and worms when I must. '

His inscriptions in books given to his friends were often singularlyhappy. He presented a copy of _Lowell's Letters_ to a gentleman andhis wife. The first volume was inscribed to the husband as follows:--

'To Mr. ---- ----, who is to the owner of the second volume of theseLetters what this volume is to that: so delightful as to make one gladthat there's another equally as good, if not better. '

In volume two was the inscription to the wife, worded in thismanner:--

'To Mrs. ---- ----, without whom the owner of the first volume ofthese Letters would be as that first volume without this one:interesting, but incomplete. '

Perhaps this will illustrate his quickness to seize upon ever so minutean occasion for the exercise of his humor. A young woman whom he admired, being brought up among brothers, had received the nickname, halfaffectionately and half patronizingly bestowed, of 'the Kid. ' Amongher holiday gifts for a certain year was a book from the Bibliotaph, acopy of _Old-Fashioned Roses_, with this dedication: 'To a Kid, hadAbraham possessed which, Isaac had been the burnt-offering. '

It is as a buyer and burier of books that the subject of this papershowed himself in most interesting light. He said that the time tomake a library was when one was young. He held the foolish notion thata man does not purchase books after he is fifty; I shall expect to seehim ransacking the shops after he is seventy, if he shall survive hiseccentricities of diet that long. He was an omnivorous buyer, pickingup everything he could lay his hands upon. Yet he had a clearlydefined motive for the acquisition of every volume. However absurd thepurchase might seem to the bystander, he, at any rate, could havegiven six cogent reasons why he must have that particular book. 

He bought according to the condition of his purse at a given time. Ifhe had plenty of money, it would be expensive publications, like thoseissued by the Grolier Club. If he was financially depressed, he wouldhunt in the out-of-door shelves of well-known Philadelphia bookshops. It was marvelous to see what things, new and old, he was able toextract from a ten-cent alcove. Part of the secret lay in this idea:to be a good book-hunter one must not be too dainty; one must not beafraid of soiling one's hands. He who observes the clouds shall notreap, and he who thinks of his cuffs is likely to lose many a bookishtreasure. Our Bibliotaph generally parted company with his cuffs whenhe began hunting for books. How many times have I seen those cuffswith the patent fasteners sticking up in the air, as if reaching outhelplessly for their owner; the owner in the mean time standing highupon a ladder which creaked under his weight, humming to himself as heindustriously examined every volume within reach. This ability to livewithout cuffs made him prone to reject altogether that orthodox bit offinish to a toilet. I have known him to spend an entire day in NewYork between club, shops, and restaurant, with one cuff on, and theother cuff--its owner knew not where. 

He differed from Heber in that he was not 'a classical scholar of theold school, ' but there were many points in which he resembled thefamous English collector. Heber would have acknowledged him as a sonif only for his energy, his unquenchable enthusiasm, and the exactnessof his knowledge concerning the books which he pretended to know atall. For not alone is it necessary that a collector should knowprecisely what book he wants; it is even more important that he shouldbe able to know a book _as_ the book he wants when he sees it. It is alamentable thing to have fired in the dark, and then discover that youhave shot a wandering mule, and not the noble game you were in pursuitof. One cannot take his reference library with him to the shops. Thetests, the criteria, must be carried in the head. The last and mostinappropriate moment for getting up bibliographical lore is thatmoment when the pressing question is, to buy or not to buy. MasterSlender, in the play, learned the difficulties which beset a man whoseknowledge is in a book, and whose book is at home upon a shelf. It ispossible to sympathize with him when he exclaims, 'I had rather thanforty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here!' In makinglove there are other resources; all wooers are not as ill equipped asSlender was. But in hunting rare books the time will be sure to comewhen a man may well cry, 'I had rather than forty dollars I had mylist of first editions with me!'

The Bibliotaph carried much accurate information in his head, but henever traveled without a thesaurus in his valise. It was a smallvolume containing printed lists of the first editions of rare books. The volume was interleaved; the leaves were crowded with manuscriptnotes. An appendix contained a hundred and more autograph letters fromliving authors, correcting, supplementing, or approving the printedbibliographies. Even these authors' own lists were accuratelycorrected. They needed it in not a few instances. For it is a wiseauthor who knows his own first edition. Men may write remarkablebooks, and understand but little the virtues of their books from thecollector's point of view. Men are seldom clever in more ways thanone. Z. Jackson was a practical printer, and his knowledge as aprinter enabled him to correct sundry errors in the first folio ofShakespeare. But Z. Jackson, as the Rev. George Dawson observes, 'ventured beyond the composing-case, and, having corrected blundersmade by the printers, corrected excellencies made by the poet. '

It was amusing to discover, by means of these autograph letters, howseldom a good author was an equally good bibliographer. And this is asit should be. The author's business is, not to take account of firsteditions, but to make books of such virtue that bibliomaniacs shall beeager to possess the first editions thereof. It is proverbial that apoet is able to show a farmer things new to him about his own farm. Turn a bibliographer loose upon a poet's works, and he will amaze thepoet with an account of _his_ own doings. The poet will straightwaydiscover that while he supposed himself to be making 'mere literature'he was in reality contributing to an elaborate and exact science. 

The Bibliotaph was not a blind enthusiast on the subject of firsteditions. He was one of the few men who understood the exceeding greatvirtues of second editions. He declared that a man who was sofortunate as to secure a second edition of Henry Crabb Robinson's_Diary_ was in better case than he who had bothered himself to obtaina first. When it fell in with his mood to argue against that which hehimself most affected, he would quote the childish bit of doggerelbeginning 'The first the worst, the second the same, ' and then groweloquent over the dainty Templeman Hazlitts which are chiefly thirdeditions. He thought it absurd to worry over a first issue ofCarlyle's _French Revolution_ if it were possible to buy at moderateprice a copy of the third edition, which is a well-nigh perfect book, 'good to the touch and grateful to the eye. ' But this lover of booksgrew fierce in his special mania if you hinted that it was alsofoolish to spend a large sum on an _editio princeps_ of _ParadiseLost_ or of _Robinson Crusoe_. There are certain authors concerningthe desirability of whose first editions it must not be disputed. 

The singular readiness with which bookish treasures fell into his wayastonished less fortunate buyers. Rare Stevensons dropped into hishand like ripe fruit from a tree. The most inaccessible of pamphletsfawned upon him, begging to be purchased, just as the succulent littleroast pigs in _The New Paul and Virginia_ run about with knives andforks in their sides pleading to be eaten. The Bibliotaph said he didnot despair of buying Poe's _Tamerlane_ for twenty-five cents one ofthese days; and that a rarity he was sure to get sooner or later was acopy of that English newspaper which announced Shelley's death underthe caption _Now he Knows whether there is a Hell or Not_. 

He unconsciously followed Heber in that he disliked large-papercopies. Heber would none of them because they took up too much room;their ample borders encroached upon the rights of other books. Heberobjected to this as Prosper Mérimée objected to the gigantic Englishhoopskirts of 1865, --there was space on Regent Street for but onewoman at a time. 

Original as the Bibliotaph was in appearance, manners, habits, he wasless striking in what he did than in what he said. It is a pity thatno record of his talk exists. It is not surprising that there is nosuch record, for his habits of wandering precluded the possibility ofhis making a permanent impression. By the time people had fullyawakened to the significance of his presence among them he was gone. So there grew up a legend concerning him, but no true biography. Hewas like a comet, very shaggy and very brilliant, but he stayed sobrief a time in a place that it was impossible for one man to giveeither the days or the thought to the reproduction of his more seriousand considered words. A greater difficulty was involved in the factthat the Bibliotaph had many socii, but no fidus Achates. Moreover, Achates, in this instance, would have needed the reportorial powers ofa James Boswell that he might properly interpret genius to the public. 

This particular genius illustrated the misfortune of having too greatfacility in establishing those relations which lie midway betweenacquaintance and friendship. To put the matter in the form of aparadox, he had so many _friends_ that he had no _friend_. Perhapsthis is unjust, but friendship has a touch of jealousy andexclusiveness in it. He was too large-natured to say to one of hisadmirers, 'Thou shalt have no other gods save myself;' but there werethose among the admirers who were quite prepared to say to him, 'Weprefer that thou shalt have no other worshipers in addition to us. '

People wondered that he seemed to have no care for a conventional homelife. He was taxed with want of sympathy with what makes even a humblehome a centre of light and happiness. He denied it, and said to hisaccusers, 'Can you not understand that after a stay in _your_ home Igo away with much the feeling that must possess a lusty young calfwhen his well-equipped mother tells him that henceforth he must findmeans of sustenance elsewhere?'

He professed to have been once in love, but no one believed it. Heused to say that his most remarkable experience as a bachelor was innoting the uniformity with which eligible young women passed him by onthe other side of the way. And when a married friend offeredcondolence, with that sleek complacency of manner noteworthy in menwho are conscious of being mated for life better than they deserve, the Bibliotaph said, with an admiring glance at the wife, 'Yoursympathy is supererogatory, sir, for I fully expect to become yourresiduary legatee. '

It is most pleasing to think of this unique man 'buffeting his books'in one of those temporary libraries which formed about him whenever hestopped four or five weeks in a place. The shops were rifled of not afew of their choicest possessions, and the spoils carried off to hisroom. It was a joy to see him display his treasures, a delight to hearhim talk of them. He would disarm criticism with respect to the moreeccentric purchases by saying, 'You wouldn't approve of this, but _I_thought it was curious, '--and then a torrent of facts, criticisms, quotations, all bearing upon the particular volume which you weresupposed not to like; and so on, hour after hour. There was no limitsave that imposed by the receptive capacity of the guest. It remindedone of the word spoken concerning a 'hard sitter at books' of the lastcentury, that he was a literary giant 'born to grapple with wholelibraries. ' But the fine flavor of those hours spent in hearing himdiscourse upon books and men is not to be recovered. It is evanescent, spectral, now. This talk was like the improvisation of a musician whois profoundly learned, but has in him a vein of poetry too. The talkand the music strongly appeal to robust minds, and at the same time donot repel the sentimentalist. 

It is not to be supposed that the Bibliotaph pleased every one withwhom he came in contact. There were people whom his intellectualpotency affected in a disagreeable way. They accused him of applyinggreat mental force to inconsidered trifles. They said it was amisfortune that so much talent was going to waste. But there is notask so easy as criticising an able man's employment of his gifts. 

THE BIBLIOTAPH: HIS FRIENDS, SCRAP-BOOKS, AND 'BINS'

To arrive at a high degree of pleasure in collecting a library, onemust travel. The Bibliotaph regularly traveled in search of hisvolumes. His theory was that the collector must go to the book, notwait for the book to come to him. No reputable sportsman, he said, would wish the game brought alive to his back-yard for him to kill. Half the pleasure was in tracking the quarry to its hiding-place. Hehimself ordered but seldom from catalogues, and went regularly to andfro among the dealers in books, seeking the volume which his heartdesired. He enjoyed those shops where the book-seller kept open house, where the stock was large and surprises were common, where theproprietor was prodigiously well-informed on some points andcorrespondingly ill-informed on others. He bought freely, neverdisputed a price, and laid down his cash with the air of a man whobelieves that unspent money is the root of all evil. 

These travels brought about three results: the making of friends, thecompilation of scrap-books, and the establishment of 'bins. ' Beforespeaking of any one of these points, a word on the satisfactions ofbibliographical touring. 

In every town of considerable size, and in many towns ofinconsiderable size, are bookshops. It is a poor shop which does notcontain at least one good book. This book bides its time, and usuallyoutstays its welcome. But its fate is about its neck. Somewhere thereis a collector to whom that book is precious. They are made for oneanother, the collector and the book; and it is astonishing howinfrequently they miss of realizing their mutual happiness. Thebook-seller is a marriage-broker for unwedded books. His business isto find them homes, and take a fee for so doing. Sugarman the Shadchanwas not more zealous than is your vendor of rare books. 

Now, it is a curious fact that the most desirable of bookish treasuresare often found where one would be least likely to seek them. Montanais a great State, nevertheless one does not think of going to Montanafor early editions of Shakespeare. Let the book-hunter inwardly digestthe following plain tale of a clergyman and a book of plays. 

There is a certain collector who is sometimes called 'The Bishop. ' Heis not a bishop, but he may be so designated; coming events have beenknown to cast conspicuous shadows in the likeness of mitre andcrosier. The Bishop heard of a man in Montana who had an old book ofplays with an autograph of William Shakespeare pasted in it. Being awise ecclesiastic, he did not exclaim 'Tush' and 'Fie, ' but proceededat once to go book-hunting in Montana. He went by proxy, if not inperson; the journey is long. In due time the owner of the volume wasfound and the book was placed in the Bishop's hands for inspection. Hetore off the wrappers, and lo! it was a Fourth Folio of Shakespeareexcellently well preserved, and with what appeared to be the greatdramatist's signature written on a slip of paper and pasted inside thefront cover. The problem of the genuineness of that autograph does notconcern us. The great fact is that a Shakespeare folio turned up inMontana. Now when he hears some one express desire for a copy ofGreene's _Groatsworth of Wit_, or any other rare book of Elizabeth'stime, the Bishop's thoughts fly toward the setting sun. Then he smilesa notable kind of smile, and says, 'If I could get away I'd run out toMontana and try to pick up a copy for you. '

There is a certain gentleman who loves the literature of Queen Anne'sreign. He lives with Whigs and Tories, vibrates between coffee-houseand tea-table. He annoys his daughter by sometimes calling her'Belinda, ' and astonishes his wife with his mock-heroic apostrophes toher hood and patches. He reads his _Spectator_ at breakfast whileother people batten upon newspapers only three hours old. He smilesover the love-letters of Richard Steele, and reverences the name andthe writings of Joseph Addison. Indeed, his devotion to Addison is soradical that he has actually been guilty of reading _The Campaign_ andthe _Dialogue on Medals_. This gentleman hunted books one day and wasnot successful. It seemed to him that on this particular afternoon theworld was stuffed with Allison's histories of Europe, and Jeffrey'scontributions to the _Edinburgh Review_. His heart was filled withbitterness and his nostrils with dust. Books which looked invitingturned out to be twenty-second editions. Of fifty things upon his listnot one came to light. But it was predestined that he should not gosorrowing to his home. He pulled out from a bottom shelf two mustyoctavo volumes bound in dark brown leather, and each securely tiedwith a string; for the covers had been broken from the backs. Thetitles were invisible, the contents a mystery. The gentleman held theunpromising objects in his hand and meditated upon them. They might bea treatise on conic sections, or a Latin Grammar, and again they mightbe a Book. He untied the string and opened one of the volumes. Was ita breath of summer air from Isis that swept out of those pages, whichwere as white as snow in spite of the lapse of nearly two centuries?He read the title, MUSARUM ANGLICANARUM ANALECTA. The date was 1699. He turned to the table of contents, and his heart gave a contentedthrob. There was the name he wished to see, J. Addison, Magd. Coll:The name occurred eight times. The dejected collector had found aclean and uncut copy of those two volumes of contemporary Latin versecompiled by Joseph Addison, when he was a young man at Oxford, andprinted at the Sheldonian Theatre. Addison contributed eight poems tothe second volume. The bookseller was willing to take seventy-fivecents for the set, and told the gentleman as he did up the packagethat he was a comfort to the trade. 

That night the gentleman read _The Battle of the Pigmies and theCranes_, while his wife read the evening edition of the _LuridParagraph_. Now he says to his friends, 'Hunt books in the mostunpromising places, but make a thorough search. You may not discover aKoh-i-noor, but you will be pretty sure to run upon some desirablelittle thing which gives you pleasure and costs but a trifle. '

One effect of this adventure upon himself is that he cannot pass avolume which is tied with a string. He spends his days and Saturdaynights in tying and untying books with broken covers. Even theevidence of a clearly-lettered title upon the back fails to satisfyhim. He is restless until he has made a thorough search in the body ofthe volume. 

The Bibliotaph's own best strokes of fortune were made inout-of-the-way places. But some god was on his side. For at hisapproach the bibliographical desert blossomed like the rose. He usedto hunt books in Texas at one period in his life; and out of Texaswould he come, bringing, so it is said, first editions of GeorgeBorrow and Jane Austen. It was maddening to be with him at such times, especially if one had a gift for envy. 

Yet why should one envy him his money, or his unerring hand and eye?He paid for the book, but it was yours to read and to caress so longas you would. If he took it from you it was only that he might pass iton to some other friend. But if that volume once started in thedirection of the great tomb of books in Westchester County, no poweron earth could avail to restore it to the light of day. 

It is pleasant to meditate upon past journeys with the Bibliotaph. Hewas an incomparable traveling companion, buoyant, philosophic, incapable of fatigue, and never ill. Yet it is a tradition current, that he, the mighty, who called himself a friend to physicians, because he never robbed them of their time either in or out ofoffice-hours, once succumbed to that irritating little malady known ascar-sickness. He succumbed, but he met his fate bravely and with thecolors of his wit flying. The circumstances are these:--

There is a certain railway thoroughfare which justly prides itselfupon the beauty of its scenery. This road passes through ahill-country, and what it gains in the picturesque it loses in thatrectilinear directness most grateful to the traveler with a sensitivestomach. The Bibliotaph often patronized this thoroughfare, and oneday it made him sick. As the train swept around a sharp curve, heannounced his earliest symptom by saying: 'The conspicuous advantagesof this road are that one gets views of the scenery and reviews of hismeals. '

A few minutes later he suggested that the road would do well to changeits name, and hereafter be known as 'The Emetic G. And O. '

They who were with him proffered sympathy, but he refused to bepitied. He thought he had a remedy. He discovered that by taking asnearly as possible a reclining posture, he got temporary relief. Hekept settling more and more till at last he was nearly on his back. Then he said: 'If it be true that the lower down we get the morecomfortable we are, the basements of Hell will have theircompensations. '

He was too ill to say much after this, but his last word, before thefinal and complete extinction of his manhood, was, 'The influence ofthis road is such that employees have been known involuntarily tothrow up their jobs. '

The Bibliotaph invariably excited comment and attention when he wasupon his travels. I do not think he altogether liked it. Perhaps heneither liked it nor disliked it. He accepted the fact that he was notas other men quite as he would have accepted any indisputable fact. Heused occasionally to express annoyance because of the discrepancybetween his reputation and appearance; in other words, because heseemed a man of greater fame than he was. He suffered the pettydiscomforts of being a personage, and enjoyed none of the advantages. He declared that he was quite willing to be much more distinguished ormuch less conspicuous. What he objected to was the Laodicean characterof his reputation as set over against the pronounced and evenstartling character of his looks and manner. 

He used also to note with amusement how indelible a mark certain earlyambitions and tentative studies had made upon him. People invariablytook him for a clergyman. They decided this at once and conductedthemselves accordingly. He made no protest, but observed that theirconvictions as to how they should behave in his presence hadcorollaries in the shape of very definite convictions as to how heshould carry himself before them. He thought that such people might bedescribed as moral trainers. They do not profess virtue themselves, but they take a real pleasure in keeping you up to your profession. 

The Bibliotaph had no explanation to give why he was so immediatelyand invariably accounted as one in orders. He was quite sure that theclerical look was innate, and by no means dependent upon the wearingof a high vest or a Joseph Parker style of whisker; for once as he satin the hot room of a Turkish bath and in the Adamitic simplicity ofattire suitable to the temperature and the place, a gentleman whooccupied the chair nearest introduced conversation by saying, 'I begyour pardon, sir, but are you not a clergyman?'

'This incident, ' said the Bibliotaph, 'gave me a vivid sense of thepossibility of determining a man's profession by a cursory examinationof his cuticle. ' Lowell's conviction about N. P. Willis waswell-founded: namely, that if it had been proper to do so, Williscould have worn his own plain bare skin in a way to suggest that itwas a representative Broadway tailor's best work. 

I imagine that few boys escape an outburst of that savage instinct forpersonal adornment which expresses itself in the form of rude tattooingupon the arms. The Bibliotaph had had his attack in early days, andthe result was a series of decorations of a highly patriotic character, and not at all in keeping with South Kensington standards. I said tohim once, apropos of the pictures on his arms: 'You are a greatsurprise to your friends in this particular. ' 'Yes, ' he replied, 'fewof them are aware that the volume of this Life is extra-illustrated. '

But that which he of necessity tolerated in himself he would nottolerate in his books. They were not allowed to become pictoriallyamplified. He saw no objection to inserting a rare portrait in a goodbook. It did not necessarily injure the book, and it was one way ofpreserving the portrait. Yet the thing was questionable, and it waslikely to prove the first step in a downward path. As to cramming avolume with a heterogeneous mass of pictures and letters gathered fromall imaginable sources, he held the practice in abhorrence, and thebibliographical results as fit only for the libraries of theilliterate rich. He admitted the possibility of doing such a thingwell or ill; but at its best it was an ill thing skillfully done. 

The Bibliotaph upon his travels was a noteworthy figure if onlybecause of the immense parcel of books with which he burdened himself. That part of the journeying public which loves to see some new thingpuzzled itself mightily over the gentleman of full habit, who inaddition to his not inconsiderable encumbrance of flesh and luggage, chose to carry about a shawl-strap loaded to utmost capacity with acomposite mass of books, magazines, and newspapers. It was enormouslyheavy, and the way in which its component parts adhered was but adegree short of the miraculous. He appeared hardly conscious of itsweight, for he would pick the thing up and literally _trip_ with it ona toe certainly not light, but undeniably fantastic. 

He carried the books about with him partly because he had justpurchased them and wished to study their salient points, and partlybecause he was taking them to a 'bin. ' There is no mystery about these'bins. ' They were merely places of temporary rest for the books beforethe grand moving to the main library. But if not mysterious they werecertainly astonishing, because of their number and size. With respectto number, one in every large city was the rule. With respect to size, few people buy in a lifetime as many books as were sometimes heapedtogether in one of these places of deposit. He would begin by leavinga small bundle of books with some favorite dealer, then another, andthen another. As the collection enlarged, the accommodations would beincreased; for it was a satisfaction to do the Bibliotaph this favor, he purchased so liberally and tipped the juvenile clerks in so royal amanner. Nor was he always in haste to move out after he had once movedin. One bookseller, speaking of the splendid proportions which the'bin' was assuming, declared that he sometimes found it difficult toadjust himself mentally to the situation; he couldn't tell when hecame to his place of business in the morning whether he was in his ownshop or the Bibliotaph's library. 

The corner of the shop where the great collector's accumulations werepiled up was a centre of mirth and conversation if he himself chancedto be in town. Men dropped in for a minute and stayed an hour. In someway time appeared to broaden and leisure to grow more ample. Life hadan unusual richness, and warmth, and color, when the Bibliotaph wasby. There was an Olympian largeness and serenity about him. He seemedalmost pagan in the breadth of his hold upon existence. And when hedeparted he left behind him what can only be described as greatunfilled mental spaces. I recall that a placard was hung up in hisparticular corner with the inscription, 'English spoken here. ' Thisamused him. Later there was attached to it another strip upon whichwas crayoned, 'Sir, we had much good talk, ' with the date of the talk. Still later a victim added the words, 'Yes, sir, on that day theBibliotaph tossed and gored a number of people admirably. '

It was difficult for the Bibliotaph not to emit intellectual sparks ofone kind or another. His habit of dealing with every fact as if itdeserved his entire mental force, was a secret of his originality. Everything was worth while. If the fact was a serious fact, all thestrength of his mind would be applied to its exposition or defense. Ifit was a fact of less importance, humor would appear as a means to theconversational end. And he would grow more humorous as the topics grewless significant. When finally he rioted in mere word-play, banter, quizzing, it was a sign that he regarded the matter as worthy nohigher species of notice. 

I like this theory of his wit so well that I am minded not to exposeit to an over-rigid test. The following small fragments of his talkare illustrative of such measure of truth as the theory may contain. 

Among the Bibliotaph's companions was one towards whose mind heaffected the benevolent and encouraging attitude of a father to abudding child. He was asked by this friend to describe a certainquaint and highly successful entertainer. This was the response: 'Thegentleman of whom you speak has the habit of coming before hisaudience as an idiot and retiring as a genius. You and I, sir, couldn't do that; we should sustain the first character consistentlythroughout the entire performance. '

It was his humor to insist that all the virtues and gifts of adistinguished collector were due for their expansion and developmentto association with himself and the writer of these memories. He wouldsay in the presence of the distinguished collector: 'Henry willprobably one day forget us, but on the Day of Judgment, in any justestimate of the causes of his success, the Lord won't. '

I have forgotten what the victim's retort was; it is safe to assumethat it was adequate. 

This same collector had the pleasing habit of honoring the men heloved, among whom the Bibliotaph was chief, with brightly writtenletters which filled ten and fifteen half-sheets. But the averagenumber of words to a line was two, while a five-syllable word hadtrouble in accommodating itself to a line and a half, and the sheetswere written only upon one side. The Bibliotaph's comment was: 'Henryhas a small brain output, but unlimited influence at a paper-mill. '

Of all the merry sayings in which the Bibliotaph indulged himself atthe expense of his closest friend this was the most comforting. Agentleman present was complaining that Henry took liberties incorrecting his pronunciation. 'I have no doubt of the occasional needof such correction, but it isn't often required, and not half so oftenas he seems to think. I, on the other hand, observe frequent minorslips in his use of language, but I do not feel at liberty to correcthim. '

The Bibliotaph began to apply salve to the bruised feelings of thegentleman present as follows: 'The animus of Henry's criticism isunquestionably envy. He probably feels how few flies there are in yourointment. While you are astonished that in his case there should be solittle ointment for so many flies. '

The Bibliotaph never used slang, and the united recollections of hisassociates can adduce but two or three instances in which he sunkverbally so low as even to _hint_ slang. He said that there was onetown which in his capacity of public speaker he should like to visit. It was a remote village in Virginia where there was a girls' seminary, the catalogue of which set forth among advantages of location this:that the town was one to which the traveling lecturer and the circusnever came. The Bibliotaph said, 'I should go there. For I am the onewhen I am on the platform, and by the unanimous testimony of all myfriends I am the other when I am off. '

The second instance not only illustrates his ingenuity in trifles, butalso shows how he could occasionally answer a friend according to hisfolly. He had been describing a visit which he had made in thehero-worshiping days of boyhood to Chappaqua; how friendly andgood-natured the great farmer-editor was; how he called the Bibliotaph'Bub, ' and invited him to stay to dinner; how he stayed and talkedpolitics with his host; how they went out to the barn afterwards tolook at the stock; what Greeley said to him and what he said toGreeley, --it was a perfect bit of word-sketching, spontaneous, realistic, homely, unpretentious, irresistibly comic because of thequaintness of the dialogue as reported, and because of the mentalimage which we formed of this large-headed, round-bellied, precociousyouth, who at the age of sixteen was able for three consecutive hoursto keep the conversational shuttlecock in the air with no less aperson than Horace Greeley. Amid the laughter and comment whichfollowed the narration one mirthful genius who chose for the day tooccupy the seat of the scorner, called out to the Bibliotaph:--

'How old did you say you were at that time, "Bub"?'

'Sixteen. '

'And did you wear whiskers?'

The query was insulting. But the Bibliotaph measured the flippancy ofthe remark with his eye and instantly fitted an answer to the mentalneeds of the questioner. 

'Even if I had, ' he said, 'it would have availed me nothing, for inthose days there was no wind. '

The Bibliotaph was most at home in the book-shop, on the street, or athis hotel. He went to public libraries only in an emergency, for hewas impatient of that needful discipline which compelled him to askfor each volume he wished to see. He had, however, two friends inwhose libraries one might occasionally meet him in the days when hehunted books upon this wide continent. One was the gentleman to whomcertain letters on literature have been openly addressed, and who hasmade a library by a process which involves wise selection and infiniteself-restraint. This priceless little collection contains no volumewhich is imperfect, no volume which mars the fine sense of reposebegotten in one at the sight of lovely books becomingly clothed, andno volume which is not worthy the name of literature. And there ismatter for reflection in the thought that it is not the library of arich man. Money cannot buy the wisdom which has made this collectionwhat it is, and without self-denial it is hardly possible to give thetouch of real elegance to a private library. When dollars are notcounted the assemblage of books becomes promiscuous. How may we betterdescribe this library than by the phrase Infinite riches in a littlebook-case!

There was yet another friend, the Country Squire, who revels inwealth, buys large-paper copies, reads little but deeply, and raiseschickens. His library (the room itself, I mean) is a gentleman'slibrary, with much cornice, much plate-glass, and much carving;whereof a wit said, 'The Squire has such a beautiful library, and noplace to put his books. '

These books are of a sort to rejoice the heart, but their tenure ofoccupancy is uncertain. Hardly one of them but is liable to evictionwithout a moment's notice. They have a look in their attitude whichindicates consciousness of being pilgrims and strangers. They seem tosay, 'We can tarry, we can tarry but a night. ' Some have tarried twonights, others a week, others a year, a few even longer. But asidefrom a dozen or so of volumes, not one of the remaining three thousanddares to affirm that it holds a permanent place in its owner's heartof hearts. It is indeed a noble procession of books which has passedin and out of those doors. A day will come in which the owner realizesthat he has as good as the market can furnish, and then banishmentswill cease. One sighs not for the volumes which deserved exile, butfor those which were sent away because their master ceased to lovethem. 

There was no friend with whom the Bibliotaph lived on easier termsthan with the Country Squire. They were counterparts. Theysupplemented one another. The Bibliotaph, though he was born and bredon a farm, had fled for his salvation to the city. The Squire, a manof city birth and city education, had fled for his soul's health tothe country; he had rendered existence almost perfect by setting up anurban home in rural surroundings. It was well said of that house thatit was finely reticent in its proffers of hospitality, and regallymagnificent in its kindness to those whom it delighted to honor. 

It was in the Country Squire's library that the Bibliotaph first metthat actor with whom he became even more intimate than with the Squirehimself. The closeness of their relation suggested the days of the oldMiracle plays when the theatre and the Church were as hand in glove. The Bibliotaph signified his appreciation of his new friend by givinghim a copy of a sixteenth-century book 'containing a pleasantinvective against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such likeCaterpillars of a Commonwealth. ' The Player in turn compiled for hisfriend of clerical appearance a scrap-book, intended to show how evilassociations corrupt good actors. 

This actor professed that which for want of a better term might becalled parlor agnosticism. The Bibliotaph was sturdily inclinedtowards orthodoxy, and there was from time to time collision betweenthe two. It is my impression that the actor sometimes retired withfour of his five wits halting. But he was brilliant even when hementally staggered. Neither antagonist convinced the other, and aftera while they grew wearied of traveling over one another's minds. 

It fell out on a day that the actor made a fine speech before a largegathering, and mindful of stage effect he introduced a tellingallusion to an all-wise and omnipotent Providence. For this he was, touse his own phrase, 'soundly spanked' by all his friends; that is, hewas mocked at, jeered, ridiculed. To what end, they said, was one anagnostic if he weakly yielded his position to the exigencies of anafter-dinner speech. The Bibliotaph alone took pains to analyze hislate antagonist's position. He wrote to the actor congratulating himupon his success. 'I wondered a little at this, remembering howinconsiderable has been your practice; and I infer that it has beeninconsiderable, for I am aware how seldom an actor can be persuaded tomake a speech. I, too, was at first shocked when I heard that you hadmade a respectful allusion to Deity; but I presently took comfort, _remembering that your gods, like your grease-paints, are purelyprofessional_. '

He was always capital in these teasing moods. To be sure, he buffetedone about tremendously, but his claws were sheathed, and there was acontagiousness in his frolicsome humor. Moreover one learned to lookupon one's self in the light of a public benefactor. To submit to beknocked about by the Bibliotaph was in a modest way to contribute tothe gayety of nations. If one was not absolutely happy one's self, there was a chastened comfort in beholding the happiness of theon-lookers. 

A small author wrote a small book, so small that it could be read inless time than it takes to cover an umbrella, that is, 'while youwait. ' The Bibliotaph had Brobdingnagian joy of this book. He sat andread it to himself in the author's presence, and particularlydiminutive that book appeared as its light cloth cover was outlinedagainst the Bibliotaph's ample black waistcoat. From time to time hewould vent 'a series of small private laughs, ' especially if he was onthe point of announcing some fresh illustration of the fallibility ofinexperienced writers. Finally the uncomfortable author said, 'Don'tsit there and pick out the mistakes. ' To which the Bibliotaphtriumphantly replied, 'What other motive is there for reading it atall?'

He purchased every copy of this book which he could find, and whenasked by the author why he did so, replied, 'In order to withdraw itfrom circulation. ' A moment afterwards he added reflectively, 'But howmay I hope to withdraw a book from that which it has never had?'

He was apt to be severe in his judgment of books, as when he said of avery popular but very feeble literary performance that it was anargument for the existence of God. 'Such intensity of stupidity wasnot realized without Infinite assistance. '

He could be equally emphatic in his comments upon men. Among hisacquaintance was a church dignitary who blew alternately hot and coldupon him. When advised of some new illustration of the divine'suncertainty of attitude, the Bibliotaph merely said, 'He's more of achameleon than he is a clergyman. '

That Bostonian would be deficient in wit who failed to enjoy thisremark. Speaking of the characteristics of American cities, theBibliotaph said, 'It never occurs to the Hub that anything ofimportance can possibly happen at the periphery. '

He greatly admired the genial and philanthropic editor of a well-knownPhiladelphia newspaper. Shortly after Mr. Childs's death some onewrote to the Bibliotaph that in a quiet Kentucky town he had noticed asign over a shop-door which read, 'G. W. Childs, dealer in Tobacco andCigars. ' There was something graceful in the Bibliotaph's reply. Heexpressed surprise at Mr. Childs's new occupation, but declared thatfor his own part he was 'glad to know that the location of Heaven hadat last been definitely ascertained. '

The Bibliotaph habitually indulged himself in the practice ofhero-worship. This propensity led him to make those glorifiedscrap-books which were so striking a feature in his collection. Theywere no commonplace affairs, the ugly result of a union of cheapleather, newspaper-clippings and paste, but sumptuous booksresplendent in morocco and gilt tooling, the creations of an artistwho was eminent among binders. These scrap-books were chiefly devotedto living men, --men who were famous, or who were believed to be on thehigh road to fame. There was a book for each man. In this way did theBibliotaph burn incense before his Dii majores et minores. 

These books were enriched with everything that could illustrate thegifts and virtues of the men in whose honor they were made. Theycontained rare manuscripts, rare pictures, autograph comments andnotes, a bewildering variety of records, --memorabilia which were aboveprice. Poets wrote humorous verse, and artists who justly held theirtime as too precious to permit of their working for love decorated thepages of the Bibliotaph's scrap-books. One does not abuse the word'unique' when he applies it to these striking volumes. 

The Bibliotaph did not always follow contemporary judgment in hisselection of men to be so canonized. He now and then honored a manwhose sense of the relation of achievement to fame would not allow himto admit to himself that he deserved the distinction, and whose senseof humor could not but be strongly excited at the thought ofdeification by so unusual a process. It might be pleasant to considerthat the Bibliotaph cared so much for one's letters as to wish not todestroy them, but it was awful to think of those letters as bound andannotated. This was to get a taste of posthumous fame beforeposthumous fame was due. The Bibliotaph added a new terror to life, for he compelled one to live up to one's scrap-book. He reversed theold Pagan formula, which was to the effect that 'So-and-So died andwas made a god. ' According to the Bibliotaph's prophetic method, a manwas made a god first and allowed to die at his leisure afterward. Notevery one of that little company which his wisdom and love have markedfor great reputation will be able to achieve it. They are unanimouslygrateful that he cared enough for them to wish to drag their humblegifts into the broad light of publicity. But their gratitude istempered by the thought that perhaps he was only elaborately humorousat their expense. 

The Bibliotaph's intellectual processes were so vigorous and hispleasure in mental activity for its own sake was so intense that hewas quite capable of deciding after a topic of discussion had beenintroduced which side he would take. And this with a splendid disdainof the merits of the cause which he espoused. I remember that he onceset out to maintain the thesis that a certain gentleman, as notablefor his virtues as he was conspicuous for lack of beauty, wasessentially a handsome man. The person who initiated the discussion byobserving that 'Mr. Blank was unquestionably a plain man' expectedfrom the Bibliotaph (if he expected any remark whatever) nothingbeyond a Platonic 'That I do most firmly believe. ' He was not a littleastonished when the great book-collector began an elaborate andexhaustive defense of the gentleman whose claims to beauty had beenquestioned. At first it was dialogue, and the opponent had his shareof talk; but when in an unlucky moment he hinted that such energycould only be the result of consciousness on the Bibliotaph's partthat he was in a measure pleading his own cause, the dialogue changedto monologue. For the Bibliotaph girded up his loins and proceeded tosmite his opponent hip and thigh. All in good humor, to be sure, andlaughter reigned, but it was tremendous and it was logicallyconvincing. It was clearly not safe to have a reputation for goodlooks while the Bibliotaph was in this temper. All the gentlemen werein terror lest something about their countenances might be construedas beauty, and men with good complexions longed for newspapers behindwhich to hide their disgrace. 

As for the disputant who had stirred up the monster, his situation wasas unenviable as it was comic to the bystanders. He had never beforedropped a stone into the great geyser. He was therefore unprepared forthe result. One likened him to an unprotected traveler in a heavyrain-storm. For the Bibliotaph's unpremeditated speech was a verycloud-burst of eloquence. The unhappy gentleman looked despairingly inevery direction as if beseeching us for the loan of a word-proofumbrella. There was none to be had. We who had known a like experiencewere not sorry to stand under cover and watch a fellow mortal undergothis verbal drenching. The situation recalled one described byLockhart when a guest differed on a point of scholarship with thegreat Coleridge. Coleridge began to 'exert himself. ' He burst into asteady stream of talk which broadened and deepened as the momentsfled. When finally it ceased the bewildered auditor pulled himselftogether and exclaimed, 'Zounds, I was never so _be-thumped_ withwords in my life!'

People who had opportunity of observing the Bibliotaph were tempted tospeculate on what he might have become if he had not chosen to be justwhat he was. His versatility led them to declare for this, that, andthe other profession, largely in accordance with their own personalpreferences. Lawyers were sure that he should have been an advocate;ministers that he would have done well to yield to the 'call' he hadin his youth; teachers were positive that he would have made aninspiring teacher. No one, so far as I know, ever told him that inbecoming a book-collector he had deprived the world of a greatmusician; for he was like Charles Lamb in that he was sentimentallyinclined to harmony but organically incapable of a tune. 

Yet he was so broad-minded that it was not possible for him to holdeven a neutral attitude in the presence of anything in which otherpeople delighted. I have known him to sit through a long and heavyorgan recital, not in a resigned manner but actively attentive, clearly determined that if the minutest portion of his soul wassensitive to the fugues of J. S. Bach he would allow that portion tobask in the sunshine of an unwonted experience. So that from one pointof view he was the incarnation of tolerance as he certainly was theincarnation of good-humor and generosity. He envied no man his giftsfrom Nature or Fortune. He was not only glad to let live, butpainstakingly energetic in making the living of people a pleasure tothem, and he received with amused placidity adverse comments uponhimself. 

Words which have been used to describe a famous man of this century Iwill venture to apply in part to the Bibliotaph. 'He was a kind ofgigantic and Olympian school-boy, ... Loving-hearted, bountiful, wholesome and sterling to the heart's core. '

LAST WORDS ON THE BIBLIOTAPH

The Bibliotaph's major passion was for collecting books; but he had aminor passion, the bare mention of which caused people to lift theireyebrows suspiciously. He was a shameless, a persistent, and asuccessful hunter of autographs. His desire was for the signatures ofliving men of letters, though an occasional dead author would beallowed a place in the collection, provided he had not been dead toolong. As a rule, however, the Bibliotaph coveted the 'hand of write'of the man who was now more or less conspicuously in the public eye. This autograph must be written in a representative work of the authorin question. The Bibliotaph would not have crossed the street tosecure a line from Ben Jonson's pen, but he mourned because theautograph of the Rev. C. L. Dodgson was not forthcoming, nor likely tobe. His conception of happiness was this: to own a copy of the firstedition of _Alice in Wonderland_, upon the fly-leaf of which LewisCarroll had written his name, together with the statement that he haddone so at the Bibliotaph's request, and because that eminentcollector could not be made happy in any other Way. 

The Bibliotaph liked the autograph of the modern man of lettersbecause it _was_ modern, and because there was a reasonable hope ofits being genuine. He loved genuineness. Everything about himself wasexactly what it pretended to be. From his soul to his clothing he washonest. And his love for the genuine was only surpassed in degree byhis contempt for the spurious. I remember that some one gave him a bitof silverware, a toilet article, perhaps, which he next day threw outof a car window, because he had discovered that it was not sterling. He scouted the suggestion that possibly the giver may not have known. Such ignorance was inexcusable, he said. 'The likelier interpretationwas that the gift was symbolical of the giver. ' The act seemed brutal, and the comment thereon even more so. But to realize the atmosphere, the setting of the incident, one must imagine the Bibliotaph's roundand comfortable figure, his humorous look, and the air of genialplacidity with which he would do and say a thing like this. It was asimpossible to be angry with him in behalf of the unfortunate giver ofcheap silver as to take offense at a tree or mountain. And it wasuseless to argue the matter--nay it was folly, for he wouldimmediately become polysyllabic and talk one down. 

It was this desire for genuine things which made him entirelysuspicious of autographs which had been bought and sold. He had nofaith in them, and he would weaken your faith, supposing you were acollector of such things. Offer him an autograph of our firstpresident and he would reply, 'I don't believe that it's genuine; andif it were I shouldn't care for it; I never had the honor of GeneralWashington's acquaintance. ' The inference was that one could have apersonal relation with a living great man, and the chances werelargely in favor of getting an autograph that was not an object ofsuspicion. 

Few collectors in this line have been as happy as the Bibliotaph. Theproblem was easily mastered with respect to the majority of authors. As a rule an author is not unwilling to give such additional pleasureto a reader of his book as may consist in writing his name in thereader's copy. It is conceivable that the author may be bored by toomany requests of this nature, but he might be bored to an even greaterdegree if no one cared enough for him to ask for his autograph. Somewriters resisted a little, and it was beautiful to see the Bibliotaphbring them to terms. He was a highwayman of the Tom Faggus type, justso adroit, and courteous, and daring. He was perhaps at his best incases where he had actually to hold up his victim; one may imagine thescene, --the author resisting, the Bibliotaph determined and having themasterful air of an expert who had handled just such cases before. 

A humble satellite who disapproved of these proceedings read aloud tothe Bibliotaph that scorching little essay entitled _InvoluntaryBailees_, written by perhaps the wittiest living English essayist. Aninvoluntary bailee--as the essayist explains--is a person to whompeople (generally unknown to him) send things which he does not wishto receive, but which _they_ are anxious to have returned. If a maninsists upon lending you a book, you become an involuntary bailee. Youdon't wish to read the book, but you have it in your possession. Ithas come to you by post, let us suppose, 'and to pack it up and sendit back again requires a piece of string, energy, brown paper, andstamps enough to defray the postage. ' And it is a question whether acasual acquaintance 'has any right thus to make demands on a man'senergy, money, time, brown paper, string, and other capital andcommodities. ' There are other ways of making a man an involuntarybailee. You may ask him to pass judgment on your poetry, or to use hisinfluence to get your tragedy produced, or to do any one of a halfhundred things which he doesn't want to do and which you have nobusiness to ask him to do. The essayist makes no mention of theparticular form of sin which the Bibliotaph practiced, but he wouldprobably admit that malediction was the only proper treatment for theidler who bothers respectable authors by asking them to write theirnames in his copies of their books. For to what greater extent couldone trespass upon an author's patience, energy, brown paper, string, and commodities generally? It was amusing to watch the Bibliotaph ashe listened to this arraignment of his favorite pursuit. The writer ofthe essay admits that there may be extenuating circumstances. If theautograph collector comes bearing gifts one may smile upon his suit. If for example he accompanies his request for an autograph with'several brace of grouse, or a salmon of noble proportions, or rareold books bound by Derome, or a service of Worcester china with thesquare mark, ' he may hope for success. The essayist opines that suchgifts 'will not be returned by a celebrity who respects himself. ''They bless him who gives and him who takes much more than tons ofmanuscript poetry, and thousands of entreaties for an autograph. '

A superficial examination of the Bibliotaph's collection revealed thefact that he had either used necromancy or given many gifts. Thereader may imagine some such conversation between the great collectorand one of his dazzled visitors:--

'Pray, how did you come by this?'

'His lordship has always been very kind in such matters. '

'And where did you get this?'

'I am greatly indebted to the Prime Minister for his complaisance. '

'But this poet is said to abhor Americans. '

'You see that his antipathy has not prevented his writing a stanza inmy copy of his most notable volume. '

'And this?'

'I have at divers times contributed the sum of five dollars to diversFresh Air funds. '

The Bibliotaph could not be convinced that his sin of autographcollecting was not venial. When authors denied his requests, on theground that they were intrusions, he was inclined to believe thatselfishness lay at the basis of their motives. Some men are quitewilling to accept great fame, but they resent being obliged to pay thepenalties. They wish to sit in the fierce light which beats on anintellectual throne, but they are indignant when the passers-by stopto stare at them. They imagine that they can successfully combine theglory of honorable publicity with the perfect retirement enjoyed onlyby aspiring mediocrity. The Bibliotaph believed that he was amissionary to these people. He awakened in them a sense of theirobligations toward their admirers. The principle involved is akin tothat enunciated by a certain American philosopher, who held that it isan act of generosity to borrow of a man once in a while; it gives thatman a lively interest in the possible success or possible failure ofyour undertaking. 

He levied autographic toll on young writers. For mature men of letterswith established reputations he would do extraordinary and difficultservices. A famous Englishman, not a novelist by profession, albeit hewrote one of the most successful novels of his day, earnestly desiredto own if possible a complete set of all the American pirated editionsof his book. The Bibliotaph set himself to this task, and collectedenergetically for two years. The undertaking was considerable, formany of the pirated editions were in pamphlet, and dating from twentyyears back. It was almost impossible to get the earliest in a spotlesscondition. Quantities of trash had to be overhauled, and weeks mightelapse before a perfect copy of a given edition would come to light. Books are dirty, but pamphlets are dirtier. The Bibliotaph declaredthat had he rendered an itemized bill for services in this matter, thelargest item would have been for Turkish baths. 

Here was a case in which the collector paid well for the privilege ofhaving a signed copy of a well-loved author's novel. He begrudged noportion of his time or expenditure. If it pleased the great Englishmanto have upon his shelves, in compact array and in spotless condition, these proofs of what he _didn't_ earn by the publication of his booksin America, well and good. The Bibliotaph was delighted that so modesta service on his part could give so apparently great a pleasure. TheEnglishman must have had the collecting instinct, and he must havebeen philosophical, since he could contemplate with equanimity theseillegitimate volumes. 

The conclusion of the story is this: The work of collecting thereprints was finished. The last installment reached the famousEnglishman during an illness which subsequently proved fatal. Theywere spread upon the coverlid of the bed, and the invalid took a greatand humorous satisfaction in looking them over. Said the Bibliotaph, recounting the incident in his succinct way, 'They reached him on hisdeath-bed, --and made him willing to go. '

The Bibliotaph was true to the traditions of the book-collectingbrotherhood, in that he read but little. His knowledge of the worldwas fresh from life, not 'strained through books, ' as Johnson said ofa certain Irish painter whom he knew at Birmingham. But the Bibliotaphwas a mighty devourer of book-catalogues. He got a more completesatisfaction, I used to think, in reading a catalogue than in readingany other kind of literature. To see him unwrapping the packages whichhis English mail had brought was to see a happy man. For in additionto books by post, there would be bundles of sale-catalogues. Thenmight you behold his eyes sparkle as he spread out the tempting lists;the humorous lines about the corners of his mouth deepened, and hewould take on what a little girl who watched him called his 'pussy-catlook. ' Then with an indelible pencil in his huge and pudgy left fist(for the Bibliotaph was a Benjaminite), he would go through the pages, checking off the items of interest, rolling with delight in his chairas he exclaimed from time to time, 'Good books! Such good books!' Sayto him that you yourself liked to read a catalogue, and his responsewas pretty sure to be, 'Pleasant, isn't it?' This was expressive of ahigh state of happiness, and was an allusion. For the Bibliotaph wasonce with a newly-married man, and they two met another man, who, asthe conversation proceeded, disclosed the fact that he also had butrecently been wed. Whereupon the first bridegroom, marveling thatthere could be another in the world so exalted as himself, exclaimedwith sympathetic delight, 'And _you_, too, are married. ' 'Yes, ' saidthe second, 'pleasant, isn't it?' with much the same air that he wouldhave said, 'Nice afternoon. ' This was one of the incidents which madethe Bibliotaph skeptical about marriage. But he adopted the phrase asa useful one with which to express the state of highest mental andspiritual exaltation. 

People wondered at the extent of his knowledge of books. It was verygreat, but it was not incredible. If a man cannot touch pitch withoutbeing defiled, still less can he handle books without acquiringbibliographical information. I am not sure that the Bibliotaph everheard of that professor of history who used to urge his pupils tohandle books, even when they could not get time to read them. 'Go tothe library, take down the volumes, turn over the leaves, read thetitle-pages and the tables of contents; information will stick toyou'--this was the professor's advice. Information acquired in thisway may not be profound, but so far as it goes it is definite anduseful. For the collector it is indispensable. In this way theBibliotaph had amassed his seemingly phenomenal knowledge of books. Hehad handled thousands and tens of thousands of volumes, and he neverrelinquished his hold upon a book until he had 'placed' it, --until heknew just what its rank was in the hierarchy of desirability. 

Between a diligent reading of catalogues and an equally diligentrummaging among the collections of third and fourth rate oldbook-shops, the Bibliotaph had his reward. He undoubtedly bought adeal of trash, but he also lighted upon nuggets. For example, inLeask's Life of Boswell is an account of that curious little romanceentitled _Dorando_. This so-called _Spanish Tale_, printed for J. Wilkie at the Bible in St. Paul's Church-Yard, was the work of JamesBoswell. It was published anonymously in 1767, and he who would mightthen have bought it for 'one shilling. ' It was to be 'sold also by J. Dodsley in Pall Mall, T. Davies in Russell-Street, Covent Garden, andby the Book-sellers of Scotland. ' This T. Davies was the very man whointroduced Boswell to Johnson. He was an actor as well as abookseller. _Dorando_ was a story with a key. Under the names of DonStocaccio, Don Tipponi, and Don Rodomontado real people weredescribed, and the facts of the 'famous Douglas cause' were presentedto the public. The little volume was suppressed in so far as that waspossible. It is rare, so rare that Boswell's latest biographer speaksof it as the 'forlorn hope of the book-hunter, ' though he doubts notthat copies of it are lurking in some private collection. One copy atleast is lurking in the Bibliotaph's library. He bought it, not for asong to be sure, but very reasonably. The Bibliotaph declares thatthis book is good for but one thing, --to shake in the faces of Boswellcollectors who haven't it. 

The Bibliotaph had many literary heroes. Conspicuous among them wereProfessor Richard Porson and Benjamin Jowett, the late master ofBalliol. The Bibliotaph collected everything that related to these twomen, all the books with which they had had anything to do, everynewspaper clipping and magazine article which threw light upon theirmanners, habits, modes of thought. He especially loved to tellanecdotes of Porson. He knew many. He had an interleaved copy of J. Selby Watson's Life of Porson into which were copied a multitude offacts not to be found in that amusing biography. The Bibliotaph usedto say that he would rather have known Porson than any other man ofhis time. He used to quote this as one of the best illustrations ofPorson's wit, and one of the finest examples of the retort satiric tobe found in any language. One of Porson's works was assailed byWakefield and by Hermann, scholars to be sure, but scholars whosescholarship Porson held in contempt. Being told of their attack Porsononly said that 'whatever he wrote in the future should be written insuch a way that those fellows wouldn't be able to reach it with theirfore-paws if they stood on their hind-legs to get at it!'

The Bibliotaph gave such an air of contemporaneity to his stories ofthe great Greek professor that it seemed at times as if they were therelations of one who had actually known Porson. So vividly did heportray the marvels of that compound of thirst and scholarship that noone had the heart to laugh when, after one of his narrations, agentleman asked the Bibliotaph if he himself had studied under Porson. 

'Not _under_ him but _with_ him, ' said the Bibliotaph. 'He was mycoeval. Porson, Richard Bentley, Joseph Scaliger, and I were allstudents together. '

Speaking of Jowett the Bibliotaph once said that it was wonderful tonote how culture failed to counteract in an Englishman thatdisposition to heave stones at an American. Jowett, with hisremarkable breadth of mind and temper, was quite capable of observing, with respect to a certain book, that it was American, 'yet in perfecttaste. ' 'This, ' said the Bibliotaph, 'is as if one were to say, "Theguests were Americans, but no one expectorated on the carpet. "' TheBibliotaph thought that there was not so much reason for thisattitude. The sins of Englishmen and Americans were identical, hebelieved, but the forms of their expression were different. 'Our sinis a voluble boastfulness; theirs is an irritating, unrestrainable, all-but-constantly manifested, satisfied self-consciousness. The sameresults are reached by different avenues. We praise ourselves; theybelittle others. ' Then he added with a smile: 'Thus even in theselatter days are the Scriptures exemplified; the same spirit withvarying manifestations. '

He was once commenting upon Jowett's classification of humorists. Jowett divided humorists 'into three categories or classes; those whoare not worth reading at all; those who are worth reading once, butonce only; and those who are worth reading again and again and forever. ' This remark was made to Swinburne, who quotes it in his all toobrief _Recollections of Professor Jowett_. Swinburne says that thestarting-point of their discussion was the _Biglow Papers_, which'famous and admirable work of American humour' Jowett placed in thesecond class. Swinburne himself thought that the _Biglow Papers_ wastoo good for the second class and not quite good enough for the third. 'I would suggest that a fourth might be provided, to include suchexamples as are worth, let us say, two or three readings in alife-time. '

The Bibliotaph made a variety of comments on this, but I remember onlythe following; it is a reason for not including the _Biglow Papers_ inJowett's third and crowning class. 'Humor to be popular permanentlymust be general rather than local, and have to do with a phase ofcharacter rather than a fact of history; that is, it must deal in agreat way with what is always interesting to all men. Humor that doesnot meet this requirement is not likely, when its novelty has wornoff, to be read even occasionally save by those who enjoy it as anintellectual performance or who are making a critical study of itsauthor. ' The observation, if not profound, is at least sensible, andit illustrates very well the Bibliotaph's love of alliteration andantithesis. But it is easier to remember and to report his caustic andhumorous remarks. 

The Country Squire had a card-catalogue of the books in his library, and he delighted to make therein entries of his past and his newpurchases. But it was not always possible to find upon the shelvesbooks that were mentioned in the catalogue. The Bibliotaph tookadvantage of a few instances of this sort to prod his moneyed friend. He would ask the Squire if he had such-and-such a book. The Squirewould say that he had, and appeal to his catalogue in proof of it. Then would follow a search for the volume. If, as sometimes happened, no book corresponding to the entry could be found, the Bibliotaphwould be satirical and remark:--

'I'll tell you what you ought to name your catalogue. '

'What?'

'Great expectations!'

Another time he said, 'This is not a list of your books, this is alist of the things that you intend to buy;' or he would suggest thatthe Squire would do well to christen his catalogue _VaultingAmbition_. Perhaps the variation might take this form. After afruitless search for some book, which upon the testimony of thecatalogue was certainly in the collection, the Bibliotaph wouldobserve, 'This catalogue might not inappropriately be spoken of as thesubstance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen. 'Another time the Bibliotaph said to the Squire, calling to mind thewell-known dictum as to the indispensableness of certain books, 'Between what one sees on your shelves and what one reads in yourcard-catalogue one would have reason to believe that you were agentleman. '

Once the Bibliotaph said to me in the presence of the Squire: 'I thinkthat our individual relation to books might be expressed in this way. You read books but you don't buy them. I buy books but I don't readthem. The Squire neither reads them nor buys them, --onlycard-catalogues them!'

To all this the Squire had a reply which was worldly, emphatic, andadequate, but the object of this study is not to exhibit the virtuesof the Squire's speech, witty though it was. 

One of the Bibliotaph's friends began without sufficient provocationto write verse. The Bibliotaph thought that if the matter were takenpromptly in hand the man could be saved. Accordingly, when next hegave this friend a book he wrote upon a fly-leaf: 'To a Poet who isnothing if not original--and who is not original!' And the injuredrhymester exclaimed when he read the inscription: 'You deface everybook you give me. '

He could pay a compliment, as when he was dining with a married pairwho were thought to be not yet disenchanted albeit in the tenth yearof their married life. The lady was speaking to the Bibliotaph, but inthe eagerness of conversation addressed him by her husband's firstname. Whereupon he turned to the husband and said: 'Your wife impliesthat I am a repository of grace and a bundle of virtues, and calls meby your name. '

He once sent this same lady, apropos of the return of the shirt-waistseason, a dozen neckties. In the box was his card with these wordspenciled upon it: 'A contribution to the man-made dress of a God-madewoman. '

The Squire had great skill in imitating the cries of various domesticfowl, as well as dogs, cats, and children. Once, in a moment of socialrelaxation, he was giving an exhibition of his power to the vastamusement of his guests. When he had finished, the Bibliotaph said:'The theory of Henry Ward Beecher that every man has something of theanimal in him is superabundantly exemplified in _your_ case. You, sir, have got the whole Ark. '

There was a quaint humor in his most commonplace remarks. Of all thefruits of the earth he loved most a watermelon. And when afellow-traveler remarked, 'That watermelon which we had at dinner wasbad, ' the Bibliotaph instantly replied: 'There is no such thing as a_bad_ watermelon. There are watermelons, and _better_ watermelons. '

I expressed astonishment on learning that he stood six feet in hisshoes. He replied: 'People are so preoccupied in the consideration ofmy thickness that they don't have time to observe my height. '

Again, when he was walking through a private park which containednumerous monstrosities in the shape of painted metal deer onpedestals, pursued (also on pedestals) by hunters and dogs, theBibliotaph pointed to one of the dogs and said, 'Cave cast-ironcanem!'

He once accompanied a party of friends and acquaintances to the summitof Mt. Tom. The ascent is made in these days by a very remarkableinclined plane. After looking at the extensive and exquisite view, theBibliotaph fell to examining his return coupon, which read, 'Good forone Trip Down. ' Then he said: 'Let us hope that in a post-terrestrialexperience our tickets will not read in this way. '

He was once ascending in the unusually commodious and luxuriouselevator of a new ten-story hotel and remarked to his companion: 'Ifwe can't be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease, we can atleast start in that direction under not dissimilar conditions. ' Healso said that the advantage of stopping at this particular hotel wasthat you were able to get as far as possible from the city in which itwas located. 

He studied the dictionary with great diligence and was unusuallyaccurate in his pronunciation. He took an amused satisfaction inpronouncing exactly certain words which in common talk had shiftedphonetically from their moorings. This led a gentleman who wasintimate with the Bibliotaph to say to him, 'Why, if I were topronounce that word among my kinsfolk as you do they'd think I wascrazy. ' 'What you mean, ' said the Bibliotaph, 'is, that they wouldlook upon it in the light of supererogatory supplementary evidence. '

He himself indulged overmuch in alliteration, but it was with humorousintent; and critics forgave it in him when they would have reprehendedit in another. He had no notion that it was fine. Taken, however, inconnection with his emphatic manner and sonorous voice he produced adecided and original effect. Meeting the Squire's wife after aconsiderable interval, I asked whether her husband had been behavingwell. She replied 'As usual. ' Whereupon the Bibliotaph said, 'You meanthat his conduct in these days is characterized by a plethora ofintention and a paucity of performance. '

He objected to enlarging the boundaries of words until they stood fortoo many things. Let a word be kept so far as was reasonable to itsearlier and authorized meaning. Speaking of the word 'symposium, 'which has been stretched to mean a collection of short articles on agiven subject, the Bibliotaph said that he could fancy a honey-beewhich had been feasting on pumice until it was unable to make the linecharacteristic of its kind, explaining to its queen that it had beento a symposium; but that he doubted if we ought to allow any othermeaning. 

The Bibliotaph got much amusement from what he insisted were theill-concealed anxieties of his friend the actor on the subject of afuture state. 'He has acquired, ' said the Bibliotaph, 'both a patheticand a prophetic interest in that place which begins as heaven does, but stops off monosyllabically. '

The two men were one day discussing the question of the permanency offame, how ephemeral for example was that reputation which dependedupon the living presence of the artist to make good its claim; how anactor, an orator, a singer, was bound to enjoy his glory while itlasted, since at the instant of his death all tangible evidence ofgreatness disappeared; he could not be proven great to one who hadnever seen and heard him. Having reached this point in hisphilosophizing the Bibliotaph's player-friend became sentimental andquoted a great comedian to the effect that 'a dead actor was a mightyuseless thing. ' 'Certainly, ' said the Bibliotaph, 'having exhaustedthe life that now is, and having no hope of the life that is to come. '

Sometimes it pleased the Bibliotaph to maintain that his friend of thefootlights would be in the future state a mere homeless wanderer, having neither positive satisfaction nor positive discomfort. For theactor was wont to insist that even if there were an orthodox heavenits moral opposite were the desirable locality; all the clever andinteresting fellows would be down below. 'Except yourself, ' said theBibliotaph. 'You, sir, will be eliminated by your own reasoning. Youwill be denied heaven because you are not good, and hell because youare not great. '

On the whole it pleased the Bibliotaph to maintain that his friend'scourse was downward, and that the sooner he reconciled himself to hisundoubted fate the better. 'Why speculate upon it?' he said paternallyto the actor, 'your prospective comparisons will one day yield toreminiscent contrasts. '

The actor was convinced that the Bibliotaph's own past life neededlooking into, and he declared that when he got a chance he was goingto examine the great records. To which the Bibliotaph promptlyresponded: 'The books of the recording angel will undoubtedly be opento your inspection if you can get an hour off to come up. Theprobability is that you will be overworked. '

The Bibliotaph never lost an opportunity for teasing. He arrived lateone evening at the house of a friend where he was always heartilywelcome, and before answering the chorus of greetings, proceeded tokiss the lady of the mansion, a queenly and handsome woman. Beingasked why he--who was a large man and very shy with respect to women, as large men always are--should have done this thing, he answered thatthe kiss had been sent by a common friend and that he had delivered itat once, 'for if there was anything he prided himself upon it was acourageous discharge of an unpleasant duty. '

Once when he had been narrating this incident he was asked what replythe lady had made to so uncourteous a speech. 'I don't remember, ' saidthe Bibliotaph, 'it was long ago; but my opinion is that she wouldhave been justified in denominating me by a monosyllable beginningwith the initial letter of the alphabet and followed by successivesibilants. '

One of the Bibliotaph's fellow book-hunters owned a chair said to havebeen given by Sir Edwin Landseer to Sir Walter Scott. The chair wasinteresting to behold, but the Bibliotaph after attempting to sit init immediately got up and declared that it was not a genuine relic:'Sir Edwin had reason to be grateful to rather than indignant at SirWalter Scott. '

He said of a highly critical person that if that man were to become aminister he would probably announce as the subject of his firstsermon: 'The conditions that God must meet in order to be acceptableto me. ' He said of a poor orator who had copyrighted one of his mostindifferent speeches, that the man 'positively suffered from an excessof caution. ' He remarked once that the great trouble with a certainlady was 'she labored under the delusion that she enjoyed occasionalseasons of sanity. '

The _nil admirari_ attitude was one which he never affected, and hehad a contempt for men who denied to the great in literature and artthat praise which was their due. This led him to say apropos of anobscure critic who had assailed one of the poetical masters: 'When theLord makes a man a fool he injures him; but when He so constitutes himthat the man is never happy unless he is making that fact public, Heinsults him. '

He enjoyed speculating on the subject of marriage, especially in thepresence of those friends who unlike himself knew something about itempirically. He delighted to tell his lady acquaintances that theirhusbands would undoubtedly marry a second time if they had the chance. It was inevitable. A man whose experience has been fortunate is boundto marry again, because he is like the man who broke the bank at MonteCarlo. A man who has been unhappily married marries again because likean unfortunate gamester he has reached the time when his luck has gotto change. The Bibliotaph then added with a smile: 'I have the ideathat many men who marry a second time do in effect what is often doneby unsuccessful gamblers at Monte Carlo; they go out and commitsuicide. '

The Bibliotaph played but few games. There was one, however, in whichhe was skillful. I blush to speak of it in these days of much muscularactivity. What have golfers, and tennis-players, and makers of centuryruns to do with croquet? Yet there was a time when croquet was spokenof as 'the coming game;' and had not Clintock's friend Jenningswritten an epic poem upon it in twelve books, which poem he offered tolend to a certain brilliant young lady? But Gwendolen despised boysand cared even less for their poetry than for themselves. 

At the house of the Country Squire the Bibliotaph was able to gratifyhis passion for croquet, and verily he was a master. He made agrotesque figure upon the court, with his big frame which must stoopmightily to take account of balls and short-handled mallets, with hisagile manner, his uncovered head shaggy with its barbaric profusion ofhair (whereby some one was led to nickname him Bibliotaph Indetonsus), with the scanty black alpaca coat in which he invariably played--acoat so short in the sleeves and so brief in the skirt that the figurecut by the wearer might almost have passed for that of Mynheer TenBroek of many-trowsered memory. But it was vastly more amusing towatch him than to play with him. He had a devil 'most undoubted. ' Onlywith the help of black art and by mortgaging one's soul would it havebeen possible to accomplish some of the things which he accomplished. For the materials of croquet are so imperfect at best that chance isan influential element. I've seen tennis-players in the intervals of_their_ game watch the Bibliotaph with that superior smile suggestiveof contempt for the puerility of his favorite sport. They might evencondescend to take a mallet for a while to amuse _him_; but presentlydiscomfited they would retire to a game less capricious than croquetand one in which there was reasonable hope that a given cause wouldproduce its wonted effect. 

The Bibliotaph played strictly for the purpose of winning, and tooksavage joy in his conquests. In playing with him one had to do twomen's work; one must play, and then one must summon such philosophy asone might to suffer continuous defeat, and such wit as one possessedto beat back a steady onslaught of daring and witty criticisms. 'Iplay like a fool, ' said a despairing opponent after fruitless effortto win a just share of the games. 'We all have our moments ofunconsciousness, ' purred the Bibliotaph blandly in response. This samedespairing opponent, who was an expert in everything he played, saidthat there was but one solace after croquet with the Bibliotaph; hewould go home and read Hazlitt's essay on the Indian Jugglers. 

 * * * * *

Here ends the account of the Bibliotaph. From these inadequate notesit is possible to get some little idea of his habits and conversation. The library is said to be still growing. Packages of books comemysteriously from the corners of the earth and make their way to thatremote and almost inaccessible village where the great collector hideshis treasures. No one has ever penetrated that region, and no one, sofar as I am aware, has ever seen the treasures. The books lieentombed, as it were, awaiting such day of resurrection as their ownershall appoint them. The day is likely to be long delayed. Of thecollector's whereabouts now no one of his friends dares to speakpositively; for at the time when knowledge of him was most exact THEBIBLIOTAPH was like a newly-discovered comet, --his course wasproblematical. 

THOMAS HARDY

I

'The reason why so few good books are written is that so few peoplethat can write know anything. ' So said a man who, during a busycareer, found time to add several fine volumes to the scanty number ofgood books. And in a vivacious paragraph which follows this initialsentence he humorously anathematizes the literary life. He showsconvincingly that 'secluded habits do not tend to eloquence. ' He saysthat the 'indifferent apathy' so common among studious persons is byno means favorable to liveliness of narration. He proves that men whowill not live cannot write; that people who shut themselves up inlibraries have dry brains. He avows his confidence in the 'originalway of writing books, ' the way of the first author, who must havelooked at things for himself, 'since there were no books for him tocopy from;' and he challenges the reader to prove that this originalway is not the best way. 'Where, ' he asks, 'are the amusing books fromvoracious students and habitual writers?'

This startling arraignment of authors has been made by other men thanWalter Bagehot. Hazlitt in his essay on the 'Ignorance of the Learned'teaches much the same doctrine. Its general truth is indisputable, though Bagehot himself makes exception in favor of Sir Walter Scott. But the two famous critics are united in their conviction that learnedpeople are generally dull, and that books which are the work ofhabitual writers are not amusing. 

There are as a matter of course more exceptions than one. Thomas Hardyis a distinguished exception. Thomas Hardy is an 'habitual writer, 'but he is always amusing. The following paragraphs are intended toemphasize certain causes of this quality in his work, the quality byvirtue of which he chains the attention and proves himself the mostreadable novelist now living. That he does attract and hold is clearto any one who has tried no more than a half-dozen pages from one ofhis best stories. He has the fatal habit of being interesting, --fatalbecause it robs you who read him of time which you might else havedevoted to 'improving' literature, such as history, political economy, or light science. He destroys your peace of mind by compelling yoursympathies in behalf of people who never existed. He undermines yourwill power and makes you his slave. You declare that you will read butone more chapter and you weakly consent to make it two chapters. As aspecial indulgence you spoil a working day in order to learn about the_Return of the Native_, perhaps agreeing with a supposititious 'betterself' that you will waste no more time on novels for the next sixmonths. But you are of ascetic fibre indeed if you do not follow upthe book with a reading of _The Woodlanders_ and _The Mayor ofCasterbridge_. 

There is a reason for this. If the practiced writer often fails tomake a good book because he knows nothing, Mr. Hardy must succeed inlarge part because he knows so much. The more one reads him the moreis one impressed with the extent of his knowledge. He has an intimateacquaintance with an immense number of interesting things. 

He knows men and women--if not all sorts and all conditions, at leasta great many varieties of the human animal. Moreover, his men are menand his women are women. He does not use them as figures to accentuatea landscape, or as ventriloquist's puppets to draw away attention fromthe fact that he himself is doing all the talking. His people haveindividuality, power of speech, power of motion. He does not tell youthat such a one is clever or witty; the character which he has createddoes that for himself by doing clever things and making witty remarks. In an excellent story by a celebrated modern master there is a younglady who is declared to be clever and brilliant. Out of forty or fiftyobservations which she makes, the most extraordinary concerns herfather; she says, 'Isn't dear papa delightful?' At another time sheinquires whether another gentleman is not also delightful. Hardy'sresources are not so meagre as this. When his people talk welisten, --we do not endure. 

He knows other things besides men and women. He knows the soil, thetrees, the sky, the sunsets, the infinite variations of the landscapeunder cloud and sunshine. He knows horses, sheep, cows, dogs, cats. Heunderstands the interpretation of sounds, --a detail which fewnovelists comprehend or treat with accuracy; the pages of his booksring with the noises of house, street, and country. Moreover there isnothing conventional in his transcript of facts. There is no evidencethat he has been in the least degree influenced by other men's minds. He takes the raw stuff of which novels are made and moulds it as hewill. He has an absolutely fresh eye, as painters sometimes say. Helooks on life as if he were the first literary man, 'and none had everlived before him. ' Paraphrasing Ruskin, one may say of Hardy that inplace of studying the old masters he has studied what the old mastersstudied. But his point of view is his own. His pages are notreminiscent of other pages. He never makes you think of something youhave read, but invariably of something you have seen or would like tosee. He is an original writer, which means that he takes his materialat first hand and eschews documents. There is considerable evidencethat he has read books, but there is no reason for supposing thatbooks have damaged him. 

Dr. Farmer proved that Shakespeare had no 'learning. ' One mightperhaps demonstrate that Thomas Hardy is equally fortunate. In thatcase he and Shakespeare may felicitate one another. Though when weremember that in our day it is hardly possible to avoid a tincture ofscholarship, we may be doing the fairer thing by these two men if wesay that the one had small Greek and the other has adroitly concealedthe measure of Greek, whether great or small, which is in hispossession. To put the matter in another form, though Hardy may havedrunk in large quantity 'the spirit breathed from dead men to theirkind, ' he has not allowed his potations to intoxicate him. 

This paragraph is not likely to be misinterpreted unless by somehonest soul who has yet to learn that 'literature is not sworntestimony. ' Therefore it may be well to add that Mr. Hardy undoubtedlyowns a collection of books, and has upon his shelves dictionaries andencyclopedias, together with a decent representation of those workswhich people call 'standard. ' But it is of importance to rememberthis: That while he may be a well-read man, as the phrase goes, he isnot and never has been of that class which Emerson describes with palesarcasm as 'meek young men in libraries. ' It is clear that Hardy hasnot 'weakened his eyesight over books, ' and it is equally clear thathe has 'sharpened his eyesight on men and women. ' Let us consider afew of his virtues. 

II

In the first place he tells a good story. No extravagant praise is duehim for this; it is his business, his trade. He ought to do it, andtherefore he does it. The 'first morality' of a novelist is to be ableto tell a story, as the first morality of a painter is to be able tohandle his brush skillfully and make it do his brain's intending. After all, telling stories in an admirable fashion is rather afamiliar accomplishment nowadays. Many men, many women are able tomake stories of considerable ingenuity as to plot, and of thrillinginterest in the unrolling of a scheme of events. Numberless writersare shrewd and clever in constructing their 'fable, ' but they areunable to do much beyond this. Walter Besant writes good stories;Robert Buchanan writes good stories; Grant Allen and David ChristieMurray are acceptable to many readers. But unless I mistake greatlyand do these men an injustice I should be sorry to do them, theirability ceases just at this point. They tell good stories and donothing else. They write books and do not make literature. They areauthors by their own will and not by grace of God. It may be said ofthem as Augustine Birrell said of Professor Freeman and the Bishop ofChester, that they are horny-handed sons of toil and worthy of theirwage. But one would like to say a little more. Granting that this ispraise, it is so faint as to be almost inaudible. If Hardy only wrotegood stories he would be merely doing his duty, and thereforeaccounted an unprofitable servant. But he does much besides. 

He fulfills one great function of the literary artist, which is tomediate between nature and the reading public. Such a man is an eyespecialist. Through his amiable offices people who have hitherto beenblind are put into condition to see. Near-sighted persons havespectacles fitted to them--which they generally refuse to wear, notcaring for literature which clears the mental vision. 

Hardy opens the eyes of the reader to the charm, the beauty, themystery to be found in common life and in every-day objects. So alertand forceful an intelligence rarely applies its energy to fiction. Theresult is that he makes an almost hopelessly high standard. Theexceptional man who comes after him may be a rival, but the majorityof writing gentlemen can do little more than enviously admire. Heseems to have established for himself such a rule as this, that hewill write no page which shall not be interesting. He pours out thetreasures of his observation in every chapter. He sees everything, feels everything, sympathizes with everything. To be sure he has anunusually rich field for work. In _The Mayor of Casterbridge_ is anaccount of the discovery of the remains of an old Roman soldier. Onewould expect Hardy to make something graphic of the episode. And so hedoes. You can almost see the warrior as he lies there 'in an ovalscoop in the chalk, like a chicken in its shell; his knees drawn up tohis chest; his spear against his arm; an urn at his knees, a jar athis throat, a bottle at his mouth; and mystified conjecture pouringdown upon him from the eyes of Casterbridge street-boys and men. '

The real virtue in this bit of description lies in the few wordsexpressive of the mental attitude of the onlookers. And it is a nicedistinction which Hardy makes when he says that 'imaginativeinhabitants who would have felt an unpleasantness at the discovery ofa comparatively modern skeleton in their gardens were quite unmoved bythese hoary shapes. They had lived so long ago, their hopes andmotives were so widely removed from ours, that between them and theliving there seemed to stretch a gulf too wide for even a spirit topass. '

He takes note of that language which, though not articulate, is incommon use among yeomen, dairymen, farmers, and the townsfolk of hislittle world. It is a language superimposed upon the ordinarylanguage. 'To express satisfaction the Casterbridge market-man addedto his utterance a broadening of the cheeks, a crevicing of the eyes, a throwing back of the shoulders. ' 'If he wondered ... You knew itfrom perceiving the inside of his crimson mouth and the target-likecircling of his eyes. ' The language of deliberation expressed itselfin the form of 'sundry attacks on the moss of adjoining walls with theend of his stick' or a 'change of his hat from the horizontal to theless so. '

The novel called _The Woodlanders_ is filled with notableillustrations of an interest in minute things. The facts areintroduced unobtrusively and no great emphasis is laid upon them. Butthey cling to the memory. Giles Winterbourne, a chief character inthis story, 'had a marvelous power in making trees grow. Although hewould seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly there was a sort ofsympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he wasoperating on; so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days. 'When any of the journeymen planted, one quarter of the trees diedaway. There is a graphic little scene where Winterbourne plants andMarty South holds the trees for him. 'Winterbourne's fingers wereendowed with a gentle conjurer's touch in spreading the roots of eachlittle tree, resulting in a sort of caress under which the delicatefibres all laid themselves out in their proper direction for growth. 'Marty declared that the trees began to 'sigh' as soon as they were putupright, 'though when they are lying down they don't sigh at all. 'Winterbourne had never noticed it. 'She erected one of the young pinesinto its hole, and held up her finger; the soft musical breathinginstantly set in, which was not to cease night or day till the growntree should be felled--probably long after the two planters had beenfelled themselves. '

Later on in the story there is a description of this same GilesWinterbourne returning with his horses and his cider apparatus from aneighboring village. 'He looked and smelt like autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat color, his eyes blue as corn flowers, his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit stains, his hands clammy withthe sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhereabout him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return eachseason has such an indescribable fascination for those who have beenborn and bred among the orchards. '

Hardy throws off little sketches of this sort with an air ofunconsciousness which is fascinating.... It may be a sunset, or it maybe only a flake of snow falling upon a young girl's hair, or the lightfrom lanterns penetrating the shutters and flickering over the ceilingof a room in the early winter morning, --no matter what thecircumstance or happening is, it is caught in the act, photographed inpermanent colors, made indelible and beautiful. 

Hardy's art is tyrannical. It compels one to be interested in thatwhich delights him. It imposes its own standards. There is a rudestrength about the man which readers endure because they are notunwilling to be slaves to genius. You may dislike sheep, and care butlittle for the poetical aspect of cows, if indeed you are not inclinedto question the existence of poetry in cows; but if you read _Far fromthe Madding Crowd_ you can never again pass a flock of sheep withoutbeing conscious of a multitude of new thoughts, new images, newmatters for comparison. All that dormant section of your soul whichfor years was in a comatose condition on the subject of sheep issuddenly and broadly awake. Read _Tess_ and at once cows and a dairyhave a new meaning to you. They are a conspicuous part of the settingof that stage upon which poor Tess Durbeyfield's life drama wasplayed. 

But Hardy does not flaunt his knowledge in his reader's face. Thesethings are distinctly means to an end, not ends in themselves. He hasno theory to advance about keeping bees or making cider. He has takenno little journeys in the world. On the contrary, where he hastraveled at all, he has traveled extensively. He is like a tourist whohas been so many times abroad that his allusions are naturally andunaffectedly made. But the man just back from a first trip on thecontinent has astonishment stamped upon his face, and he speaks ofParis and of the Alps as if he had discovered both. Zola is one ofthose practitioners who, big with recently acquired knowledge, appearto labor under the idea that the chief end of a novel is to conveymiscellaneous information. This is probably a mistake. Novels are nothandbooks on floriculture, banking, railways, or the management ofdepartment stores. One may make a parade of minute details andendlessly wearisome learning and gain a certain credit thereby; butwhat if the details and the learning are chiefly of value in adictionary of sciences and commerce? Wisdom of this sort is to besparingly used in a work of art. 

In these matters I cannot but feel that Hardy has a reticence socommendable that praise of it is superfluous and impertinent. Afterall, men and women are better than sheep and cows, and had he beenmore explicit, he would have tempted one to inquire whether heproposed making a story or a volume which might bear the title _TheWessex Farmer's Own Hand-Book_, and containing wise advice as to pigs, poultry, and the useful art of making two heads of cabbage grow whereonly one had grown before. 

III

Among the most engaging qualities of this writer is humor. Hardy is ahumorous man himself and entirely appreciative of the humor that is inothers. According to a distinguished philosopher, wit and humorproduce love. Hardy must then be in daily receipt of large measures ofthis 'improving passion' from his innumerable readers on both sides ofthe Atlantic. 

His humor manifests itself in a variety of ways; by the use of wittyepithet; by ingenious description of a thing which is not strikinglylaughable in itself, but which becomes so from the closeness of hisrendering; by a leisurely and ample account of a character withhumorous traits, --traits which are brought artistically intoprominence as an actor heightens the complexion in stage make-up; andfinally by his lively reproductions of the talk of village and countrypeople, --a class of society whose everyday speech has only to be heardto be enjoyed. I do not pretend that the sources of Hardy's humor areexhausted in this analysis, but the majority of illustrations can beassigned to some one of these divisions. 

He is usually thought to be at his best in descriptions of farmers, village mechanics, laborers, dairymen, men who kill pigs, tend sheep, furze-cutters, masons, hostlers, loafers who do nothing in particular, and while thus occupied rail on Lady Fortune in good set terms. Certainly he paints these people with affectionate fidelity. Theirvirile, racy talk delights him. His reproductions of that talk areoften intensely realistic. Nearly every book has its chorus of humangrotesques whose mere names are a source of mirth. William Worm, Grandfer Cantle, 'Corp'el' Tullidge, Christopher Coney, John Upjohn, Robert Creedle, Martin Cannister, Haymoss Fry, Robert Lickpan, andSammy Blore, --men so denominated should stand for comic things, andthese men do. William Worm, for example, was deaf. His deafness tookan unusual form; he heard fish frying in his head, and he was notreticent upon the subject of his infirmity. He usually describedhimself by the epithet 'wambling, ' and protested that he would neverpay the Lord for his making, --a degree of self-knowledge which manyhave arrived at but few have the courage to confess. He was onceobserved in the act of making himself 'passing civil and friendly byoverspreading his face with a large smile that seemed to have noconnection with the humor he was in. ' Sympathy because of his deafnesselicited this response: 'Ay, I assure you that frying o' fish is goingon for nights and days. And, you know, sometimes 'tisn't only fish, but rashers o' bacon and inions. Ay, I can hear the fat pop and fizzas nateral as life. '

He was questioned as to what means of cure he had tried. 

'Oh, ay bless ye, I've tried everything. Ay, Providence is a mercifulman, and I have hoped he'd have found it out by this time, living somany years in a parson's family, too, as I have; but 'a don't seem torelieve me. Ay, I be a poor wambling man, and life's a mint o'trouble. '

One knows not which to admire the more, the appetizing realism inWilliam Worm's account of his infirmity, or the primitive state of histheological views which allowed him to look for special divine favorby virtue of the ecclesiastical conspicuousness of his late residence. 

Hardy must have heard, with comfort in the thought of its literarypossibilities, the following dialogue on the cleverness of women. Itoccurs in the last chapter of _The Woodlanders_. A man who is alwaysspoken of as the 'hollow-turner, ' a phrase obviously descriptive ofhis line of business, which related to wooden bowls, spigots, cheese-vats, and funnels, talks with John Upjohn. 

'What women do know nowadays!' he says. 'You can't deceive 'em as youcould in my time. '

'What they knowed then was not small, ' said John Upjohn. 'Always agood deal more than the men! Why, when I went courting my wife that isnow, the skillfulness that she would show in keeping me on her prettyside as she walked was beyond all belief. Perhaps you've noticed thatshe's got a pretty side to her face as well as a plain one?'

'I can't say I've noticed it particular much, ' said the hollow-turnerblandly. 

'Well, ' continued Upjohn, not disconcerted, 'she has. All women underthe sun be prettier one side than t'other. And, as I was saying, thepains she would take to make me walk on the pretty side were unending. I warrent that whether we were going with the sun or against the sun, uphill or downhill, in wind or in lewth, that wart of hers was alwaystoward the hedge, and that dimple toward me. There was I too simple tosee her wheelings and turnings; and she so artful though two yearsyounger, that she could lead me with a cotton thread like a blind ham;... No, I don't think the women have got cleverer, for they was neverotherwise. '

IV

These men have sap and juice in their talk. When they think they thinkclearly. When they speak they express themselves with an energy anddirectness which mortify the thin speech of conventional persons. Hereis Farfrae, the young Scotchman, in the tap-room of the Three MarinersInn of Casterbridge, singing of his ain contree with a pathos quiteunknown in that part of the world. The worthies who frequent the placeare deeply moved. 'Danged if our country down here is worth singingabout like that, ' says Billy Wills, the glazier, --while the literalChristopher Coney inquires, 'What did ye come away from yer owncountry for, young maister, if ye be so wownded about it?' Then itoccurs to him that it wasn't worth Farfrae's while to leave the fairface and the home of which he had been singing to come among such asthey. 'We be bruckle folk here--the best o' us hardly honestsometimes, what with hard winters, and so many mouths to fill, andGod-a'mighty sending his little taties so terrible small to fill 'emwith. We don't think about flowers and fair faces, not we--except inthe shape of cauliflowers and pigs' chaps. '

I should like to see the man who sat to Artist Hardy for the portraitof Corporal Tullidge in _The Trumpet-Major_. This worthy, who was deafand talked in an uncompromisingly loud voice, had been struck in thehead by a piece of shell at Valenciennes in '93. His left arm had beensmashed. Time and Nature had done what they could, and under theirbeneficent influences the arm had become a sort of anatomicalrattle-box. People interested in Corp'el Tullidge were allowed to seehis head and hear his arm. The corp'el gave these private views at anytime, and was quite willing to show off, though the exhibition was aptto bore him a little. His fellows displayed him much as one would a'freak' in a dime museum. 

'You have got a silver plate let into yer head, haven't ye, corp'el?'said Anthony Cripplestraw. 'I have heard that the way they mortisedyer skull was a beautiful piece of workmanship. Perhaps the youngwoman would like to see the place. '

The young woman was Anne Garland, the sweet heroine of the story; andAnne didn't want to see the silver plate, the thought of which madeher almost faint. Nor could she be tempted by being told that onecouldn't see such a 'wownd' every day. Then Cripplestraw, earnest toplease her, suggested that Tullidge rattle his arm, which Tullidgedid, to Anne's great distress. 

'Oh, it don't hurt him, bless ye. Do it, corp'el?' said Cripplestraw. 

'Not a bit, ' said the corporal, still working his arm with greatenergy. There was, however, a perfunctoriness in his manner 'as if theglory of exhibition had lost somewhat of its novelty, though he wasstill willing to oblige. ' Anne resisted all entreaties to convinceherself by feeling of the corporal's arm that the bones were 'as looseas a bag of ninepins, ' and displayed an anxiety to escape. Whereuponthe corporal, 'with a sense that his time was getting wasted, 'inquired: 'Do she want to see or hear any more, or don't she?'

This is but a single detail in the account of a party which MillerLoveday gave to soldier guests in honor of his son John, --adescription the sustained vivacity of which can only be appreciatedthrough a reading of those brilliant early chapters of the story. 

Half the mirth that is in these men comes from the frankness withwhich they confess their actual thoughts. Ask a man of average moralsand average attainments why he doesn't go to church. You won't knowany better after he has given you his answer. Ask Nat Chapman, of thenovel entitled _Two on a Tower_, and you will not be troubled withambiguities. He doesn't like to go because Mr. Torkingham's sermonsmake him think of soul-saving and other bewildering and uncomfortabletopics. So when the son of Torkingham's predecessor asks Nat how itgoes with him, that tiller of the soil answers promptly: 'Pa'sonTarkenham do tease a feller's conscience that much, that church is noholler-day at all to the limbs, as it was in yer reverent father'stime!'

The unswerving honesty with which they assign utilitarian motives fora particular line of conduct is delightful. Three men discuss awedding, which took place not at the home of the bride but in aneighboring parish, and was therefore very private. The first doesn'tblame the new married pair, because 'a wedding at home means five andsix handed reels by the hour, and they do a man's legs no good whenhe's over forty. ' A second corroborates the remark and says: 'True. Once at the woman's house you can hardly say nay to being one in ajig, knowing all the time that you be expected to make yourself worthyour victuals. '

The third puts the whole matter beyond the need of further discussionby adding: 'For my part, I like a good hearty funeral as well asanything. You've as splendid victuals and drink as at other parties, and even better. And it don't wear your legs to stumps in talking overa poor fellow's ways as it do to stand up in hornpipes. '

Beings who talk like this know their minds, --a rather unwontedcircumstance among the sons of men, --and knowing them, they do thenext most natural thing in the world, which is to speak the minds theyhave. 

There is yet another phase of Hardy's humor to be noted: that humor, sometimes defiant, sometimes philosophic, which concerns death and itsaccompaniments. It cannot be thought morbid. Hardy is too fond ofNature ever to degenerate into mere morbidity. He has lived much inthe open air, which always corrects a tendency to 'vapors. ' He takeslittle pleasure in the gruesome, a statement in support of which onemay cite all his works up to 1892, the date of the appearance of_Tess_. This paper includes no comment in detail upon the later books;but so far as _Tess_ is concerned it would be critical folly to speakof it as morbid. It is sad, it is terrible, as _Lear_ is terrible, oras any one of the great tragedies, written by men we call 'masters, 'is terrible. _Jude_ is psychologically gruesome, no doubt; but notabsolutely indefensible. Even if it were as black a book as somecritics have painted it, the general truth of the statement as to thehealthfulness of Hardy's work would not be impaired. This work judgedas a whole is sound and invigorating. He cannot be accused ofover-fondness for charnel-houses or ghosts. He does not discourse ofgraves and vaults in order to arouse that terror which the thought ofdeath inspires. It is not for the purpose of making the readeruncomfortable. If the grave interests him, it is because of thereflections awakened. 'Man, proud man, ' needs that jog to his memorywhich the pomp of interments and aspect of tombstones give. Hardy haskeen perception of that humor which glows in the presence of death andon the edge of the grave. The living have such a tremendous advantageover the dead, that they can neither help feeling it nor avoid adisplay of the feeling. When the lion is buried the dogs crack jokesat the funeral. They do it in a subdued manner, no doubt, and with asense of proprieties, but nevertheless they do it. Their immensesuperiority is never so apparent as at just this moment. 

This humor, which one notes in Hardy, is akin to the humor of thegrave-diggers in _Hamlet_, but not so grim. I have heard a countryundertaker describe the details of the least attractive branch of hisuncomfortable business with a pride and self-satisfaction that wouldhave been farcical had not the subject been so depressing. This wouldhave been matter for Hardy's pen. There are few scenes in his booksmore telling than that which shows the operations in the family vaultof the Luxellians, when John Smith, Martin Cannister, and old Simeonprepare the place for Lady Luxellian's coffin. It seems hardly wise topronounce this episode as good as the grave-diggers' scene in_Hamlet_; that would shock some one and gain for the writer thereputation of being enthusiastic rather than critical. But I professthat I enjoy the talk of old Simeon and Martin Cannister quite as muchas the talk of the first and second grave-diggers. 

Simeon, the shriveled mason, was 'a marvelously old man, whose skinseemed so much too large for his body that it would not stay inposition. ' He talked of the various great dead whose coffins filledthe family vault. Here was the stately and irascible Lord George:--

'Ah, poor Lord George, ' said the mason, looking contemplatively at thehuge coffin; 'he and I were as bitter enemies once as any could bewhen one is a lord and t'other only a mortal man. Poor fellow! He'dclap his hand upon my shoulder and cuss me as familiar and neighborlyas if he'd been a common chap. Ay, 'a cussed me up hill and 'a cussedme down; and then 'a would rave out again and the goold clamps of hisfine new teeth would glisten in the sun like fetters of brass, whileI, being a small man and poor, was fain to say nothing at all. Such astrappen fine gentleman as he was too! Yes, I rather liken ensometimes. But once now and then, when I looked at his toweringheight, I'd think in my inside, "What a weight you'll be, my lord, forour arms to lower under the inside of Endelstow church some day!"'

'And was he?' inquired a young laborer. 

'He was. He was five hundred weight if 'a were a pound. What with hislead, and his oak, and his handles, and his one thing and t'other'--herethe ancient man slapped his hand upon the cover with a force thatcaused a rattle among the bones inside--'he half broke my back when Itook his feet to lower en down the steps there. "Ah, " saith I to Johnthere--didn't I, John?--"that ever one man's glory should be such aweight upon another man!" But there, I liked my Lord Georgesometimes. '

It may be observed that as Hardy grows older his humor becomes moresubtle or quite dies away, as if serious matters pressed upon hismind, and there was no time for being jocular. Some day, perhaps, ifhe should rise to the dignity of an English classic, this will bespoken of as his third period, and critics will be wise in theelucidation thereof. But just at present this third period ischaracterized by the terms 'pessimistic' and 'unhealthy. '

That he is a pessimist in the colloquial sense admits of littlequestion. Nor is it surprising; it is rather difficult not to be. Nota few persons are pessimists and won't tell. They preserve a fairexterior, but secretly hold that all flesh is grass. Some peopleescape the disease by virtue of much philosophy or much religion ormuch work. Many who have not taken up permanent residence beneath theroof of Schopenhauer or Von Hartmann are occasional guests. Then thereis that great mass of pessimism which is the result, not of thought, but of mere discomfort, physical and super-physical. One may haveattacks of pessimism from a variety of small causes. A bad stomachwill produce it. Financial difficulties will produce it. Thelight-minded get it from changes in the weather. 

That note of melancholy which we detect in many of Hardy's novels isas it should be. For no man can apprehend life aright and still lookupon it as a carnival. He may attain serenity in respect to it, but hecan never be jaunty and flippant. He can never slap life upon the backand call it by familiar names. He may hold that the world isindisputably growing better, but he will need to admit that the worldis having a hard time in so doing. 

Hardy would be sure of a reputation for pessimism in some quarters ifonly because of his attitude, or what people think is his attitude, toward marriage. He has devoted many pages and not a little thought tothe problems of the relations between men and women. He isconsiderably interested in questions of 'matrimonial divergence. ' Herecognizes that most obvious of all obvious truths, that marriage isnot always a success; nay, more than this, that it is often amakeshift, an apology, a pretense. But he professes to undertakenothing beyond a statement of the facts. It rests with the public tolay his statement beside their experience and observation, and thustake measure of the fidelity of his art. 

He notes the variety of motives by which people are actuated in thechoice of husbands and wives. In the novel called _The Woodlanders_, Grace Melbury, the daughter of a rich though humbly-born yeoman, hasunusual opportunities for a girl of her class, and is educated to apoint of physical and intellectual daintiness which make her seemsuperior to her home environment. Her father has hoped that she willmarry her rustic lover, Giles Winterbourne, who, by the way, is a manin every fibre of his being. Grace is quite unspoiled by her life at afashionable boarding school, but after her return her father feels(and Hardy makes the reader feel) that in marrying Giles she willsacrifice herself. She marries Dr. Fitzspiers, a brilliant youngphysician, recently come into the neighborhood, and in so doing shechooses for the worse. The character of Dr. Fitzspiers is summarizedin a statement he once made (presumably to a male friend) that 'on oneoccasion he had noticed himself to be possessed by five distinctinfatuations at the same time. '

His flagrant infidelities bring about a temporary separation; Grace isnot able to comprehend 'such double and treble-barreled hearts. ' Whenfinally they are reunited the life-problem of each still awaits anadequate solution. For the motive which brings the girl back to herhusband is only a more complex phase of the same motive which chieflyprompted her to marry him. Hardy says that Fitzspiers as a lover actedupon Grace 'like a dram. ' His presence 'threw her into an atmospherewhich biased her doings until the influence was over. ' Afterward shefelt 'something of the nature of regret for the mood she hadexperienced. '

But this same story contains two other characters who are unmatched infiction as the incarnation of pure love and self-forgetfulness. GilesWinterbourne, whose devotion to Grace is without wish for happinesswhich shall not imply a greater happiness for her, dies that no breathof suspicion may fall upon her. He in turn is loved by Marty Southwith a completeness which destroys all thought of self. She enjoys nomeasure of reward while Winterbourne lives. He never knows of Marty'slove. But in that last fine paragraph of this remarkable book, whenthe poor girl places the flowers upon his grave she utters a littlelament which for beauty, pathos, and realistic simplicity is withoutparallel in modern fiction. Hardy was never more of an artist thanwhen writing the last chapter of _The Woodlanders_. 

After all, a book in which unselfish love is described in terms atonce just and noble cannot be dangerously pessimistic, even if it alsotakes cognizance of such hopeless cases as a man with a chronictendency to fluctuations of the heart. 

The matter may be put briefly thus: In Hardy's novels one sees theartistic result of an effort to paint life as it is, with much of itsjoy and a deal of its sorrow, with its good people and its selfishpeople, its positive characters and its Laodiceans, its men and womenwho dominate circumstances, and its unhappy ones who are submerged. These books are the record of what a clear-eyed, sane, vigorous, sympathetic, humorous man knows about life; a man too conscious ofthings as they are to wish grossly to exaggerate or to disguise them;and at the same time so entirely aware how much poetry as well asirony God has mingled in the order of the world as to be incapable ofconcealing that fact either. He is of such ample intellectual framethat he makes the petty contentions of literary schools appearfoolish. I find a measure of Hardy's mind in passages which set forthhis conception of the preciousness of life, no matter what the form inwhich life expresses itself. He is peculiarly tender toward brutecreation. In that paragraph which describes Tess discovering thewounded pheasants in the wood, Hardy suggests the thought, quite newto many people, that chivalry is not confined to the relations of manto man or of man to woman. There are still weaker fellow-creatures inNature's teeming family. What if we are unmannerly or unchivalroustoward them?

He abounds in all manner of pithy sayings, many of them wise, a few ofthem profound, and not one which is unworthy a second reading. It isto be hoped that he will escape the doubtful honor of beingdispersedly set forth in a 'Wit and Wisdom of Thomas Hardy. ' Suchbooks are a depressing species of literature and seem chiefly designedto be given away at holiday time to acquaintances who are tooimportant to be put off with Christmas cards, and not important enoughto be supplied with gifts of a calculable value. 

One must praise the immense spirit and vivacity of scenes wheresomething in the nature of a struggle, a moral duel, goes on. In suchpassages every power at the writer's command is needed; unerringdirectness of thought, and words which clothe this thought as anathlete's garments fit the body. Everything must count, and themovement of the narrative must be sustained to the utmost. Thechess-playing scene between Elfride and Knight in _A Pair of BlueEyes_ is an illustration. Sergeant Troy displaying his skill inhandling the sword--weaving his spell about Bathsheba in true snakefashion, is another example. Still more brilliant is the gamblingscene in _The Return of the Native_, where Wildeve and Diggory Venn, out on the heath in the night, throw dice by the light of a lanternfor Thomasin's money. Venn, the reddleman, in the Mephistophelian garbof his profession, is the incarnation of a good spirit, and wins theguineas from the clutch of the spendthrift husband. The scene isimmensely dramatic, with its accompaniments of blackness and silence, Wildeve's haggard face, the circle of ponies, known as heath-croppers, which are attracted by the light, the death's-head moth whichextinguishes the candle, and the finish of the game by the light ofglow-worms. It is a glorious bit of writing in true bravura style. 

His books have a quality which I shall venture to call 'spaciousness, 'in the hope that the word conveys the meaning I try to express. It isobvious that there is a difference between books which are large andbooks which are merely long. The one epithet refers to atmosphere, theother to number of pages. Hardy writes large books. There is room inthem for the reader to expand his mind. They are distinctlyout-of-door books, 'not smacking of the cloister or the library. ' Inreading them one has a feeling that the vault of heaven is very high, and that the earth stretches away to interminable distances upon allsides. This quality of largeness is not dependent upon number ofpages; nor is length absolute as applied to books. A book may containone hundred pages and still be ninety-nine pages too long, for thereason that its truth, its lesson, its literary virtue, are notgreater than might be expressed in a single page. 

Spaciousness is in even less degree dependent upon miles. Thenarrowness, geographically speaking, of Hardy's range of expression isnotable. There is much contrast between him and Stevenson in thisrespect. The Scotchman has embodied in his fine books the experiencesof life in a dozen different quarters of the globe. Hardy, with morerobust health, has traveled from Portland to Bath, and from'Wintoncester' to 'Exonbury, '--journeys hardly more serious than fromthe blue bed to the brown. And it is better thus. No reader of _TheReturn of the Native_ would have been content that Eustacia Vye shouldpersuade her husband back to Paris. Rather than the boulevards oneprefers Egdon heath, as Hardy paints it, 'the great inviolate place, 'the 'untamable Ishmaelitish thing' which its arch-enemy, Civilization, could not subdue. 

He is without question one of the best writers of our time, whetherfor comedy or for tragedy; and for extravaganza, too, as witness hislively farce called _The Hand of Ethelberta_. He can write dialogue ordescription. He is so excellent in either that either, as you read it, appears to make for your highest pleasure. If his characters talk, youwould gladly have them talk to the end of the book. If he, the author, speaks, you would not wish to interrupt. More than most skillfulwriters, he preserves that just balance between narrative andcolloquy. 

His best novels prior to the appearance of _Tess_, are _TheWoodlanders_, _Far from the Madding Crowd_, _The Return of theNative_, and _The Mayor of Casterbridge_. These four are the bulwarksof his reputation, while a separate and great fame might be basedalone on that powerful tragedy called by its author _Tess of theD'Urbervilles_. 

Criticism which glorifies any one book of a given author at theexpense of all his other books is profitless, if not dangerous. Moreover, it is dangerous to have a favorite author as well as afavorite book of that favorite author. A man's choice of books, likehis choice of friends, is usually inexplicable to everybody buthimself. However, the chief object in recommending books is to makeconverts to the gospel of literature according to the writer of thesebooks. For which legitimate purpose I would recommend to the readerwho has hitherto denied himself the pleasure of an acquaintance withThomas Hardy, the two volumes known as _The Woodlanders_ and _TheReturn of the Native_. The first of these is the more genial becauseit presents a more genial side of Nature. But the other is a noblepiece of literary workmanship, a powerful book, ingeniously framed, with every detail strongly realized; a book which is dramatic, humorous, sincere in its pathos, rich in its word-coloring, eloquentin its descriptive passages; a book which embodies so much of life andpoetry that one has a feeling of mental exaltation as he reads. 

Surely it is not wise in the critical Jeremiahs so despairingly tolift up their voices, and so strenuously to bewail the condition ofthe literature of the time. The literature of the time is very well, as they would see could they but turn their fascinated gaze from themeretricious and spectacular elements of that literature to the workof Thomas Hardy and George Meredith. With such men among the mostinfluential in modern letters, and with Barrie and Stevenson among theidols of the reading world, it would seem that the office of publicJeremiah should be continued rather from courtesy than from anoverwhelming sense of the needs of the hour. 

A READING IN THE LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS

One would like to know whether a first reading in the letters of Keatsdoes not generally produce something akin to a severe mental shock. Itis a sensation which presently becomes agreeable, being in thatrespect like a plunge into cold water, but it is undeniably a shock. Most readers of Keats, knowing him, as he should be known, by hispoetry, have not the remotest conception of him as he shows himself inhis letters. Hence they are unprepared for this splendid exhibition ofvirile intellectual health. Not that they think of him as morbid, --hispoetry surely could not make this impression, --but rather that thepopular conception of him is, after all these years, a legendaryKeats, the poet who was killed by reviewers, the Keats of Shelley'spreface to the _Adonais_, the Keats whose story is written large inthe world's book of Pity and of Death. When the readers are confrontedwith a fair portrait of the real man, it makes them rub their eyes. Nay, more, it embarrasses them. To find themselves guilty of havingpitied one who stood in small need of pity is mortifying. In plainterms, they have systematically bestowed (or have attempted to bestow)alms on a man whose income at its least was bigger than any hispatrons could boast. Small wonder that now and then you find a reader, with large capacity for the sentimental, who looks back with terror tohis first dip into the letters. 

The legendary Keats dies hard; or perhaps we would better say thatwhen he seems to be dying he is simply, in the good old fashion oflegends, taking out a new lease of life. For it is as true now as whenthe sentence was first penned, that 'a mixture of a lie doth ever addpleasure. ' Among the many readers of good books, there will always besome whose notions of the poetical proprieties suffer greatly by thefacts of Keats's history. It is so much pleasanter to them to thinkthat the poet's sensitive spirit was wounded to death by bitter wordsthan to know that he was carried off by pulmonary disease. But whenthey are tired of reading _Endymion_, _Isabella_, and _The Eve of St. Agnes_ in the light of this incorrect conception, let them try a newreading in the light of the letters, and the masculinity of this veryrobust young maker of poetry will prove refreshing. 

The letters are in every respect good reading. Rather than deploretheir frankness, as one critic has done, we ought to rejoice in theirutter want of affectation, in their boyish honesty. At every turnthere is something to amuse or to startle one into thinking. We arecarried back in a vivid way to the period of their composition. Not alittle of the pulsing life of that time throbs anew, and we catchglimpses of notable figures. Often, the feeling is that we have beencalled in haste to a window to look at some celebrity passing by, andhave arrived just in time to see him turn the corner. What a touch ofreality, for example, does one get in reading that 'Wordsworth wentrather huff'd out of town'! One is not in the habit of thinking ofWordsworth as capable of being 'huffed, ' but the writer of the lettersfeared that he was. All of Keats's petty anxieties and small doings, as well as his aspirations and his greatest dreams, are set down herein black on white. It is a complete and charming revelation of theman. One learns how he 'went to Hazlitt's lecture on Poetry, and gotthere just as they were coming out;' how he was insulted at thetheatre, and wouldn't tell his brothers; how it vexed him because theIrish servant said that his picture of Shakespeare looked exactly likeher father, only 'her father had more color than the engraving;' howhe filled in the time while waiting for the stage to start by countingthe buns and tarts in a pastry-cook's window, 'and had just begun onthe jellies;' how indignant he was at being spoken of as 'quite thelittle poet;' how he sat in a hatter's shop in the Poultry while Mr. Abbey read him some extracts from Lord Byron's 'last flash poem, ' _DonJuan_; how some beef was carved exactly to suit his appetite, as if he'had been measured for it;' how he dined with Horace Smith and hisbrothers and some other young gentlemen of fashion, and thought themall hopelessly affected; in a word, almost anything you want to knowabout John Keats can be found in these letters. They are of more valuethan all the 'recollections' of all his friends put together. In theirbreezy good-nature and cheerfulness they are a fine antidote to theimpression one gets of him in Haydon's account, 'lying in a white bedwith a book, hectic and on his back, irritable at his weakness andwounded at the way he had been used. He seemed to be going out of lifewith a contempt for this world, and no hopes of the other. I told himto be calm, but he muttered that if he did not soon get better hewould destroy himself. ' This is taking Keats at his worst. It is wellenough to know that he seemed to Haydon as Haydon has described him, but few men appear to advantage when they are desperately ill. Turn tothe letters written during his tour in Scotland, when he walked twentymiles a day, climbed Ben Nevis, so fatigued himself that, as he toldFanny Keats, 'when I am asleep you might sew my nose to my great toeand trundle me around the town, like a Hoop, without waking me. Then Iget so hungry a Ham goes but a very little way, and fowls are likeLarks to me.... I take a whole string of Pork Sausages down as easilyas a Pen'orth of Lady's fingers. ' And then he bewails the fact thatwhen he arrives in the Highlands he will have to be contented 'with anacre or two of oaten cake, a hogshead of Milk, and a Cloaths basket ofEggs morning, noon, and night. ' Here is the active Keats, of honestmundane tastes and an athletic disposition, who threatens' to cut allsick people if they do not make up their minds to cut Sickness. '

Indeed, the letters are so pleasant and amusing in the way theyexhibit minor traits, habits, prejudices, and the like, that it is atemptation to dwell upon these things. How we love a man'sweaknesses--if we share them! I do not know that Keats would havegiven occasion for an anecdote like that told of a certain book-lovingactor, whose best friend, when urged to join the chorus of praise thatwas quite universally sung to this actor's virtues, acquiesced bysaying amiably, 'Mr. Blank undoubtedly has genius, but he can'tspell;' yet there are comforting evidences that Keats was no servilefollower of the 'monster Conventionality' even in his spelling, whilein respect to the use of capitals he was a law unto himself. Hesprinkled them through his correspondence with a lavish hand, thoughat times he grew so economical that, as one of his editors remarks, hewould spell Romeo with a small _r_, Irishman with a small _i_, and Godwith a small _g_. 

It is also a pleasure to find that, with his other failings, he had atouch of book-madness. There was in him the making of a first-classbibliophile. He speaks with rapture of his black-letter Chaucer, whichhe proposes to have bound 'in Gothique, ' so as to unmodernize as muchas possible its outward appearance. But to Keats books were literatureor they were not literature, and one cannot think that his affectionswould twine about ever so bookish a volume which was merely 'curious. '

One reads with sympathetic amusement of Keats's genuine and naturalhorror of paying the same bill twice, 'there not being a moreunpleasant thing in the world (saving a thousand and one others). ' Thenecessity of preserving adequate evidence that a bill had been paidwas uppermost in his thought quite frequently; and once when, at LeighHunt's instance, sundry packages of papers belonging to that eminentlymethodical and businesslike man of letters were to be sorted out andin part destroyed, Keats refused to burn any, 'for fear of demolishingreceipts. '

But the reader will chance upon few more humorous passages than thatin which the poet tells his brother George how he cures himself of theblues, and at the same time spurs his flagging powers of invention:'Whenever I find myself growing vaporish I rouse myself, wash and puton a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoe-stringsneatly, and, in fact, adonize, as if I were going out--then all cleanand comfortable, I sit down to write. This I find the greatestrelief. ' The virtues of a clean shirt have often been sung, but itremained for Keats to show what a change of linen and a general_adonizing_ could do in the way of furnishing poetic stimulus. This isbetter than coffee, brandy, absinthe, or falling in love; and itprompts one to think anew that the English poets, taking them as awhole, were a marvelously healthy and sensible breed of men. 

It is, however, in respect to the light they throw upon the poet'sliterary life that the letters are of highest significance. Theygratify to a reasonable extent that natural desire we all have to seeauthorship in the act. The processes by which genius brings things topass are so mysterious that our curiosity is continually piqued; andour failure to get at the real thing prompts us to be more or lesscontent with mere externals. If we may not hope to see the actualprocess of making poetry, we may at least study the poet's manuscript. By knowing of his habits of work we flatter ourselves that we are alittle nearer the secret of his power. 

We must bear in mind that Keats was a boy, always a boy, and that hedied before he quite got out of boyhood. To be sure, most boys oftwenty-six would resent being described by so juvenile a term. But onemust have successfully passed twenty-six without doing anything inparticular to understand how exceedingly young twenty-six is. And tohave wrought so well in so short a time, Keats must have had from thefirst a clear and noble conception of the nature of his work, as hemust also have displayed extraordinary diligence in the doing of it. Perhaps these points are too obvious, and of a sort which wouldnaturally occur to any one; but it will be none the less interestingto see how the letters bear witness to their truth. 

In the first place, Keats was anything but a loafer at literature. Heseems never to have dawdled. A fine healthiness is apparent in allallusions to his processes of work. 'I read and write about eighthours a day, ' he remarks in a letter to Haydon. Bailey, Keats's Oxfordfriend, says that the fellow would go to his writing-desk soon afterbreakfast, and stay there until two or three o'clock in the afternoon. He was then writing _Endymion_. His stint was about 'fifty lines aday, ... And he wrote with as much regularity, and apparently with asmuch ease, as he wrote his letters.... Sometimes he fell short of hisallotted task, but not often, and he would make it up another day. Buthe never forced himself. ' Bailey quotes, in connection with this, Keats's own remark to the effect that poetry would better not come atall than not to come 'as naturally as the leaves of a tree. ' Whetherthis spontaneity of production was as great as that of some otherpoets of his time may be questioned; but he would never have deservedTom Nash's sneer at those writers who can only produce by 'sleepingbetwixt every sentence. ' Keats had in no small degree the 'fineextemporal vein' with 'invention quicker than his eye. '

We uncritically feel that it could hardly have been otherwise in thecase of one with whom poetry was a passion. Keats had an infinitehunger and thirst for good poetry. His poetical life, both in thereceptive and productive phases of it, was intense. Poetry was meatand drink to him. He could even urge his friend Reynolds to talk aboutit to him, much as one might beg a trusted friend to talk about one'slady-love, and with the confidence that only the fitting thing wouldbe spoken. 'Whenever you write, say a word or two on some passage inShakespeare which may have come rather new to you, '--a sentence whichshows his faith in the many-sidedness of the great poetry. Shakespearewas forever 'coming new' to _him_, and he was 'haunted' by particularpassages. He loved to fill the cup of his imagination with thesplendors of the best poets until the cup overflowed. 'I find I cannotexist without Poetry, --without eternal Poetry; half the day will notdo, --the whole of it; I began with a little, but habit has made me aleviathan. ' He tells Leigh Hunt, in a letter written from Margate, that he thought so much about poetry, and 'so long together, ' that hecould not get to sleep at night. Whether this meant in working outideas of his own, or living over the thoughts of other poets, is oflittle importance; the remark shows how deeply the roots of his lifewere imbedded in poetical soil. He loved a debauch in the verse ofmasters of his art. He could intoxicate himself with Shakespeare'ssonnets. He rioted in 'all their fine things said unconsciously. ' Weare tempted to say, by just so much as he had large reverence forthese men, by just so much he was of them. 

Undoubtedly, this ability to be moved by strong imaginative work maybe abused until it becomes a maudlin and quite disordered sentiment. Keats was too well balanced to be carried into appreciative excesses. He knew that mere yearning could not make a poet of one any more thanmere ambition could. He understood the limits of ambition as a forcein literature. Keats's ambition trembled in the presence of Keats'sconception of the magnitude of the poetic office. 'I have asked myselfso often why I should be a poet more than other men, seeing how greata thing it is. ' Yet he had honest confidence. One cannot help likinghim for the fine audacity with which he pronounces his own workgood, --better even than that of a certain other great name in Englishliterature; one cannot help loving him for the sweet humility withwhich he accepts the view that, after all, success or failure liesentirely without the range of self-choosing. There is a point of viewfrom which it is folly to hold a poet responsible even for his ownpoetry, and when _Endymion_ was spoken of as 'slipshod' Keats couldreply, 'That it is so is no fault of mine.... The Genius of Poetrymust work out its own salvation in a man.... That which is creativemust create itself. In _Endymion_ I leaped headlong into the sea, andthereby have become better acquainted with the soundings, thequicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I wasnever afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among thegreatest. '

Well might a man who could write that last sentence look upon poetrynot only as a responsible, but as a dangerous pursuit. Men who aspireto be poets are gamblers. In all the lotteries of the literary lifenone is so uncertain as this. A million chances that you don't win theprize to one chance that you do. It is a curious thing that ever sothoughtful and conscientious an author may not know whether he ismaking literature or merely writing verse. He conforms to all thecanons of taste in his own day; he is devout and reverent; he shunsexcesses of diction, and he courts originality; his verse seems tohimself and to his unflattering friends instinct with the spirit ofhis time, but twenty years later it is old-fashioned. Keats, with allhis feeling of certainty, stood with head uncovered before that powerwhich gives poetical gifts to one, and withholds them from another. Above all would he avoid self-delusion in these things. 'There is nogreater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter one's self into anidea of being a great Poet. '

Keats, if one may judge from a letter written to John Taylor inFebruary, 1818, had little expectation that his _Endymion_ was goingto be met with universal plaudits. He doubtless looked for fairtreatment. He probably had no thought of being sneeringly addressed as'Johnny, ' or of getting recommendations to return to his 'plasters, pills, and ointment boxes. ' In fact, he looked upon the issue asentirely problematical. He seemed willing to take it for granted thatin _Endymion_ he had but moved into the go-cart from theleading-strings. 'If _Endymion_ serves me for a pioneer, perhaps Iought to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understandShakespeare to his depths; and I have, I am sure, many friends who ifI fail will attribute any change in my life to humbleness rather thanpride, --to a cowering under the wings of great poets rather than tobitterness that I am not appreciated. ' And for evidence of anyespecial bitterness because of the lashing he received one will searchthe letters in vain. Keats was manly and good-humored, most of hismorbidity being referred directly to his ill health. The trouncing hehad at the hands of the reviewers was no more violent than the oneadministered to Tennyson by Professor Wilson. Critics, good and bad, can do much harm. They may terrorize a timid spirit. But a greaterterror than the fear of the reviewers hung over the head of JohnKeats. He stood in awe of his own artistic and poetic sense. He couldsay with truth that his own domestic criticism had given him painwithout comparison beyond what _Blackwood_ or the _Quarterly_ couldpossibly inflict. If he had had any terrible heart-burning over theirmalignancy, if he had felt that his life was poisoned, he could hardlyhave forborne some allusion to it in his letters to his brother, George Keats. But he is almost imperturbable. He talks of the episodefreely, says that he has been urged to publish his _Pot of Basil_ as areply to the reviewers, has no idea that he can be made ridiculous byabuse, notes the futility of attacks of this kind, and then, with aserene conviction that is irresistible, adds, 'I think I shall beamong the English Poets after my death!'

Such egoism of genius is magnificent; the more so as it appears inKeats because it runs parallel with deep humility in the presence ofthe masters of his art. Naturally, the masters who were in theirgraves were the ones he reverenced the most and read without stint. But it was by no means essential that a poet be a dead poet beforeKeats did him homage. It is impossible to think that Keats's attitudetowards Wordsworth was other than finely appreciative, in spite of thefact that he applauded Reynolds's _Peter Bell_, and inquired almostpetulantly why one should be teased with Wordsworth's 'Matthew with abough of wilding in his hand. ' But it is also impossible that hissense of humor should not have been aroused by much that he found inWordsworth. It was Wordsworth he meant when he said, 'Every man hashis speculations, but every man does not brood and peacock over themtill he makes a false coinage and deceives himself, '--a sentence, bythe way, quite as unconsciously funny as some of the things he laughedat in the works of his great contemporary. 

It will be pertinent to quote here two or three of the good criticalwords which Keats scattered through his letters. Emphasizing the useof simple means in his art, he says, 'I think that poetry shouldsurprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; it should strikethe reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almosta remembrance. '

'We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us.... Poetry shouldbe great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, anddoes not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject. ' Oras Ruskin has put the thing with respect to painting, 'Entirelyfirst-rate work is so quiet and natural that there can be no disputeover it. '

Keats appears to have been in no sense a hermit. With the exception ofByron, he was perhaps less of a recluse than any of his poeticalcontemporaries. With respect to society he frequently practiced totalabstinence; but the world was amusing, and he liked it. He was fond ofthe theatre, fond of whist, fond of visiting the studios, fond ofgoing to the houses of his friends. But he would run no risks; he wasshy and he was proud. He dreaded contact with the ultra-fashionables. Naturally, his opportunities for such intercourse were limited, but hecheerfully neglected his opportunities. I doubt if he ever bewailedhis humble origin; nevertheless, the constitution of English societywould hardly admit of his forgetting it. He had that pardonable pridewhich will not allow a man to place himself among those who, thoughoutwardly fair-spoken, offer the insult of a hostile and patronizingmental attitude. 

Most of his friendships were with men, and this is to his credit. Theman is spiritually warped who is incapable of a deep and abidingfriendship with one of his own sex; and to go a step farther, that manis utterly to be distrusted whose only friends are among women. We maynot be prepared to accept the radical position of a certain youngthinker, who proclaims, in season, but defiantly, that 'men are theidealists, after all;' yet it is easy to comprehend how one may takethis point of view. The friendships of men are a vastly moreinteresting and poetic study than the friendships of men and women. This is in the nature of the case. It is the usual victory of thenormal over the abnormal. As a rule, it is impossible for a friendshipto exist between a man and woman, unless the man and woman in questionbe husband and wife. Then it is as rare as it is beautiful. And withmen, the most admirable spectacle is not always that where attendantcircumstances prompt to heroic display of friendship, for it is oftenso much easier to die than to live. But you may see young men pledgingtheir mutual love and support in this difficult and adventurous questof what is noblest in the art of living. Such love will not urge to atheatrical posing, and it can hardly find expression in words. Wordsseem to profane it. I do not say that Keats stood in such an idealrelation to any one of his many friends whose names appear in theletters. He gave of himself to them all, and he received much fromeach. No man of taste and genius could have been other than flatteredby the way in which Keats approached him. He was charming in hisattitude toward Haydon; and when Haydon proposed sending Keats'ssonnet to Wordsworth, the young poet wrote, 'The Idea of your sendingit to Wordsworth put me out of breath--you know with what Reverence Iwould send my well wishes to him. '

But interesting as a chapter on Keats's friendships with men would be, we are bound to confess that in dramatic intensity it would grow palewhen laid beside that fiery love passage of his life, his acquaintancewith Fanny Brawne. The thirty-nine letters given in the fourth volumeof Buxton Forman's edition of _Keats's Works_ tell the story of thisaffair of a poet's heart. These are the letters which Mr. WilliamWatson says he has never read, and at which no consideration shallever induce him to look. But Mr. Watson reflects upon people who havebeen human enough to read them when he compares such a proceeding onhis own part (were he able to be guilty of it) to the indelicacy of'listening at a keyhole or spying over a wall. ' This is not a justillustration. The man who takes upon himself the responsibility ofbeing the first to open such intimate letters, and adds thereto theinfinitely greater responsibility of publishing them in so attractivea form that he who runs will stop running in order to read, --such aneditor will need to satisfy Mr. Watson that in so doing he was notlistening at a keyhole or spying over a wall. For the general public, the wall is down, and the door containing the keyhole thrown open. Perhaps our duty is not to look. I, for one, wish that great men wouldnot leave their love letters around. Nay, I wish you a better wishthan that: it is that the perfect taste of the gentleman and scholarwho gave us in its present form the correspondence of Carlyle andEmerson, the early and later letters of Carlyle, and the letters ofLowell might have control of the private papers of every man of geniuswhose teachings the world holds dear. He would need for this anindefinite lease upon life; but since I am wishing, let me wishlargely. There is need of such wishing. Many editors have been called, and only two or three chosen. 

But why one who reads the letters of Keats to Fanny Brawne should haveany other feeling than that of pity for a poor fellow who was sodesperately in love as to be wretched because of it I do not see. Evena cynic will grant that Keats was not disgraced, since it is veryclear that he did not yield readily to what Dr. Holmes calls the greatpassion. He had a complacent boyish superiority of attitude withrespect to all those who are weak enough to love women. 'Nothing, ' hesays, 'strikes me so forcibly with a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man in love I do think cuts the sorryest figure in the world. Evenwhen I know a poor fool to be really in pain about it I could burstout laughing in his face. His pathetic visage becomes irresistible. 'Then he speaks of that dinner party of stutterers and squintersdescribed in the _Spectator_, and says that it would please him more'to scrape together a party of lovers. ' If this letter be genuine andthe date of it correctly given, it was written three months after hehad succumbed to the attractions of Fanny Brawne. Perhaps he wastrying to brave it out, as one may laugh to conceal embarrassment. 

In a much earlier letter than this he hopes he shall never marry, butnevertheless has a good deal to say about a young lady with fine eyesand fine manners and a 'rich Eastern look. ' He discovers that he cantalk to her without being uncomfortable or ill at ease. 'I am too muchoccupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble.... She kept meawake one night as a tune of Mozart's might do.... I don't cry to takethe moon home with me in my pocket, nor do I fret to leave her behindme. ' But he was not a little touched, and found it easy to fill twopages on the subject of this dark beauty. She was a friend of theReynolds family. She crosses the stage of the Keats drama in a veryimpressive manner, and then disappears. 

The most extraordinary passage to be met with in relation to thepoet's attitude towards women is in a letter written to BenjaminBailey in July, 1818. As a partial hint towards its full meaning Iwould take two phrases in _Daniel Deronda_. George Eliot says ofGwendolen Harleth that there was 'a certain fierceness of maidenhoodin her, ' which expression is quoted here only to emphasize the girl'sfeeling towards men as described a little later, when Rex Gascoigneattempted to tell her his love. Gwendolen repulsed him with a sort offury that was surprising to herself. The author's interpretativecomment is, '_The life of passion had begun negatively in her. _'

So one might say of Keats that the life of passion began negatively inhim. He was conscious of a hostility of temper towards women. 'I amcertain I have not a right feeling toward women--at this moment I amstriving to be just to them, but I cannot. ' He certainly started witha preposterously high ideal, for he says that when a schoolboy hethought a fair woman a pure goddess. And now he is disappointed atfinding women only the equals of men. This disappointment helps togive rise to that antagonism which is almost inexplicable save asGeorge Eliot's phrase throws light upon it. He thinks that he insultswomen by these perverse feelings of unprovoked hostility. 'Is it notextraordinary, ' he exclaims, 'when among men I have no evil thoughts, no malice, no spleen; I feel free to speak or to be silent; ... I amfree from all suspicion, and comfortable. When I am among women, Ihave evil thoughts, malice, spleen; I cannot speak or be silent; I amfull of suspicions, and therefore listen to nothing; I am in a hurryto be gone. ' He wonders how this trouble is to be cured. He speaks ofit as a prejudice produced from 'a gordian complication of feelings, which must take time to unravel. ' And then, with a good-humored, characteristic touch, he drops the subject, saying, 'After all, I dothink better of women than to suppose they care whether Mister JohnKeats, five feet high, likes them or not. '

Three or four months after writing these words he must have begun hisfriendly relations with the Brawne family. This would be in October orNovember, 1818. Keats's description of Fanny is hardly flattering, andnot even vivid. What is one to make of the colorless expression 'afine style of countenance of the lengthened sort'? But she was fair tohim, and any beauty beyond that would have been superfluous. We lookat the silhouette and sigh in vain for trace of the loveliness whichensnared Keats. But if our daguerreotypes of forty years ago can soentirely fail of giving one line of that which in its day passed fordazzling beauty, let us not be unreasonable in our demands upon theartistic capabilities of a silhouette. Not infrequently is it truethat the style of dress seems to disfigure. But we have learned, incourse of experience, that pretty women manage to be pretty, howevermuch fashion, with their cordial help, disguises them. 

It is easy to see from the letters that Keats was a difficult lover. Hard to please at the best, his two sicknesses, one of body and one ofheart, made him whimsical. Nothing less than a woman of genius couldpossibly have managed him. He was jealous, perhaps quite unreasonablyso. Fanny Brawne was young, a bit coquettish, buoyant, and hemisinterpreted her vivacity. She liked what is commonly called 'theworld, ' and so did he when he was well; but looking through thediscolored glass of ill health, all nature was out of harmony. Forthese reasons it happens that the letters at times come very near tobeing documents in love-madness. Many a line in them gives sharp pain, as a record of heart-suffering must always do. You may read RichardSteele's love letters for pleasure, and have it. The love letters ofKeats scorch and sting; and the worst of it is that you cannot avoidreflecting upon the transitory character of such a passion. Witheringyoung love like this does not last. It may burn itself out, or, whatis quite as likely, it may become sober and rational. But in itsearlier maddened state it cannot possibly last; a man would die underit. Men as a rule do not so die, for the race of the Azra is nearlyextinct. 

These Brawne letters, however, are not without their bright side; andit is wonderful to see how Keats's elastic nature would rebound theinstant that the pressure of the disease relaxed. He is at timesalmost gay. The singing of a thrush prompts him to talk in his naturalepistolary voice: 'There's the Thrush again--I can't afford it--he'llrun me up a pretty Bill for Music--besides he ought to know I deal atClementi's. ' And in the letter which he wrote to Mrs. Brawne fromNaples is a touch of the old bantering Keats when he says that 'it'smisery to have an intellect in splints. ' He was never strong enough towrite again to Fanny, or even to read her letters. 

I should like to close this reading with a few sentences from a letterwritten to Reynolds in February, 1818. Keats says: 'I had an idea thata man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner--let him on acertain day read a certain Page of full Poesy or distilled Prose, andlet him wander with it, and muse upon it, ... And prophesy upon it, and dream upon it, until it becomes stale--but when will it do so?Never! When Man has arrived at a certain ripeness in intellect any onegrand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting post towards allthe "two-and-thirty Palaces. " How happy is such a voyage ofconception, what delicious diligent Indolence!... Nor will thissparing touch of noble Books be any irreverence to their Writers--forperhaps the honors paid by Man to Man are trifles in comparison to theBenefit done by great Works to the Spirit and pulse of good by theirmere passive existence. '

May we not say that the final test of great literature is that it beable to be read in the manner here indicated? As Keats read, so did hewrite. His own work was

 'accomplished in repose Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. '

AN ELIZABETHAN NOVELIST

The fathers in English literature were not a little given to writingbooks which they called 'anatomies. ' Thomas Nash, for example, wrotean _Anatomy of Absurdities_, and Stubbes an _Anatomy of Abuses_. Greene, the novelist, entitled one of his romances _Arbasto, theAnatomy of Fortune_. The most famous book which bears a title of thiskind is the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, by Robert Burton. It is notable, first, for its inordinate length; second, for its readableness, considering the length and the depth of it; third, for its prodigaland barbaric display of learning; and last, because it is said to havehad the effect of making the most indolent man of letters of theeighteenth century get up betimes in the morning. Why Dr. Johnsonneeded to get up in order to read the _Anatomy of Melancholy_ willalways be an enigma to some. Perhaps he did not get up. Perhaps hemerely sat up and reached for the book, which would have been placedconveniently near the bed. For the virtue of the act resided in thecircumstance of his being awake and reading a good book two hoursahead of his wonted time for beginning his day. If he colored hisremark so as to make us think he got up and dressed before reading, hemay be forgiven. It was innocently spoken. Just as a man who lives inone room will somehow involuntarily fall into the habit of speaking ofthat one room in the plural, so the doctor added a touch which wouldrender him heroic in the eyes of those who knew him. I should like apictorial book-plate representing Dr. Johnson, in gown and nightcap, sitting up in bed reading the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, with Hodge, thecat, curled up contentedly at his feet. 

It would be interesting to know whether Johnson ever read, in bed orout, a book called _Euphues, the Anatomy of Wit_. It was published inthe spring of 1579 by Gabriel Cawood, 'dwelling in Paules Churchyard, 'and was followed one year later by a second part, _Euphues and hisEngland_. These books were the work of John Lyly, a young OxfordMaster of Arts. According to the easy orthography of that time (if theword orthography may be applied to a practice by virtue of which everyman spelled as seemed right in his own eyes), Lyly's name is found inat least six forms: Lilye, Lylie, Lilly, Lyllie, Lyly, and Lylly. Remembering the willingness of _i_ and _y_ to bear one another'sburdens, we may still exclaim, with Dr. Ingleby, 'Great is the mysteryof archaic spelling!' Great indeed when a man sometimes had more suitsof letters to his name than suits of clothes to his back. That thename of this young author was pronounced as was the name of theflower, lily, seems the obvious inference from Henry Upchear's verses, which contain punning allusions to Lyly and Robert Greene:--

 'Of all the flowers a Lillie once I lov'd Whose laboring beautie brancht itself abroad, ' etc. 

Original editions of the _Anatomy of Wit_ and its fellow are veryrare. Probably there is not a copy of either book in the UnitedStates. This statement is ventured in good faith, and may have theeffect of bringing to light a hitherto neglected copy. [1] Strange itis that princely collectors of yore appear not to have cared for_Euphues_. Surely one would not venture to affirm that John, Duke ofRoxburghe, might not have had it if he had wanted it. The book is notto be found in his sale catalogue; he had Lyly's plays in quarto, seven of them each marked 'rare, ' and he had two copies of awell-known book called _Euphues Golden Legacie_, written by ThomasNash. The Perkins Sale catalogue shows neither of Lyly's novels. Listafter list of the spoils of mighty book-hunters has only a blank wherethe _Anatomy of Wit_ ought to be. From this we may argue greatscarcity, or great indifference, or both. In the compact littlereprint made by Professor Arber one may read this moral tale, whichwas fashionable when Shakespeare was a youth of sixteen. Forconvenience it will be advisable to speak of it as a single work intwo parts, for such it practically is. 

 [1] The writer of this paper once sent to that fine scholar and gracious gentleman, Professor Edward Arber, to inquire whether in his opinion one might hope to buy at a modest price a copy of either the first or the second part of _Euphues_. Professor Arber's reply was amusingly emphatic: 'You might as well try to purchase one of Mahomet's old slippers. ' But in July of 1896 there were four copies of this old novel on sale at one New York bookstore. One of the copies was of great beauty, consisting of the two parts of the story bound up together in a really sumptuous fashion. The price was not large as prices of such books go, but on the other hand ''a was not small. '

To pronounce upon this romance is not easy. We read a dozen or two ofpages, and say, 'This is very fantastical humours. ' We read further, and are tempted to follow Sir Hugh to the extent of declaring, 'Thisis lunatics. ' One may venture the not profound remark that it takesall sorts of books to make a literature. _Euphues_ is one of the booksthat would prompt to that very remark. For he who first said that ittakes all sorts of people to make a world was markedly impressed withthe differences between those people and himself. He had in mindeccentric folk, types which deviate from the normal and the sane. So_Euphues_ is a very Malvolio among books, cross-gartered and wreathedas to its countenance with set smiles. The curious in literary historywill always enjoy such a production. The verdict of that part of thereading world which keeps a book alive by calling for fresh copies ofit after the old copies are worn out is against _Euphues_. It had avivacious existence between 1579 and 1636, and then went into aliterary retirement lasting two hundred and thirty-six years. When itagain came before the public it was introduced as 'a greatbibliographical rarity. ' Its fatal old-fashionedness hangs like amillstone about its neck. In the poems of Chaucer and the dramas ofShakespeare are a thousand touches which make the reader feel thatChaucer and Shakespeare are his contemporaries, that they have writtenin his own time, and published but yesterday. Read _Euphues_, and youwill say to yourself, 'That book must have been written three hundredyears ago, and it looks its age. ' Yet it has its virtues. One may notsay of it, as Johnson said of the _Rehearsal_, that it 'has not witenough to keep it sweet. ' Neither may he, upon second thought, conclude that 'it has not vitality enough to preserve it fromputrefaction. ' It has, indeed, a bottom of good sense; and so hadMalvolio. It is filled from end to beginning with wit, or with whatpassed for wit among many readers of that day. Often the wit is of atawdry and spectacular sort, --mere verbal wit, the use of a given wordnot because it is the best word, the most fitting word, but becausethe author wants a word beginning with the letter G, or the letter M, or the letter F, as the case may be. On the second page of Greene's_Arbasto_ is this sentence: 'He did not so much as vouchsafe to givean _eare_ to my _parle_, or an _eye_ to my _person_. ' Greene learnedthis trick from Lyly, who was a master of the art. The sentencerepresents one of the common forms in _Euphues_, such as this: 'To thestomach _quatted_ with _dainties_ all _delicates_ seem _queasie_. 'Sometimes the balance is preserved by three words on a side. Forexample, the companions whom Euphues found in Naples practiced arts'whereby they might either _soake_ his _purse_ to reape _commodotie_, or _sooth_ his _person_ to winne _credite_. ' Other illustrations arethese: I can neither '_remember_ our _miseries_ without _griefe_, nor_redresse_ our _mishaps_ without _grones_. ' 'If the _wasting_ of our_money_ might not _dehort_ us, yet the _wounding_ of our _mindes_should _deterre_ us. ' This next sentence, with its combination of Ksounds, clatters like a pair of castanets: 'Though Curio bee as hot asa toast, yet Euphues is as cold as a clocke, though hee bee a cocke ofthe game, yet Euphues is content to bee craven and crye creake. '

Excess of alliteration is the most obvious feature of Lyly's style. That style has been carefully analyzed by those who are learned insuch things. The study is interesting, with its talk of alliterationand transverse alliteration, antithesis, climax, and assonance. Intruth, one does not know which to admire the more, the ingenuity ofthe man who constructed the book, or the ingenuity of the scholars whohave explained how he did it. Between Lyly on the one hand, and thegrammarians on the other, the reader is almost tempted to ask if thisbe literature or mathematics. Whether Lyly got his style from Pettieor Guevara is an important question, but he made it emphatically hisown, and it will never be called by any other name than Euphuism. Themaking of a book on this plan is largely the result of astonishingmental gymnastics. It commands respect in no small degree, becauseLyly was able to keep it up so long. To walk from New York to Albany, as did the venerable Weston not so very long since, is a great test ofhuman endurance. But walking is the employment of one's legs and bodyin God's appointed way of getting over the ground. Suppose a man wereto undertake to hop on one leg from New York to Albany, the utility orthe æsthetic value of the performance would be less obvious. The mostsuccessful artist in hopping could hardly expect applause from theright-minded. He would excite attention because he was able to hop sofar, and not because he was the exponent of a praiseworthy method oflocomotion. Lyly gained eminence by doing to a greater extent than anyman a thing that was not worth doing at all. One is more astonished atLyly's power of endurance as author than at his own power of enduranceas reader. For the volume is actually readable even at this day. DidLyly not grow wearied of perpetually riding these alliterativetrick-ponies? Apparently not. The book is 'executed' with a vivacity, a dash, a 'go, ' that will captivate any reader who is willing to meetthe author halfway. _Euphues_ became the rage, and its literary stylethe fashion. How or why must be left to him to explain who can tellwhy sleeves grow small and then grow big, why skirts are at one timeonly two and a half yards around and at another time five and a halfor eight yards around. An Elizabethan gentleman might be too poor todress well, but he would squander his last penny in getting his ruffstarched. Lyly's style bristles with extravagances of the starchedruff sort, which only serve to call attention to the intellectualdeficiencies in the matter of doublet and hose. 

Of plot or story there is but little. The hero, Euphues, who gives thetitle to the romance, is a young, clever, and rich Athenian. He visitsNaples, where his money and wit attract many to his side. By hiscareless, pleasure-seeking mode of life he wakens the fatherlyinterest of a wise old gentleman, Eubulus, who calls upon him to warnhim of his danger. The conversation between the two is the first andnot the least amusing illustration of the courtly verbal fencing withwhich the book is filled. The advice of the old man only provokesEuphues into making the sophistical plea that his style of living isright because nature prompts him to it; and he leaves Eubulus 'in agreat quandary' and in tears. Nevertheless, the old gentleman has therighteous energy which prompts him to say to the departing Euphues, already out of hearing, 'Seeing thou wilt not buy counsel at the firsthand good cheap, thou shalt buy repentance at the second hand, at suchunreasonable rate, that thou wilt curse thy hard pennyworth, and banthy hard heart. ' Euphues takes to himself a new sworn brother, onePhilautus, who carries him to visit his lady-love, Lucilla. Lucilla isrude at first, but becomes enamored of Euphues's conversational power, and finally of himself. In fact, she unceremoniously throws over herformer lover, and tells her father that she will either marry Euphuesor else lead apes in hell. This causes a break in the friendshipbetween Euphues and Philautus, and there is an exchange of formidablyworded letters, in which Philautus reminds Euphues that all Greeks areliars, and Euphues quotes Euripides to the effect that all is lawfulin love. Lucilla, who is fickle, suddenly dismisses her new cavalierfor yet a third, while Euphues and Philautus, in the light of theircommon misfortune, fall upon each other's necks and are reconciled. Both profess themselves to have been fools, while Euphues, as thegreater and more recent fool, composes a pamphlet against love. Thishe calls a 'cooling-card. ' It is addressed primarily to Philautus, butcontains general advice for 'all fond lovers. ' Euphues's own cure wasradical, for he says, 'Now do I give a farewell to the world, meaningrather to macerate myself with melancholy, than pine in folly, ratherchoosing to die in my study amidst my books than to court it in Italyin the company of ladies. ' He returns to Athens, applies himself tothe study of philosophy, becomes public reader in the University, and, as crowning evidence that he has finished sowing his wild oats, produces three volumes of lectures. Realizing how much of his ownyouth has been wasted, he writes a pamphlet on the education of theyoung, a dialogue with an atheist, and these, with a bundle ofletters, make up the first part of the _Anatomy of Wit_. From one ofthe letters we learn that Lucilla was as frail as she was beautiful, and that she died in evil report. The story, including the diatribeagainst love, is about as long as _The Vicar of Wakefield_. It beginsas a romance and ends as a sermon. 

The continuation of the novel, _Euphues and his England_, is a littleover a third longer than Part One. The two friends carry out theirproject of visiting England. After a wearisome voyage they reachDover, view the cliffs and the castle, and then proceed to Canterbury. Between Canterbury and London they stop for a while with a 'comelyolde gentleman, ' Fidus, who keeps bees and tells good stories. He alsogives sound advice as to the way in which strangers should conductthemselves. A lively bit of writing is the account which Fidus givesof his commonwealth of bees. It is not according to Lubbock, but isnone the less amusing. In London the two travelers become favorites atthe court. Philautus falls in love, to the great annoyance of Euphues, who argues mightily with him against such folly. The two gentlemenexpend vast resources of stationery and language upon the subject. They quarrel violently, and Euphues becomes so irritated that he mustneeds go and rent new lodgings, 'which by good friends he quickly got, and there fell to his _Pater noster_, where awhile, ' says Lylyinnocently, 'I will not trouble him in his prayers. ' They arereconciled later, and Philautus obtains permission to love; but he hasdiscovered in the mean time that the lady will not have him. Theaccount of his passion, how it 'boiled and bubbled, ' of his visit tothe soothsayer to purchase love charms, his stately declamations toCamilla and her elaborate replies to him, of his love letter concealedin a pomegranate, and her answer stitched into a copy of Petrarch, --isall very lively reading, much more so than that dreary love-makingbetween Pyrocles and Philoclea, or between any other pair of the manyexceedingly tiresome folk in Sidney's _Arcadia_. Grant that it isdeliciously absurd. It is not to be supposed that a clevereighteen-year-old girl, replying to a declaration of love, will talkin the language of a trained nurse, and say: 'Green sores are to bedressed roughly lest they fester, tettars are to be drawn in thebeginning lest they spread, Ringworms to be anointed when they firstappear lest they compass the whole body, and the assaults of love tobe beaten back at the first siege lest they undermine at the second. 'Was ever suitor in this fashion rejected! It makes one think of someof the passages in the _History of John Buncle_, where the hero poursout a torrent of passionate phrases, and the 'glorious' Miss Noel, inreply, begs that they may take up some rational topic of conversation;for example, what is _his_ view of that opinion which ascribes'primævity and sacred prerogatives' to the Hebrew language. 

But Philautus does not break his heart over Camilla's rejection. He isconsoled with the love of another fair maiden, marries her, andsettles in England. Euphues goes back to Athens, and presently retiresto the country, where he follows the calling of one whose professionis melancholy. Like most hermits of culture, he leaves his addresswith his banker. We assume this, for he was very rich; it is notdifficult to be a hermit on a large income. The book closes with asection called 'Euphues Glasse for Europe, ' a thirty-page panegyric onEngland and the Queen. 

They say that this novel was very popular, and certain causes of itspopularity are not difficult to come at. A large measure of thesuccess that _Euphues_ had is due to the commonplaceness of itsobservations. It abounds in proverbs and copy-book wisdom. In thisrespect it is as homely as an almanac. John Lyly had a great store of'miscellany thoughts, ' and he cheerfully parted with them. His booksucceeded as Tupper's _Proverbial Philosophy_ and Watts' _On the Mind_succeeded. People believed that they were getting ideas, and peoplelike what they suppose to be ideas if no great effort is required inthe getting of them. It is astonishing how often the world needs to beadvised of the brevity of time. Yet every person who can wade in theshallows of his own mind and not wet his shoe-tops finds a sweetmelancholy and a stimulating freshness in the thought that time isshort. John Lyly said, 'There is nothing more swifter than time, nothing more sweeter, '--and countless Elizabethan gentlemen and ladiesunderscored that sentence, or transferred it to their commonplacebooks, --if they had such painful aids to culture, --and were comfortedand edified by the discovery that brilliant John Lyly had made. Thisglib command of the matter-of-course, with a ready use of the proverband the 'old said saw, ' is a marked characteristic of the work. Itemphasizes the youth of its author. We learn what could not have beennew even in 1579, that 'in misery it is a great comfort to have acompanion;' that 'a new broom sweepeth clean;' that 'delays breeddangers;' that 'nothing is so perilous as procrastination;' that 'aburnt child dreadeth the fire;' that it is well not to makecomparisons 'lest comparisons should seem odious;' that 'it is toolate to shut the stable door when the steed is stolen;' that 'manythings fall between the cup and the lip;' and that 'marriages are madein heaven, though consummated on earth. ' With these old friends comeothers, not altogether familiar of countenance, and quaintly archaicin their dress: 'It must be a wily mouse that shall breed in the cat'sear;' 'It is a mad hare that will be caught with a tabor, and afoolish bird that stayeth the laying salt on her tail, and a blindgoose that cometh to the fox's sermon. ' Lyly would sometimes translatea proverb; he does not tell us that fine words butter no parsnips, butsays, 'Fair words fat few, '--which is delightfully alliterative, buthardly to be accounted an improvement. Expressions that aresurprisingly modern turn up now and then. One American street urchintaunts another by telling him that he doesn't know enough to come inwhen it rains. The saying is at least three hundred years old, forLyly says, in a dyspeptic moment, 'So much wit is sufficient for awoman as when she is in the rain can warn her to come out of it. '

Another cause of the popularity of _Euphues_ is its sermonizing. Theworld loves to hear good advice. The world is not nervously anxious tofollow the advice, but it understands the edification that comes bypreaching. With many persons, to have heard a sermon is almostequivalent to having practiced the virtues taught in the sermon. Churches are generally accepted as evidences of civilization. A manwho is exploiting the interests of a new Western town will invariablytell you that it has so many churches. Also, an opera-house. TheEnglish world above all other worlds loves to hear good advice. England is the natural home of the sermon. Jusserand notes, almostwith wonder, that in the annual statistics of the London publishersthe highest numbers indicate the output of sermons and theologicalworks. Then come novels. John Lyly was ingenious; he combined goodadvice and storytelling. Not skillfully, hiding the sermon amid livelytalk and adventure, but blazoning the fact that he was going tomoralize as long as he would. He shows no timidity, even declares uponone of his title-pages that in this volume 'there is small offense bylightness given to the wise, and less occasion of looseness profferedto the wanton. ' Such courage in this day would be apt seriously toinjure the sale of a novel. Did not Ruskin declare that Miss Edgeworthhad made virtue so obnoxious that since her time one hardly daredexpress the slightest bias in favor of the Ten Commandments? Lyly knewthe public for which he acted as literary caterer. They liked sermons, and sermons they should have. Nearly every character in the bookpreaches, and Euphues is the most gifted of them all. Even that oldgentleman of Naples who came first to Euphues because his heart bledto see so noble a youth given to loose living has the tables turnedupon him, for Euphues preaches to the preacher upon the sovereign dutyof resignation to the will of God. 

A noteworthy characteristic is the frequency of Lyly's classicalallusions. If the only definition of pedantry be 'vain andostentatious display of learning, ' I question if we may dismiss Lyly'swealth of classical lore with the word 'pedantry. ' He was fresh fromhis university life. If he studied at all when he was at Oxford, hemust have studied Latin and Greek, for after these literatures littleelse was studied. Young men and their staid tutors were compelled toknow ancient history and mythology. Like Heine, they may have taken a'real delight in the mob of gods and goddesses who ran so jolly nakedabout the world. ' In the first three pages of the _Anatomy of Wit_there are twenty classical names, ten of them coupled each with anallusion. Nobody begins a speech without a reference of this naturewithin calling distance. Euphues and Philautus fill their talk withevidences of a classical training. The ladies are provided with aptremarks drawn from the experiences of Helen, of Cornelia, of Venus, ofDiana, and Vesta. Even the master of the ship which conveyed Euphuesfrom Naples to England declaims about Ulysses and Julius Cæsar. Thisnaturally destroys all dramatic effect. Everybody speaks Euphuism, though classical allusion alone is not essentially Euphuistic. JohnLyly would be the last man to merit any portion of that fine praisebestowed by Hazlitt upon Shakespeare when he said that Shakespeare'sgenius 'consisted in the faculty of transforming himself at will intowhatever he chose. ' Lyly's genius was the opposite of this; itconsisted in the faculty of transforming everybody into areduplication of himself. There is no change in style when thenarrative parts end and the dialogue begins. All the persons of thedrama utter one strange tongue. They are no better than the charactersin a Punch and Judy show, where one concealed manipulator furnishesvoice for each of the figures. But in Lyly's novel there is not evenan attempt at the most rudimentary ventriloquism. 

What makes the book still less a reflection of life is that thespeakers indulge in interminably long harangues. No man (unless hewere a Coleridge) would be tolerated who talked in society at suchinordinate length. When the characters can't talk to one another theyretire to their chambers and declaim to themselves. They polish theirlanguage with the same care, open the classical dictionary, and haveat themselves in good set terms. Philautus, inflamed with love ofCamilla, goes to his room and pronounces a ten-minute discourse on thepangs of love, having only himself for auditor. They are amazinglypatient under the verbal inflictions of one another. Euphues, angrywith Philautus for having allowed himself to fall in love, takes himto task in a single speech containing four thousand words. If Lyly hadset out with the end in view of constructing a story by putting intoit alone 'what is not life, ' his product would have been what we findit now. One could easily believe the whole affair to have beenintended for a tremendous joke were it not that the tone is soserious. We are accustomed to think of youth as light-hearted: butlook at a serious child, --there is nothing more serious in the world. Lyly was twenty-six years when he first published. Much of theseriousness in his romance is the burden of twenty-six years'experience of life, a burden greater perhaps than he ever afterwardcarried. 

Being, as we take it, an unmarried man, Lyly gives directions formanaging a wife. He believes in the wholesome doctrine that a manshould select his own wife. 'Made marriages by friends' are dangerous. 'I had as lief another should take measure by his back of my apparelas appoint what wife I shall have by his mind. ' He prefers in a wife'beauty before riches, and virtue before blood. ' He holds to theradical English doctrine of wifely submission; there is no swervingfrom the position that the man is the woman's 'earthly master, '[2] butin taming a wife no violence is to be employed. Wives are to besubdued with kindness. 'If their husbands with great threatenings, with jars, with brawls, seek to make them tractable, or bend theirknees, the more stiff they make them in the joints, the oftener theygo about by force to rule them, the more froward they find them; butusing mild words, gentle persuasions, familiar counsel, entreaty, submission, they shall not only make them to bow their knees, but tohold up their hands, not only cause them to honor them, but to standin awe of them. ' By such methods will that supremest good of anEnglish home be brought about, namely, that the wife shall stand inawe of her husband. 

 [2] Lady Burton's Dedication of her husband's biography, --'To my earthly master, ' etc. 

The young author admits that some wives have the domineering instinct, and that way danger lies. A man must look out for himself. If he isnot to make a slave of his wife, he is also not to be too submissive;'that will cause her to disdain thee. ' Moreover, he must have an eyeto the expenditure. She may keep the keys, but he will control thepocket-book. The model wife in Ecclesiastes had greater privileges;she could not only consider a piece of ground, but she could buy it ifshe liked it. Not so this well-trained wife of Lyly's novel. 'Let allthe keys hang at her girdle, but the purse at thine, so shalt thouknow what thou dost spend, and how she can spare. ' But in settingforth his theory for being happy though married, Lyly, methinks, preaches a dangerous doctrine in this respect: he hints at thepossibility of a man's wanting, in vulgar parlance, to go on a spree, expresses no question as to the propriety of his so doing, but saysthat if a man does let himself loose in this fashion his wife must notknow it. 'Imitate the kings of Persia, who when they were given toriot kept no company with their wives, but when they used good orderhad their queens even at the table. ' In short, the wife was toduplicate the moods of her husband. 'Thou must be a glass to thy wife, for in thy face must she see her own; for if when thou laughest sheweep, when thou mournest she giggle, the one is a manifest sign shedelighteth in others, the other a token she despiseth thee. ' John Lylywas a wise youth. He struck the keynote of the mode in which mostincompatible marriages are played when he said that it was a bad signif one's wife giggled when one was disposed to be melancholy. 

An interesting study is the author's attitude toward foreign travel. It would appear to have been the fashion of the time to indulge inmuch invective against foreign travel, but nevertheless--to travel. Many men believed with young Valentine that 'home keeping youth haveever homely wits, ' while others were rather of Ascham's mind when hesaid, 'I was once in Italy, but I thank God my stay there was onlynine days. ' Lyly came of a nation of travelers. Then as now it wastrue that there was no accessible spot of the globe upon which theEnglishman had not set his foot. Nomadic England went abroad;sedentary England stayed at home to rail at him for so doing. Asidefrom that prejudice which declared that all foreigners were fools, there was a well-founded objection to the sort of traveling usuallydescribed as seeing the world. Young men went upon the continent tosee questionable forms of pleasure, perhaps to practice them. Whetherjustly or not, common report named Italy as the higher school ofpleasurable vices, and Naples as the city where one's doctorate was tobe obtained. Gluttony and licentiousness are the sins of Naples. Eubulus tells Euphues that in that city are those who 'sleep with meatin their mouths, with sin in their hearts, and with shame in theirhouses. ' There is no limit to the inconveniences of traveling. 'Thoumust have the back of an ass to bear all, and the snout of a swine tosay nothing.... Travelers must sleep with their eyes open lest they beslain in their beds, and wake with their eyes shut lest they besuspected by their looks. ' Journeys by the fireside are better. 'Ifthou covet to travel strange countries, search the maps, there shaltthou see much with great pleasure and small pains, if to be conversantin all courts, read histories, where thou shalt understand both whatthe men have been and what their manners are, and methinketh theremust be much delight where there is no danger. ' Perhaps Lyly intendedto condemn traveling with character unformed. A boy returned with morevices than he went forth with pence, and was able to sin both byexperience and authority. Lest he should be thought to speak withuncertain voice upon this matter Lyly gives Euphues a story to tell inwhich the chief character describes the effect of traveling uponhimself. 'There was no crime so barbarous, no murder so bloody, nooath so blasphemous, no vice so execrable, but that I could readilyrecite where I learned it, and by rote repeat the peculiar crime ofevery particular country, city, town, village, house, or chamber. 'Here, indeed, is no lack of plain speech. 

In the section called 'Euphues and his Ephoebus' twenty-nine pages aredevoted to the question of the education of youth. It is largely takenfrom Plutarch. Some of the points are these: that a mother shallherself nurse her child, that the child shall be early framed tomanners, 'for as the steele is imprinted in the soft waxe, so learningis engraven in ye minde of an young Impe. ' He is not to hear 'fondefables or filthy tales. ' He is to learn to pronounce distinctly and tobe kept from 'barbarous talk, ' that is, no dialect and no slang. He isto become expert in martial affairs, in shooting and darting, and hemust hunt and hawk for his 'honest recreation. ' If he will not study, he is not to be 'scourged with stripes, but threatened with words, not_dulled with blows_, like servants, the which, the more they arebeaten the better they bear it, and the less they care for it. ' Intaking this position Lyly is said to be only following Ascham. Aschamwas not the first in his own time to preach such doctrine. Forty yearsbefore the publication of _The Schoolmaster_, Sir Thomas Elyot, in hisbook called _The Governour_, raised his voice against the barbarity ofteachers 'by whom the wits of children be dulled, '--almost the verywords of John Lyly. 

_Euphues_, besides being a treatise on love and education, is a sortof Tudor tract upon animated nature. It should be a source of joyunspeakable to the general reader if only for what it teaches him inthe way of natural history. How much of what is most gravely statedhere did John Lyly actually believe? It is easy to grant so orthodox astatement of physical fact as that 'the Sunne doth harden the durte, and melte the waxe;' but ere the sentence be finished, the authorcalls upon us to believe that 'Perfumes doth refresh the Dove and killthe Betill. ' The same reckless extravagance of remark is to be notedwhenever bird, beast, or reptile is mentioned. The crocodile ofShakespeare's time must have been a very contortionist among beasts, for, says Lyly, 'when one approacheth neere unto him, [he] gatherethup himselfe into the roundnesse of a ball, but running from him, stretcheth himselfe into the length of a tree. ' Perhaps the fame ofthis creature's powers grew in the transmission of the narrative fromthe banks of the Nile to the banks of the Thames. The ostrich washuman in its vanity according to Lyly; men and women sometimes pullout their white hairs, but 'the Estritch, that taketh the greatestpride in her feathers, picketh some of the worst out and burneththem. ' Nay, more than that, being in 'great haste she pricketh nonebut hirselfe which causeth hir to runne when she would rest. ' We shallpresently expect to hear that ostriches wear boots by the straps ofwhich they lift themselves over ten-foot woven-wire fences. But Lylyused the conventional natural history that was at hand, and troubledhimself in no respect to inquire about its truth or falsity. 

There is yet another cause of the popularity of this book in its owntime, which has been too little emphasized. It is that trumpet blastof patriotism with which the volume ends. We feel, as we read thethirty pages devoted to the praise of England and the Queen, that thisis right, fitting, artistic, and we hope that it is tolerably sincere. Flattery came easily to men in those days, and there was small hope ofadvancement for one who did not master the art. But there is a glow ofearnestness in these paragraphs rather convincing to the skeptic. Norwould the book be complete without this eulogy. We have had everythingelse; a story for who wanted a story, theories upon the education ofchildren, a body of mythological divinity, a discussion of methods ofpublic speaking, advice for men who are about to marry, a theologicalsparring match, in which a man of straw is set up to be knocked down, and _is_ knocked down, a thousand illustrations of wit and curiousreading, and now, as a thing that all men could understand, the authortells Englishmen of their own good fortune in being Englishmen, and isfinely outspoken in praise of what he calls 'the blessed Island. '

This is an old-fashioned vein, to be sure, --the _ad captandum_ trickof a popular orator bent upon making a success. It is not looked uponin all places with approval. 'Our unrivaled prosperity' was a phrasewhich greatly irritated Matthew Arnold. Here in America, are we nottaught by a highly fastidious journal that we may be patriotic if wechoose, but we must be careful how we let people know it? We mustn'tmake a fuss about it. We mustn't be blatant. The star-spangled banneron the public schools is at best a cheap and vulgar expression ofpatriotism. But somehow even this sort of patriotism goes with thepeople, and perhaps these instincts of the common folk are notentirely to be despised. Many a reader of _Euphues_, who cared butlittle for its elaborated style, who was not moved by its orthodoxy, who didn't read books simply because they were fashionable, must havefelt his pulse stirred by Lyly's chant of England's greatness. ForEuphues is John Lyly, and John Lyly's creed was substantially that ofthe well-known hero of a now forgotten comic opera, 'I am anEnglishman. '

In the thin disguise of the chief character of his story the authordescribes the happy island, its brave gentlemen and rich merchants, its fair ladies and its noble Queen. The glories of London, which hecalls the storehouse and mart of all Europe, and the excellence ofEnglish universities, 'out of which do daily proceed men of greatwisdom, ' are alike celebrated. England's material wealth in mines andquarries is amply set forth, also the fine qualities of the breed ofcattle, and the virtues of English spaniels, hounds, and mastiffs; forthese constitute a sort of good that all could appreciate. He issatirical at the expense of his countrymen's dress, --'there is nothingin England more constant than the inconstancie of attire, '--butpraises their silence and gravity at their meals. They have wiseministers in the court, and devout guardians of the true religion andof the church. 'O thrice happy England, where such councilors are, where such people live, where such virtue springeth. '

In the paragraphs relating to the queen, Lyly grows positivelyeloquent. He praises her matchless beauty, her mercy, patience, andmoderation, and emphasizes the fact of her virginity to a degree thatwould have satisfied the imperial votaress herself if but once she hadconsidered her admirer's words: 'O fortunate England that hath such aQueen; ungratefull, if thou pray not for her; wicked, if thou do notlove her; miserable, if thou lose her. ' He calls down Heaven'sblessings upon her that she may be 'triumphant in victories like thePalm tree, fruitful in her age like the Vine, in all ages prosperous, to all men gracious, in all places glorious: so that there be no endof her praise, until the end of all flesh. '

With passages such as these, this interesting book draws to aconclusion. A most singular and original book, worthy to be read, unless, indeed, the reading of these out-of-the-way volumes were foundto encroach upon time belonging by right of eminent intellectualdomain to Chaucer and to Shakespeare, to Spenser and to Milton. That_Euphues_ is in no exact sense a novel admits of little question. Itis also a brilliant illustration of how not to write English. Nevertheless it is very amusing, and its disappearance would be amisfortune, since it would eclipse the innocent gayety of many a manwho loves to bask in that golden sunshine which streams from the pagesof old English books. 

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FAIR-MINDED MAN

It is by no means necessary that one be a man of letters in order towrite a good book. Some very admirable books have been written by menwho gave no especial thought to literature as an art. They wrotebecause they were so fortunate as to find themselves in possession ofideas, and not because they had determined to become authors. Literature as such implies sophistication, and people who devotethemselves to literature do so from a variety of motives. But thesewriters of whom I now speak have a less complex thought back of theirwork. They do not, for example, propose pleasure to the reader as anobject in writing. Their aim is single. They recount an experience, orplead a cause. Literature with them is always a means to an end. Theyare like pedestrians who never look upon walking as other than arational process for reaching a given place. It does not occur to themthat walking makes for health and pleasure, and that it is also anexercise for displaying a graceful carriage, the set of the shoulders, the poise of the head. 

To be sure one runs the risk of being deceived in this matter. Theactress who plays the part of an unaffected young girl, for aught thatthe spectator knows to the contrary may be a pronounced woman of theworld. Not every author who says to the public 'excuse my untaughtmanner' is on this account to be regarded as a literary ingénu. Hissimplicity awakens distrust. The fact that he professes to be a laymanis a reason for suspecting him. He is probably an adept, a master ofthe wiles by which readers are snared. 

But aside from the cases in which deception is practiced, or at leastattempted, there is in the world a respectable body of literaturewhich is not the work of literary men. Its chief characteristic issincerity. The writers of these books are so busy in telling the truththat they have no time to think of literature. 

Among the more readable of these pieces is that unpretentious volumein which Dr. Joseph Priestley relates the story of his life. For inclassing this book with the writings of authors who are not men ofletters one surely does not go wide of the mark. There is a sense inwhich it is entirely proper to say that Priestley was not a literaryman. He produced twenty-five volumes of 'works, ' but they were for userather than for art. He wrote on science, on grammar, on theology, onlaw. He published controversial tracts: 'Did So-and-So believeso-and-so or something quite different?' and then a discussion of the'grounds' of this belief. He made 'rejoinders, ' 'defenses, ''animadversions, ' and printed the details of his _Experiments onDifferent Kinds of Air_. This is distinctly uninviting. Let me proposean off-hand test by which to determine whether or no a given book isliterature. _Can you imagine Charles Lamb in the act of reading thatbook?_ If you can; it's literature; if you can't, it isn't. I find itdifficult to conceive of Charles Lamb as mentally immersed in the_Letter to an Anti-pædobaptist_ or the _Doctrine of PhlogistonEstablished_, but it is natural to think of him turning the pages ofPriestley's Memoir, reading each page with honest satisfaction andpronouncing the volume to be worthy the title of A BOOK. 

It is a plain unvarnished tale and entirely innocent of those arts bythe practice of which authors please their public. There is noeloquence, no rhetoric, no fine writing of any sort. The two or threereally dramatic events in Priestley's career are not handled with aview to producing dramatic effect. There are places where the authormight easily have become impassioned. But he did not becomeimpassioned. Not a few paragraphs contain unwritten poems. Thesimple-hearted Priestley was unconscious of this, or if conscious, then too modest to make capital of it. He had never aspired to thereputation of a clever writer, but rather of a useful one. His aim wasquite as simple when he wrote the Memoir as when he wrote his variousphilosophical reports. He never deviated into brilliancy. He set downplain statements about events which had happened to him, and peoplewhom he had known. Nevertheless the narrative is charming, and thereasons of its charm are in part these:--

In the first place the book belongs to that department of literatureknown as autobiography. Autobiography has peculiar virtues. Thepoorest of it is not without some flavor of life, and at its best itis transcendent. A notable value lies in its power to stimulate. Thispower is very marked in Priestley's case, where the self-delineatedportrait is of a man who met and overcame enormous difficulties. Heknew poverty and calumny, both brutal things. He had a thorn in theflesh, --for so he himself characterized that impediment in his speechwhich he tried more or less unsuccessfully all his life to cure. Hefound his scientific usefulness impaired by religious and politicalantagonisms. He tasted the bitterness of mob violence; his house wassacked, his philosophical instruments destroyed, his manuscripts andbooks scattered along the highway. But as he looked back upon thesethings he was not moved to impatience. There is a high serenity in hisnarrative as becomes a man who has learned to distinguish between theephemeral and the permanent elements of life. 

Yet it is not impossible that autobiography of this sort has an effectthe reverse of stimulating upon some people. It is pleasanter to readof heroes than to be a hero oneself. The story of conquest isinspiring, but the actual process is apt to be tedious. One's nervesare tuned to a fine energy in reading of Priestley's efforts toaccomplish a given task. 'I spent the latter part of every week withMr. Thomas, a Baptist minister, ... Who had no liberal education. HimI instructed in Hebrew, and by that means made myself a considerableproficient in that language. At the same time I learned Chaldee andSyriac and just began to read Arabic' This seems easy in the telling, but in reality it was a long, a monotonous, an exhausting process. Think of the expenditure of hours and eyesight over barbarousalphabets and horrid grammatical details. One must needs have had amind of leather to endure such philological and linguistic wear andtear. Priestley's mind not only cheerfully endured it but actuallytoughened under it. The man was never afraid of work. Take as anillustration his experience in keeping school. 

He had pronounced objections to this business, and he registered hisprotest. But suppose the alternative is to teach school or to starve. A man will then teach school. I don't know that this was quite thesituation in which Priestley found himself, though he needed money. Hemay have hesitated to enter a profession which in his time required amore extensive muscular equipment than he was able to furnish. The oldEnglish schoolmasters were 'bruisers. ' They had thick skins, hardheads, and solid fists. The symbols of their office were a Greekgrammar and a flexible rod. They were skillful either with the book orthe birch. It has taken many years to convince the world that theshort road to the moods and tenses does not necessarily lie throughthe valley of the shadow of flogging. Perhaps Priestley objected toschool-mastering because it was laborious. It was indeed laborious ashe practiced it. One marvels at his endurance. His school consisted ofabout thirty boys, and he had a separate room for about half-a-dozenyoung ladies. 'Thus I was employed from seven in the morning untilfour in the afternoon, without any interval except one hour fordinner; and I never gave a holiday on any consideration, the redletter days excepted. Immediately after this employment in my ownschool-rooms I went to teach in the family of Mr. Tomkinson, aneminent attorney, ... And here I continued until seven in theevening. ' Twelve consecutive hours of teaching, less one hour fordinner! It was hardly necessary for Priestley to add that he had 'butlittle leisure for reading. '

He laid up no money from teaching, but like a true man of genius spentit upon books, a small air-pump, an electrical machine. By traininghis advanced pupils to manipulate these he 'extended the reputation'of his school. This was playing at science. Several years were yet toelapse before he should acquire fame as an original investigator. 

This autobiography is valuable because it illustrates the events of aremarkable time. He who cares about the history of theologicalopinion, the history of chemical science, the history of liberty, willread these pages with keen interest. Priestley was active in each ofthese fields. Men famous for their connection with the great movementsof the period were among his friends and acquaintance. He knewFranklin and Richard Price. John Canton, who was the first man inEngland to verify Franklin's experiments, was a friend of Priestley. So too were Smeaton the engineer, James Watt, Boulton, JosiahWedgewood, and Erasmus Darwin. He knew Kippis, Lardner, Parr, and hadmet Porson and Dr. Johnson. His closest friend for many years wasTheophilus Lindsey. One might also mention the great Lavoisier, Magellan the Jesuit philosopher, and a dozen other scientific, ecclesiastical, and political celebrities. The Memoir, however, isalmost as remarkable for what it does not tell concerning these peopleas for what it does. Priestley was not anecdotal. And he is only alittle less reticent about himself than he is about others. He doesindeed describe his early struggles as a dissenting minister, but thereader would like a little more expansiveness in the account of hisfriendships and his chemical discoveries. These discoveries were madeduring the time that he was minister at the Mill-hill Chapel, Leeds. Here he began the serious study of chemistry. And that withouttraining in the science as it was then understood. At Warrington hehad heard a series of chemical lectures by Dr. Turner of Liverpool, agentleman whom Americans ought to regard with amused interest, for hewas the man who congratulated his fellows in a Liverpool debatingsociety that while they had just lost the _terra firma_ of thirteencolonies in America, they had gained, under the generalship of Dr. Herschel, a _terra incognita_ of much greater extent _in nubibus_. Priestley not only began his experiments without any great store ofknowledge, but also without apparatus save what he devised for himselfof the cheapest materials. In 1772 he published his first importantscientific tract, 'a small pamphlet on the method of impregnatingwater with fixed air. ' For this he received the Copley medal from theRoyal Society. On the first of August, 1774, he discovered oxygen. Nobody in Leeds troubled particularly to inquire what this dissentingminister was about with his vials and tubes, his mice and his plants. Priestley says that the only person who took 'much interest' was Mr. Hey, a surgeon. Mr. Hey was a 'zealous Methodist' and wrote answers toPriestley's theological papers. Arminian and Socinian were at peace ifscience was the theme. When Priestley departed from Leeds, Hey beggedof him the 'earthen trough' in which all his experiments had beenmade. This earthen trough was nothing more nor less than a washtub ofthe sort in common local use. So independent is genius of theelaborate appliances with which talent must produce results. 

The discoveries brought fame, especially upon the Continent, and ledLord Shelburne to invite Priestley to become his 'literary companion. 'Dr. Price was the intermediary in effecting this arrangement. Priestley's nominal post was that of 'librarian, ' and he now and thenofficiated as experimentalist extraordinary before Lord Shelburne'sguests. The compensation was not illiberal, and the relation seems tohave been as free from degrading elements as such relations can be. Priestley was not a sycophant even in the day when men of geniusthought it no great sin to give flattery in exchange for dinners. Itwas never his habit to burn incense before the great simply becausethe great liked the smell of incense and were accustomed to it. On theother hand, Shelburne appears to have treated the philosopher withkindness and delicacy, and the situation was not without difficultiesfor his lordship. 

Among obvious advantages which Priestley derived from this residencewere freedom from financial worry, time for writing and experimenting, a tour on the Continent, and the privilege of spending the winterseason of each year in London. 

It was during these London visits that he renewed his acquaintancewith Dr. Franklin. They were members of a club of 'philosophicalgentlemen' which met at stated times at the London Coffee House, Ludgate Hill. There were few days upon which the Father of PneumaticChemistry and the Father of Electrical Science did not meet. Whentheir talk was not of dephlogisticated air and like matters it waspretty certain to be political. The war between England and Americawas imminent. Franklin dreaded it. He often said to Priestley that 'ifthe difference should come to an open rupture, it would be a war of_ten years_, and he should not live to see the end of it. ' He had nodoubt as to the issue. 'The English may take all our great towns, butthat will not give them possession of the country, ' he used to say. Franklin's last day in England was given to Priestley. The two friendsspent much of the time in reading American newspapers, especiallyaccounts of the reception which the Boston Port Bill met with inAmerica, and as Franklin read the addresses to the inhabitants ofBoston, from the places in the neighborhood, 'the tears trickled downhis cheeks. ' He wrote to Priestley from Philadelphia just a monthafter the battle of Lexington, briefly describing that lively episode, and mentioning his pleasant six weeks voyage with weather 'so moderatethat a London wherry might have accompanied us all the way. ' At theclose of his letter he says: 'In coming over I made a valuablephilosophical discovery, which I shall communicate to you when I canget a little time. At present I am extremely hurried. ' In October ofthat year, 1775, Franklin wrote to Priestley about the state ofaffairs in America. His letter contains one passage which can hardlybe hackneyed from over-quotation. Franklin wants Priestley to tell'our dear good friend, ' Dr. Price, that America is 'determined andunanimous. ' 'Britain at the expense of three millions has killed 150yankees this campaign, which is 20, 000 l. A head; and at Bunker'sHill, she gained a mile of ground, all of which she lost again, by ourtaking post on Ploughed Hill. During the same time 60, 000 childrenhave been born in America. ' From these data Dr. Price is to calculate'the time and expense necessary to kill us all, and conquer the wholeof our territory. ' Then the letter closes with greetings 'to the clubof honest whigs at the London Coffee House. '

Seven years later Franklin's heart was still faithful to the club. Hewrites to Priestley from France: 'I love you as much as ever, and Ilove all the honest souls that meet at the London Coffee House.... Ilabor for peace with more earnestness that I may again be happy inyour sweet society. ' Franklin thought that war was folly. In a letterto Dr. Price, he speaks of the great improvements in naturalphilosophy, and then says: 'There is one improvement in moralphilosophy which I wish to see: the discovery of a plan that wouldinduce and oblige nations to settle their disputes without firstcutting one another's throats. '

Priestley lamented that a man of Franklin's character and influence'should have been an unbeliever in Christianity, and also have done asmuch as he did to make others unbelievers. ' Franklin acknowledged thathe had not given much attention to the evidences of Christianity, andasked Priestley to recommend some 'treatises' on the subject 'but notof great length. ' Priestley suggested certain chapters of Hartley's_Observations on Man_, and also what he himself had written on thesubject in his _Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion_. Franklinhad promised to read whatever books his friend might advise and givehis 'sentiments on them. ' 'But the American war breaking out soonafter, I do not believe, ' says Priestley, 'that he ever found himselfsufficiently at leisure for the discussion. '

Priestley valued his own scientific reputation not a little for theweight it gave, among skeptics, to his arguments in support of hisreligious belief. He found that all the philosophers in Paris wereunbelievers. They looked at him with mild astonishment when theylearned that he was not of the same mind. They may even have thoughthim a phenomenon which required scientific investigation. 'As I choseon all occasions to appear as a Christian, I was told by some of themthat I was the only person they had ever met with, of whoseunderstanding they had any opinion, who professed to believeChristianity. ' Priestley began to question them as to what theysupposed Christianity was, and with the usual result, --they were notposted on the subject. 

In 1780 Priestley went to Birmingham. In the summer of 1791 occurredthat remarkable riot, perhaps the most dramatic event in thephilosopher's not unpicturesque career. This storm had long beengathering, and when it broke, the principal victim of its anger was, Iverily believe, more astonished than frightened. The Dissenters weremaking unusual efforts to have some of their civil disabilitiesremoved. Feeling against them was especially bitter. In Birminghamthis hostility was intensified by the public discourses of Mr. Madan, 'the most respectable clergyman of the town, ' says Priestley. Hepublished 'a very inflammatory sermon ... Inveighing against theDissenters in general, and myself in particular. ' Priestley made adefense under the title of _Familiar Letters to the Inhabitants ofBirmingham_. This produced a 'reply' from Madan, and 'other letters'from his opponent. Being a conspicuous representative of that bodywhich was most 'obnoxious to the court' it is not surprising thatPriestley should have been singled out for unwelcome honors. Thefeeling of intolerance was unusually strong. It was said--I don't knowhow truly--that at a confirmation in Birmingham tracts weredistributed against Socinianism in general and Priestley inparticular. Very reputable men thought they did God service ininflaming the minds of the rabble against this liberal-mindedgentleman. Priestley's account of the riot in the Memoir is singularlytemperate. It might even be called tame. He was quite incapable ofposing, or of playing martyr to an audience of which a goodly part wassympathetic and ready to believe his sufferings as great as he choseto make them appear. One could forgive a slight outburst ofindignation had the doctor chosen so to relieve himself. 'On occasionof the celebration of the anniversary of the French revolution, onJuly 14, 1791, by several of my friends, but with which I had littleto do, a mob, encouraged by some persons in power, first burned themeeting-house in which I preached, then another meeting-house in thetown, and then my dwelling-house, demolishing my library, apparatus, and as far as they could everything belonging to me.... Being in somepersonal danger on this occasion I went to London. '

A much livelier account from Priestley's own hand and written the nextday after the riot is found in a letter to Theophilus Lindsay. 'Thecompany were hardly gone from the inn before a drunken mob rushed intothe house and broke all the windows. They then set fire to ourmeeting-house and it is burned to the ground. After that they gutted, and some say burned the old meeting. In the mean time some friendscame to tell me that I and my house were threatened, and anotherbrought a chaise to convey me and my wife away. I had not presence ofmind to take even my MSS. ; and after we were gone the mob came anddemolished everything, household goods, library, and apparatus. ' Theletter differs from the Memoir in saying that 'happily no fire couldbe got. ' Priestley afterwards heard that 'much pains was taken, butwithout effect, to get fire from my large electrical machine whichstood in the Library. '

It is rather a curious fact that Priestley was not at the inn wherethe anniversary was celebrating. While the company there were chantingthe praises of liberty he was at home playing backgammon with hiswife, a remarkably innocent and untreasonable occupation. Mr. ArthurYoung visited the scene of the riot a few days later and had thoughtsupon it. 'Seeing, as I passed, a house in ruins, on inquiry I foundthat it was Dr. Priestley's. I alighted from my horse, and walked overthe ruins of that laboratory which I had left home with theexpectation of reaping instruction in; of that laboratory, the laboursof which have not only illuminated mankind but enlarged the sphere ofscience itself; which has carried its master's fame to the remotestcorner of the civilized world; and will now with equal celerity conveythe infamy of its destruction to the disgrace of the age and thescandal of the British name. ' It is not necessary to supplement ArthurYoung's burst of indignation with private bursts of our own. We canafford to be as philosophic over the matter as Priestley was. Thatfeeling was hot against him even in London is manifest from the factthat the day after his arrival a hand-bill was distributed beginningwith the words: 'Dr. Priestley is a damned rascal, an enemy both tothe religious and political constitution of this country, a fellow ofa treasonable mind, consequently a bad Christian. ' The 'bad Christian'thought it showed 'no small degree of courage' in Mr. William Vaughanto receive him into his house. 'But it showed more in Dr. Price'scongregation at Hackney to invite me to succeed him. ' The invitationwas not unanimous, as Priestley with his characteristic passion forexactness is at pains to tell the reader. Some of the memberswithdrew, 'which was not undesirable. '

People generally looked askance at him. If he was upon one side of thestreet the respectable part of the world made it convenient to pass byon the other side. He even found his relations with his philosophicalacquaintance 'much restricted. ' 'Most of the members of the RoyalSociety shunned him, ' he says. This seems amusing and unfortunate. Apparently one's qualifications as a scientist were of little avail ifone happened to hold heterodox views on the Trinity, or were ofopinion that more liberty than Englishmen then had would be good forthem. Priestley resigned his fellowship in the Royal Society. 

One does not need even mildly to anathematize the instigators of thathistoric riot. They were unquestionably zealous for what they believedto be the truth. Moreover, as William Hutton observed at the time, 'It's the right of every Englishman to walk in darkness if hechooses. ' The method employed defeated its own end. Persecution is anunsafe investment and at best pays a low rate of interest. Nodignified person can afford to indulge in it. There's the danger ofbeing held up to the laughter of posterity. It has happened so manytimes that the unpopular cause has become popular. This ought to teachzealots to be cautious. What would Madan have thought if he could havebeen told that within thirty years one of his own coadjutors in thisaffair would have publicly expressed regret for the share he had init? Madan has his reward, three quarters of a column in the_Dictionary of National Biography_. But to-day Priestley's statuestands in a public square of Birmingham opposite the Council House. Thus do matters get themselves readjusted in this very interestingworld. 

Rutt's Life of Priestley (that remarkable illustration of how to makea very poor book out of the best materials) contains a selection ofthe addresses and letters of condolence which were forthcoming at thistime. Some of them are stilted and dull, but they are actual'documents, ' and the words in them are alive with the passion of thatday. They make the transaction very real and close at hand. 

Priestley was comparatively at ease in his new home. Yet he could notentirely escape punishment. There were 'a few personal insults fromthe lowest of the rabble. ' Anxiety was felt lest he might againreceive the attentions of a mob. He humorously remarked: 'On the 14thof July, 1792, it was taken for granted by many of my neighbors thatmy house was to come down just as at Birmingham the year before. ' Thehouse did not come down, but its occupant grew ill at ease, and withinanother two years he had found a new home in the new nation across thesea. 

It is hardly exact to say that he was 'driven' from England, as someaccounts of his life have it. Mere personal unpopularity would nothave sufficed for this. But at sixty-one a man hasn't as much fight inhim as at forty-five. He is not averse to quiet. Priestley's threesons were going to America because their father thought that theycould not be 'placed' to advantage in a country so 'bigoted' as theirnative land was then. 'My own situation, if not hazardous, was becomeunpleasant, so that I thought my removal would be of more service tothe cause of truth than my longer stay in England. '

The sons went first and laid the foundations of the home inNorthumberland, Pennsylvania. The word 'Susquehanna' had a magic soundto Englishmen. On March 30, 1794, Priestley delivered his farewelldiscourse. April 6 he passed with his friends the Lindsays in EssexStreet, and a day later went to Gravesend. For the details of thejourney one must go to his correspondence. 

His last letters were written from Deal and Falmouth, April 9 and 11. The vessel was six weeks in making the passage. The weather was badand the travelers experienced everything 'but shipwreck and famine. 'There was no lack of entertainment, for the ocean was fantastic andspectacular. Not alone were there the usual exhibitions offlying-fish, whales, porpoises, and sharks, but also 'mountains of icelarger than the captain had ever seen before, '--for thus early hadtransatlantic captains learned the art of pronouncing upon theexceptional character of a particular voyage for the benefit of thetraveler who is making that voyage. They saw water-spouts, 'four atone time. ' The billows were 'mountain-high, and at night appeared tobe all on fire. ' They had infinite leisure, and scarcely knew how touse it. Mrs. Priestley wrote 'thirty-two large pages of paper. ' Thedoctor read 'the whole of the Greek Testament and the Hebrew Bible asfar as the first book of Samuel. ' He also read through Hartley'ssecond volume, and 'for amusement several books of voyages and Ovid'sMetamorphoses. ' 'If I had [had] a Virgil I should have read himthrough, too. I read a great deal of Buchanan's poems, and some ofPetrarch's _de remediis_, and Erasmus's Dialogues; also Peter Pindar'spoems, ... Which pleased me much more than I expected. He is Paine inverse. '

On June 1 the ship reached Sandy Hook. Three days later Dr. And Mrs. Priestley 'landed at the Battery in as private a manner as possible, and went immediately to Mrs. Loring's lodging-house close by. ' Thenext morning the principal inhabitants of New York came to pay theirrespects and congratulations; among others Governor Clinton, Dr. Prevoost, bishop of New York; Mr. Osgood, late envoy to Great Britain;the heads of the college; most of the principal merchants, and manyothers; for an account of which amenities one must read Henry Wansey's_Excursion to the United States in the Summer of 1794_, published bySalisbury in 1796, a most amusing and delectable volume. 

Priestley missed seeing Vice-president John Adams by one day. Adamshad sailed for Boston on the third. But he left word that Boston was'better calculated' for Priestley than any other part of America, andthat 'he would find himself very well received if he should beinclined to settle there. '

Mrs. Priestley in a letter home says: 'Dr. P. Is wonderfully pleasedwith everything, and indeed I think he has great reason from theattentions paid him. ' The good people became almost frivolous withtheir dinner-parties, receptions, calls, and so forth. Then there werethe usual addresses from the various organizations, --one from theTammany Society, who described themselves as 'a numerous body offreemen, who associate to cultivate among them the love of liberty, and the enjoyment of the happy republican government under which theylive. ' There was an address from the 'Democratic Society, ' one fromthe 'Associated Teachers in the City of New York, ' one from the'Republican Natives of Great Britain and Ireland, ' one from the'Medical Society. '

The pleasure was not unmixed. Dr. Priestley the theologian had a lesscordial reception than Dr. Priestley the philosopher and martyr. Theorthodox were considerably disturbed by his coming. 'Nobody asks me topreach, and I hear there is much jealousy and dread of me. ' InPhiladelphia at a Baptist meeting the minister bade his people beware, for 'a Priestley had entered the land. ' But the heretic was verypatient and earnest to do what he might for the cause of 'rational'Christianity. The widespread infidelity distressed him. He mentionedit as a thing to be wondered at that in America the lawyers werealmost universally unbelievers. He lost no time in getting to work. OnAugust 27, when he had been settled in Northumberland only a month, hewrote to a friend that he had just got Paine's _Age of Reason_, andthought to answer it. By September 14 he had done so. 'I havetranscribed for the press my answer to Mr. Paine, whose work is theweakest and most absurd as well as most arrogant of anything I haveyet seen. '

Priestley was fully conscious of the humor of his situation. He wastrying to save the public, including lawyers, from the mentallydebilitating effects of reading Paine's _Age of Reason_, while at thesame time all the orthodox divines were warning their flocks of thedanger consequent upon having anything to do with _him_. 

Honors and rumors of honors came to him. He was talked of for thepresidency of colleges yet to be founded, and was invited toprofessorships in colleges that actually were. He went occasionally toPhiladelphia, a frightful journey from Northumberland in those days. Through his influence a Unitarian society was established. He gavepublic discourses, and there was considerable curiosity to see andhear so famous a man. 'I have the use of Mr. Winchester's pulpit everymorning ... And yesterday preached my first sermon. ' He was told that'a great proportion of the members of Congress were present, ' and weknow that 'Mr. Vice-President Adams was a regular attendant. '

In company with his friend Mr. Russell, Priestley went to take teawith President Washington. They stayed two hours 'as in any privatefamily, ' and at leavetaking were invited 'to come at any time withoutceremony. '

About a year later Priestley saw again Washington, who had finishedhis second term of office. 'I went to take leave of the latepresident. He seemed not to be in very good spirits. He invited me toMt. Vernon, and said he thought he should hardly go from home twentymiles as long as he lived. '

Priestley was not to have the full measure of the rest which hecoveted. He had left England to escape persecution, and persecutionfollowed him. Cobbett, who had assailed him in a scurrilous pamphletat the time of his emigration, continued his attacks. Priestley wasobjectionable because he was a friend of France. Moreover he hadopinions about things, some of which he freely expressed, --a habit hehad contracted so early in life as to render it hopeless that heshould ever break himself of it. Cobbett's virulence was so great asto excite the astonishment of Mr. Adams, who said to Priestley, 'Iwonder why the man abuses you;' when a hint from Adams, Priestleythought, would have prevented it all. But it was not easy to controlWilliam Cobbett. Adams may have thought that Cobbett was a beingcreated for the express purpose of being let alone. There are suchbeings. Every one knows, or can guess, to what sort of animal ChurtonCollins compared Dean Swift, when the Dean was in certain moods. William Cobbett, too, had his moods. 

Yet it is impossible to read Priestley's letters between 1798 and 1801without indignation against those who preyed upon his peace of mind. He writes to Lindsay: 'It is nothing but a firm faith in a goodProvidence that is my support at present: but it is an effectual one. 'His 'never failing resource' was the 'daily study of the Scriptures. 'In moments of depression he loved to read the introduction toHartley's second volume, those noble passages beginning: 'Whatever beour doubts, fears, or anxieties, whether selfish or social, whetherfor time or eternity, our only hope and refuge must be in the infinitepower, knowledge and goodness of God. '

Priestley was indeed a remarkable man. His services to science werevery great. He laid the foundations of notable structures which, however, other men were to rear. He might have been a greater man hadhe been less versatile. And yet his versatility was one source of hisgreatness. He clung to old-fashioned notions, defending the doctrineof 'philogiston' after it had been abandoned by nearly every otherchemist of repute. For this he has been ridiculed. But he was notridiculous, he was singularly open-minded. He knew that his reputationas a philosopher was under a cloud. 'Though all the world is atpresent against me, I see no reason to despair of the old system; andyet, _if I should see reason to change my opinion, I think I shouldrather feel a pride in making the most public acknowledgment of it_. 'These are words which Professor Huxley might well have quoted in hisbeautiful address on Priestley delivered at Birmingham, for they arethe perfect expression and symbol of the fair-minded man. 

He was as modest as he was fair-minded. When it was proposed that heshould accompany Captain Cook's expedition to the South Seas, and thearrangements were really completed, he was objected to because of hispolitical and religious opinions. Dr. Reinhold Foster was appointed inhis stead. He was a person 'far better qualified, ' said Priestley. Again when he was invited to take the chair of Chemistry atPhiladelphia he refused. This for several reasons, the chief of whichwas that he did not believe himself fitted for it. One would naturallysuppose that the inventor of soda-water and the discoverer of oxygenwould have been able to give lectures to young men on chemistry. ButPriestley believed that he 'could not have acquitted himself in it toproper advantage. ' 'Though I have made discoveries in some branches ofchemistry, I never gave much attention to the common routine of it, and know but little of the common processes. '

Priestley still awaits a biographer. The two thick volumes compiled byRutt more than sixty-three years ago have not been reprinted, nor arethey likely to be. But a life so precious in its lessons should berecorded in just terms. It would be an inspiring book, and its titlemight well be 'The Story of a Man of Character. ' Not the least of itsvirtues would consist in ample recognition of Joseph Priestley'sunwavering confidence that all things were ordered for the best; andthen of his piety, which prompted him to say, as he looked back uponhis life: 'I am thankful to that good Providence which always tookmore care of me than ever I took of myself. '

CONCERNING A RED WAISTCOAT

Hero-worship is appropriate only to youth. With age one becomes cynical, or indifferent, or perhaps too busy. Either the sense of the marvelousis dulled, or one's boys are just entering college and life is agreeablypractical. Marriage and family cares are good if only for the reasonthat they keep a man from getting bored. But they also stifle hisyearnings after the ideal. They make hero-worship appear foolish. Howcan a man go mooning about when he has just had a good cup of coffeeand a snatch of what purports to be the news, while an attractive andwell-dressed woman sits opposite him at breakfast-table, and by hermere presence, to say nothing of her wit, compels him to be respectableand to carry a level head? The father of a family and husband of afederated club woman has no business with hero-worship. Let him leavesuch folly to beardless youth. 

But if a man has never outgrown the boy that was in him, or has nevermarried, then may he do this thing. He will be happy himself, andothers will be happy as they consider him. Indeed, there is somethingaltogether charming about the personality of him who proves faithfulto his early loves in literature and art; who continues a gracefulhero-worship through all the caprices of literary fortune; and who, even though his idol may have been dethroned, sets up a private shrineat which he pays his devotions, unmindful of the crowd which hurriesby on its way to do homage to strange gods. 

Some men are born to be hero-worshipers. Théophile Gautier is anexample. If one did not love Gautier for his wit and his good-nature, one would certainly love him because he dared to be sentimental. Hedisplayed an almost comic excess of emotion at his first meeting withVictor Hugo. Gautier smiles as he tells the story; but he tells itexactly, not being afraid of ridicule. He went to call upon Hugo withhis friends Gérard de Nerval and Pétrus Borel. Twice he mounted thestaircase leading to the poet's door. His feet dragged as if they hadbeen shod with lead instead of leather. His heart throbbed; cold sweatmoistened his brow. As he was on the point of ringing the bell, anidiotic terror seized him, and he fled down the stairs, four steps ata time, Gérard and Pétrus after him, shouting with laughter. But thethird attempt was successful. Gautier saw Victor Hugo--and lived. Theauthor of _Odes et Ballades_ was just twenty-eight years old. Youthworshiped youth in those great days. 

Gautier said little during that visit, but he stared at the poet withall his might. He explained afterwards that one may look at gods, kings, pretty women, and great poets rather more scrutinizingly thanat other persons, and this too without annoying them. 'We gazed atHugo with admiring intensity, but he did not appear to beinconvenienced. '

What brings Gautier especially to mind is the appearance within a fewweeks of an amusing little volume entitled _Le Romantisme et l'éditeurRenduel_. Its chief value consists, no doubt, in what the author, M. Adolphe Jullien, has to say about Renduel. That noted publisher musthave been a man of unusual gifts and unusual fortune. He was afortunate man because he had the luck to publish some of the bestworks of Victor Hugo, Sainte-Beuve, Théophile Gautier, Alfred deMusset, Gérard de Nerval, Charles Nodier, and Paul Lacroix; and he wasa gifted man because he was able successfully to manage his troop ofgeniuses, neither quarreling with them himself nor allowing them toquarrel overmuch with one another. Renduel's portrait faces thetitle-page of the volume, and there are two portraits of him besides. There are fac-similes of agreements between the great publisher andhis geniuses. There is a famous caricature of Victor Hugo with a browtruly monumental. There is a caricature of Alfred de Musset with afigure like a Regency dandy, --a figure which could have been acquiredonly by much patience and unremitted tight-lacing; also one of Balzac, which shows that that great novelist's waist-line had long sincedisappeared, and that he had long since ceased to care. What was afigure to him in comparison with the flesh-pots of Paris!

One of the best of these pictorial satires is Roubaud's sketch ofGautier. It has a teasing quality, it is diabolically fascinating. Itshows how great an art caricature is in the hands of a master. 

But the highest virtue of a good new book is that it usually sends thereader back to a good old book. One can hardly spend much time uponRenduel; he will remember that Gautier has described that period whenhero-worship was in the air, when the sap of a new life circulatedeverywhere, and when he himself was one of many loyal and enthusiasticyouths who bowed the head at mention of Victor Hugo's name. The readerwill remember, too, that Gautier was conspicuous in that band ofRomanticists who helped to make _Hernani_ a success the night of itsfirst presentation. Gautier believed that to be the great event of hislife. He loved to talk about it, dream about it, write of it. 

There was a world of good fellowship among the young artists, sculptors, and poets of that day. They took real pleasure in shoutingHosanna to Victor Hugo and to one another. Even Zola, theUnsentimental, speaks of _ma tristesse_ as he reviews that delightfulpast. He cannot remember it, to be sure, but he has read about it. Hethinks ill of the present as he compares the present with 'those deadyears. ' Writers then belonged to a sort of heroic brotherhood. Theywent out like soldiers to conquer their literary liberties. They werekings of the Paris streets. 'But we, ' says Zola in a pensive strain, 'we live like wolves each in his hole. ' I do not know how true adescription this is of modern French literary society, but it is notdifficult to make one's self think that those other days were the daysof magnificent friendships between young men of genius. It certainlywas a more brilliant time than ours. It was flamboyant, to use one ofGautier's favorite words. 

Youth was responsible for much of the enthusiasm which obtained amongthe champions of artistic liberty. These young men who did honor tothe name of Hugo were actually young. They rejoiced in their youth. They flaunted it, so to speak, in the faces of those who were withoutit. Gautier says that young men of that day differed in one respectfrom young men of this day; modern young men are generally in theneighborhood of fifty years of age. 

Gautier has described his friends and comrades most felicitously. Allwere boys, and all were clever. They were poor and they were happy. They swore by Scott and Shakespeare, and they planned great futuresfor themselves. 

Take for an example Jules Vabre, who owed his reputation to a certainEssay on the Inconvenience of Conveniences. You will search thelibraries in vain for this treatise. The author did not finish it. Hedid not even commence it, --only talked about it. Jules Vabre had apassion for Shakespeare, and wanted to translate him. He thought ofShakespeare by day and dreamed of Shakespeare by night. He stoppedpeople in the street to ask them if they had read Shakespeare. 

He had a curious theory concerning language. Jules Vabre would nothave said, As a man thinks so is he, but, As a man drinks so is he. According to Gautier's statement, Vabre maintained the paradox thatthe Latin languages needed to be 'watered' (_arroser_) with wine, andthe Anglo-Saxon languages with beer. Vabre found that he madeextraordinary progress in English upon stout and extra stout. He wentover to England to get the very atmosphere of Shakespeare. There hecontinued for some time regularly 'watering' his language with Englishale, and nourishing his body with English beef. He would not look at aFrench newspaper, nor would he even read a letter from home. Finallyhe came back to Paris, anglicized to his very galoshes. Gautier saysthat when they met, Vabre gave him a 'shake hand' almost energeticenough to pull the arm from the shoulder. He spoke with so strong anEnglish accent that it was difficult to understand him; Vabre hadalmost forgotten his mother tongue. Gautier congratulated the exileupon his return, and said, 'My dear Jules Vabre, in order to translateShakespeare it is now only necessary for you to learn French. '

Gautier laid the foundations of his great fame by wearing a redwaistcoat the first night of _Hernani_. All the young men werefantastic in those days, and the spirit of carnival was in the wholeromantic movement. Gautier was more courageously fantastic than otheryoung men. His costume was effective, and the public never forgot him. He says with humorous resignation: 'If you pronounce the name ofThéophile Gautier before a Philistine who has never read a line of ourworks, the Philistine knows us, and remarks with a satisfied air, "Ohyes, the young man with the red waistcoat and the long hair. " ... Ourpoems are forgotten, but our red waistcoat is remembered. ' Gautiercheerfully grants that when everything about him has faded intooblivion this gleam of light will remain, to distinguish him fromliterary contemporaries whose waistcoats were of soberer hue. 

The chapter in his _Histoire du Romantisme_ in which Gautier tells howhe went to the tailor to arrange for the most spectacular feature ofhis costume is lively and amusing. He spread out the magnificent pieceof cherry-colored satin, and then unfolded his design for a'pour-point, ' like a 'Milan cuirass. ' Says Gautier, using always hisquaint editorial _we_, 'It has been said that we know a great manywords, but we don't know words enough to express the astonishment ofour tailor when we lay before him our plan for a waistcoat. ' The manof shears had doubts as to his customer's sanity. 

'Monsieur, ' he exclaimed, 'this is not the fashion!'

'It will be the fashion when we have worn the waistcoat once, ' wasGautier's reply. And he declares that he delivered the answer with aself-possession worthy of a Brummel or 'any other celebrity ofdandyism. '

It is no part of this paper to describe the innocently absurd andgood-naturedly extravagant things which Gautier and his companionsdid, not alone the first night of _Hernani_, but at all times and inall places. They unquestionably saw to it that Victor Hugo had fairplay the evening of February 25, 1830. The occasion was an historicone, and they with their Merovingian hair, their beards, theirwaistcoats, and their enthusiasm helped to make it an unusually livelyand picturesque occasion. 

I have quoted a very few of the good things which one may read inGautier's _Histoire du Romantisme_. The narrative is one of muchsweetness and humor. It ought to be translated for the benefit ofreaders who know Gautier chiefly by _Mademoiselle de Maupin_ and thatfor reasons among which love of literature is perhaps the leastinfluential. 

It is pleasant to find that Renduel confirms the popular view ofGautier's character. M. Jullien says that Renduel never spoke ofGautier but in praise. 'Quel bon garçon!' he used to say. 'Quel bravecoeur!' M. Jullien has naturally no large number of new facts to giveconcerning Gautier. But there are eight or nine letters from Gautierto Renduel which will be read with pleasure, especially the one inwhich the poet says to the publisher, 'Heaven preserve you fromhistorical novels, and your eldest child from the smallpox. '

Gautier must have been both generous and modest. No mere egoist couldhave been so faithful in his hero-worship or so unpretentious in hisallusions to himself. One has only to read the most superficialaccounts of French literature to learn how universally it is grantedthat Gautier had skillful command of that language to which he wasborn. Yet he himself was by no means sure that he deserved a master'sdegree. He quotes one of Goethe's sayings, --a saying in which thegreat German poet declares that after the practice of many arts therewas but one art in which he could be said to excel, namely, the art ofwriting in German; in that he was almost a master. Then Gautierexclaims, 'Would that _we_, after so many years of labor, had becomealmost a master of the art of writing in French! But such ambitionsare not for us!'

Yet they were for him; and it is a satisfaction to note how invariablyhe is accounted, by the artists in literature, an eminent man amongmany eminent men in whose touch language was plastic. 

STEVENSON: THE VAGABOND AND THE PHILOSOPHER

A certain critic said of Stevenson that he was 'incurably literary;'the phrase is a good one, being both humorous and true. There iscomfort in the thought that such efforts as may have been made to keephim in the path of virtuous respectability failed. Rather than _do_anything Stevenson preferred to loaf and to write books. And he earlylearned that considerable loafing is necessary if one expects tobecome a writer. There is a sense in which it is true that only lazypeople are fit for literature. Nothing is so fruitful as a fine giftfor idleness. The most prolific writers have been people who seemed tohave nothing to do. Every one has read that description of George Sandin her latter years, 'an old lady who came out into the garden atmid-day in a broad-brimmed hat and sat down on a bench or wanderedslowly about. So she remained for hours looking about her, musing, contemplating. She was gathering impressions, absorbing the universe, steeping herself in Nature; and at night she would give all this forthas a sort of emanation. ' One shudders to think what the result mighthave been if instead of absorbing the universe George Sand had donesomething practical during those hours. But the Scotchman was not likeGeorge Sand in any particular that I know of save in his perfectwillingness to bask in the sunshine and steep himself in Nature. Hisbooks did not 'emanate. ' The one way in which he certainly did notproduce literature was by improvisation. George Sand never revised herwork; it might almost be said that Robert Louis Stevenson never didanything else. 

Of his method we know this much. He himself has said that when he wentfor a walk he usually carried two books in his pocket, one a book toread, the other a note-book in which to put down the ideas that cameto him. This remark has undoubtedly been seized upon and treasured inthe memory as embodying a secret of his success. Trusting young soulshave begun to walk about with note-books: only to learn that thenote-book was a detail, not an essential, in the process. 

He who writes while he walks cannot write very much, but he may, if hechooses, write very well. He may turn over the rubbish of hisvocabulary until he finds some exquisite and perfect word with whichto bring out his meaning. This word need not be unusual; and if it is'exquisite' then exquisite only in the sense of being fitted with rareexactness to the idea. Stevenson wrote so well in part because hewrote so deliberately. He knew the vulgarity of haste, especially inthe making of literature. He knew that finish counted for much, perhaps for half. Has he not been reported as saying that it wasn'tworth a man's while to attempt to be a writer unless he was quitewilling to spend a day if the need were, on the turn of a singlesentence? In general this means the sacrifice of earthly reward; itmeans that a man must work for love and let the ravens feed him. Thatscriptural source has been distinctly unfruitful in these latter days, and few authors are willing to take a prophet's chances. But Stevensonwas one of the few. 

He laid the foundations of his reputation with two little volumes oftravel. _An Inland Voyage_ appeared in 1878; _Travels with a Donkey inthe Cevennes_, in 1879. These books are not dry chronicles of drierfacts. They bear much the same relation to conventional accounts oftravel that flowers growing in a garden bear to dried plants in aherbarium. They are the most friendly and urbane things in modernEnglish literature. They have been likened to Sterne's _SentimentalJourney_. The criticism would be better if one were able to imagineStevenson writing the adventure of the _fille de chambre_, or couldconceive of Lawrence Sterne writing the account of the meeting withthe Plymouth Brother. 'And if ever at length, out of our separate andsad ways, we should all come together into one common-house, I have ahope to which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth Brother willhasten to shake hands with me again. ' That was written twenty yearsago and the Brother was an old man then. And now Stevenson is gone. How impossible it is not to wonder whether they have yet met in that'one common-house. ' 'He feared to intrude, but he would not willinglyforego one moment of my society; and he seemed never weary of shakingme by the hand. '

The _Inland Voyage_ contains passages hardly to be matched for beauty. Let him who would be convinced read the description of the forestMormal, that forest whose breath was perfumed with nothing lessdelicate than sweet brier. 'I wish our way had always lain amongwoods, ' says Stevenson. 'Trees are the most civil society. '

Stevenson's traveling companion was a young English baronet. The twoadventurers paddled in canoes through the pleasant rivers and canalsof Belgium and North France. They had plenty of rain and a variety ofsmall misadventures; but they also had sunshine, fresh air, andexperiences among the people of the country such as they could havegot in no other way. They excited not a little wonder, and the commonopinion was that they were doing the journey for a wager; there seemedto be no other reason why two respectable gentlemen, not poor, shouldwork so hard and get so wet. 

This was conceived in a more adventurous vein than appears at firstsight. In an unsubdued country one contends with beasts and men whoare openly hostile. But when one is a stranger in the midst ofcivilization and meets civilization at its back door, he is astonishedto find how little removed civilization is from downright savagery. Stevenson and his companion learned as they could not have learnedotherwise how great deference the world pays to clothes. Whether yourheart is all right turns out a matter of minor importance; but--_areyour clothes all right_? If so, smiles, and good beds at respectableinns; if not, a lodging in a cow-shed or beneath any poor roof whichsuffices to keep off the rain. The voyagers had constantly to meet theaccusation of being peddlers. They denied it and were suspected afreshwhile the denial was on their lips. The public mind was singularlyalert and critical on the subject of peddlers. 

At La Fere, 'of Cursed Memory, ' they had a rebuff which nearly spoiledtheir tempers. They arrived in a rain. It was the finest kind of anight to be indoors 'and hear the rain upon the windows. ' They weretold of a famous inn. When they reached the carriage entry 'the rattleof many dishes fell upon their ears. ' They sighted a great field ofsnowy table-cloth, the kitchen glowed like a forge. They made theirtriumphal entry, 'a pair of damp rag-and-bone men, each with a limpIndia-rubber bag upon his arm. ' Stevenson declares that he never had asound view of that kitchen. It seemed to him a culinary paradise'crowded with the snowy caps of cookmen, who all turned round fromtheir sauce-pans and looked at us with surprise. ' But the landlady--aflushed, angry woman full of affairs--there was no mistaking her. Theyasked for beds and were told to find beds in the suburbs: 'We are toobusy for the like of you!' They said they would dine then, and werefor putting down their luggage. The landlady made a run at them andstamped her foot: 'Out with you--out of the door, ' she screeched. 

I once heard a young Englishman who had been drawn into somealtercation at a continental hotel explain a discreet movement on hisown part by saying: 'Now a French cook running amuck with a carvingknife in his hand would have bean a nahsty thing to meet, you know. 'There were no knives in this case, only a woman's tongue. Stevensonsays that he doesn't know how it happened, 'but next moment we wereout in the rain, and I was cursing before the carriage entry like adisappointed mendicant. '

'It's all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. Six hours ofpolice surveillance (such as I have had) or one brutal rejection froman inn door change your views upon the subject, like a course oflectures. As long as you keep in the upper regions, with all the worldbowing to you as you go, social arrangements have a very handsome air;but once get under the wheels and you wish society were at the devil. I will give most respectable men a fortnight of such a life, and thenI will offer them twopence for what remains of their morality. '

Stevenson declares that he could have set the temple of Diana on firethat night if it had been handy. 'There was no crime complete enoughto express my disapproval of human institutions. ' As for the baronet, he was horrified to learn that he had been taken for a peddler again;and he registered a vow before Heaven never to be uncivil to apeddler. But before making that vow he particularized a complaint forevery joint in the landlady's body. 

To read _An Inland Voyage_ is to be impressed anew with the thoughtthat some men are born with a taste for vagabondage. They areinstinctively for being on the move. Like the author of that book theytravel 'not to go any where but to go. ' If they behold a stage-coachor a railway train in motion they heartily wish themselves aboard. They are homesick when they stop at home, and are only at home whenthey are on the move. Talk to them of foreign lands and they areseized with unspeakable heart-ache and longing. Stevenson met anomnibus driver in a Belgian village who looked at him with thirstyeyes because he was able to travel. How that omnibus driver 'longed tobe somewhere else and see the round world before he died. ' 'Here Iam, ' said he. 'I drive to the station. Well. And then I drive backagain to the hotel. And so on every day and all the week round. MyGod, is that life?' Stevenson opined that this man had in him themaking of a traveler of the right sort; he might have gone to Africaor to the Indies after Drake. 'But it is an evil age for the gipsilyinclined among men. He who can sit squarest on a three-legged stool, he it is who has the wealth and glory. '

In his _Travels with a Donkey_ the author had no companionship butsuch as the donkey afforded; and to tell the truth this companionshipwas almost human at times. He learned to love the quaint little beastwhich shared his food and his trials. 'My lady-friend' he calls her. Modestine was her name; 'she was patient, elegant in form, the colorof an ideal mouse and inimitably small. ' She gave him trouble, and attimes he felt hurt and was distant in manner towards her. Modestinecarried the luggage. She may not have known that R. L. Stevenson wrotebooks, but she knew as by instinct that R. L. Stevenson had neverdriven a donkey. She wrought her will with him, that is, she took herown gait. 'What that pace was there is no word mean enough todescribe; it was something as much slower than a walk as a walk isslower than a run. ' He must belabor her incessantly. It was an ignobletoil, and he felt ashamed of himself besides, for he remembered hersex. 'The sound of my own blows sickened me. Once when I looked at hershe had a faint resemblance to a lady of my acquaintance who hadformerly loaded me with kindness; and this increased my horror of mycruelty. '

From time to time Modestine's load would topple off. The villagerswere delighted with this exhibition and laughed appreciatively. 'Judgeif I was hot!' says Stevenson. 'I remembered having laughed myselfwhen I had seen good men struggling with adversity in the person of ajack-ass, and the recollection filled me with penitence. That was inmy old light days before this trouble came upon me. '

He had a sleeping-bag, waterproof without, blue sheep's wool within, and in this portable house he passed his nights afield. Not always bychoice, as witness his chapter entitled 'A Camp in the Dark. ' Thereare two or three pages in that chapter which come pretty near toperfection, --if there be such a thing as perfection in literature. Idon't know who could wish for anything better than the paragraphs inwhich Stevenson describes falling asleep in the tempest, and awakingnext morning to see the 'world flooded with a blue light, the motherof dawn. ' He had been in search of an adventure all his life, 'a puredispassionate adventure, such as befell early and heroic voyagers, 'and he thinks that he realized a fraction of his daydreams when thatmorning found him, an inland castaway, 'as strange to his surroundingsas the first man upon the earth. '

Passages like these indicate Stevenson's quality. He was nocarpet-knight; he had the true adventurer's blood in his veins. He andDrake and the Belgian omnibus-driver should have gone to the Indiestogether. Better still, the omnibus driver should have gone withDrake, and Stevenson should have gone with Amyas Leigh. They say thatStevenson traveled in search of health. Without doubt; but think howhe _would_ have traveled if he had had good health. And one hasstrange mental experiences alone with the stars. That came of sleepingin the fields 'where God keeps an open house. ' 'I thought I hadrediscovered one of those truths which are revealed to savages and hidfrom political economists. '

Much as he gloried in his solitude he 'became aware of a strangelack;' for he was human. And he gave it as his opinion that 'to liveout of doors with the woman a man loves is of all lives the mostcomplete and free. ' It may be so. Such a woman would need to be ofheroic physical mould, and there is danger that she would turn out ofmasculine mould as well. Isopel Berners was of such sort. Isopel couldhandle her clenched fists like a prizefighter. She was magnificent inthe forest, and never so perfectly in place as when she backed upGeorge Borrow in his fight with the Flaming Tinman. Having been in thehabit of taking her own part, she was able to give pertinent advice ata critical moment. 'It's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman withyour left hand, ' she said, 'why don't you use your right?' Isopelcalled Borrow's right arm 'Long Melford. ' And when the Flaming Tinmangot his knock-down blow from Borrow's right, Isopel exclaimed, 'Hurrahfor Long Melford; there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness allthe world over!'

But what an embarrassing personage Miss Berners would have beentransferred from the dingle to the drawing-room; nay, how impossibleit is to think of that athletic young goddess as _Miss_ Berners! Thedistinctions and titles of conventional society refuse to cling evento her name. I wonder how Stevenson would have liked Isopel Berners. 

And now his philosophy. Yet somehow 'philosophy' seems a big word forso unpretentious a theory of life as his. Stevenson didn'tphilosophize much; he was content to live and to enjoy. He wasdeliberate, and in general he would not suffer himself to be driven. He resembled an admirable lady of my acquaintance who, when urged toget something done by a given time, usually replied that 'time wasmade for slaves. ' Stevenson had the same feeling. He says: 'Hurry isthe resource of the faithless. When a man can trust his own heart andthose of his friends to-morrow is as good as to-day. And if he die inthe mean while, why, then, there he dies, and the question is solved. '

You think this a poor philosophy? But there must be all kinds ofphilosophy; the people in the world are not run into one mould like somuch candle-grease. And because of this, his doctrine of Inaction andPostponement, stern men and practical women have frowned uponStevenson. In their opinion instead of being up and doing heconsecrated too many hours to the idleness of literature. They feeltowards him as Hawthorne fancied his ancestor the great witch judgewould have felt towards _him_. Hawthorne imagines that ghostly andterrible ancestor looking down upon him and exclaiming with infinitescorn, 'A writer of storybooks. What kind of employment is that for animmortal soul?'

To many people nothing is more hateful than this willingness to holdaloof and let things drift. That any human being should acquiesce withthe present order of the world appears monstrous to these earnestsouls. An Indian critic once called Stevenson 'a faddling Hedonist. 'Stevenson quotes the phrase with obvious amusement and withoutattempting to gainsay its accuracy. 

But if he allowed the world to take its course he expected the sameprivilege. He wished neither to interfere nor to be interfered with. And he was a most cheerful nonconformist withal. He says: 'To knowwhat you prefer instead of humbly saying amen to what the world tellsyou you ought to prefer is to have kept your soul alive. ' Independenceand optimism are vital parts of his unformulated creed. He hatedcynicism and sourness. He believed in praise of one's own good estate. He thought it was an inspiriting thing to hear a man boast, 'so longas he boasts of what he really has. ' If people but knew this theywould boast 'more freely and with a better grace. '

Stevenson was humorously alive to the old-fashioned quality of hisdoctrine of happiness and content. He says in the preface to an_Inland Voyage_ that although the book 'runs to considerably over ahundred pages, it contains not a single reference to the imbecility ofGod's universe, nor so much as a single hint that I could have made abetter one myself--I really do not know where my head can have been. 'But while this omission will, he fears, render his book'philosophically unimportant' he hopes that 'the eccentricity mayplease in frivolous circles. '

Stevenson could be militant. His letter on Father Damien shows that. But there was nothing of the professional reformer about him. He hadno hobby, and he was the artist first and then the philanthropist. This is right; it was the law of his being. Other men are betterequipped to do the work of humanity's city missionaries than was he. Let their more rugged health and less sensitive nerves bear theburden; his poet's mission was not the less important. 

The remaining point I have to note, among a number which might benoted, is his firm grasp of this idea: that whether he is hisbrother's keeper or not he is at all events his brother's brother. Itis 'philosophy' of a very good sort to have mastered this conceptionand to have made the life square with the theory. This doctrine isfashionable just now, and thick books have been written on thesubject, filled with wise terms and arguments. I don't know whetherStevenson bothered his head with these matters from a scientific pointof view or not, but there are many illustrations of his interest. Wasit this that made him so gentle in his unaffected manly way? Hecertainly understood how difficult it is for the well-to-do member ofsociety to get any idea not wholly distorted of the feelings andmotives of the lower classes. He believed that certain virtues residedmore conspicuously among the poor than among the rich. He declaredthat the poor were more charitably disposed than their superiors inwealth. 'A workman or a peddler cannot shutter himself off from hisless comfortable neighbors. If he treats himself to a luxury he mustdo it in the face of a dozen who cannot. And what should more directlylead to charitable thoughts?' But with the advent of prosperity a manbecomes incapable of understanding how the less fortunate live. Stevenson likens that happy individual to a man going up in a balloon. 'He presently passes through a zone of clouds and after that merelyearthly things are hidden from his gaze. He sees nothing but theheavenly bodies, all in admirable order and positively as good as new. He finds himself surrounded in the most touching manner by theattentions of Providence, and compares himself involuntarily with thelilies and the sky-larks. He does not precisely sing, of course; butthen he looks so unassuming in his open landau! If all the world dinedat one table this philosophy would meet with some rude knocks. '

In the three years since Stevenson's death many additions have beenmade to the body of literature by him and about him. There areletters, finished and unfinished novels, and recollections by theheaping handful. Critics are considerably exercised over the questionwhether any, or all, or only two or three of his books are to last. The matter has, I believe, been definitely decided so that posterity, whatever other responsibilities it has, will at least not have thatone; and anything that we can do to relieve the future of its burdensis altruism worthy the name. 

Stevenson was one of the best tempered men that ever lived. He neverprated about goodness, but was unaffectedly good and sunny-hearted aslong as he lived. Of how many men can it be said, as it _can_ be saidof him, that he was sick all his days and never uttered a whimper?What rare health of mind was this which went with such poor health ofbody! I've known men to complain more over toothache than Stevensonthought it worth while to do with death staring him in the face. Hedid not, like Will o' the Mill, live until the snow began to thickenon his head. He never knew that which we call middle age. 

He worked harder than a man in his condition should have done. Attimes he felt the need to write for money; and this was hostile to histheory of literature. He wrote to his friend Colvin: 'I sometimes sitand yearn for anything in the nature of an income that would comein--mine has all got to be gone and fished for with the immortal mindof man. What I want is an income that really comes in of itself whileall you have to do is just to blossom and exist and sit on chairs. '

I wish he might have had it; I can think of no other man whoseindolence would have been so profitable to the world. 

STEVENSON'S ST. IVES

With the publication of _St. Ives_ the catalogue of Stevenson'simportant writings has closed. In truth it closed several yearsago, --in 1891, to be exact, --when _Catriona_ was published. Nothingwhich has appeared since that date can modify to any great extent thebest critical estimate of his novels. Neither _Weir of Hermiston_ nor_St. Ives_ affects the matter. You may throw them into the scales withhis other works, and then you may take them out; beyond a meretrembling the balance is not disturbed. But suppose you were to takeout _Kidnapped_, or _Treasure Island_, or _The Master of Ballantrae_, the loss would be felt at once and seriously. And unless he has leftbehind him, hidden away among his loose papers, some rare and perfectsketch, some letter to posterity which shall be to his reputation whatNeil Paraday's lost novel in _The Death of the Lion_ might have beento his, _St. Ives_ may be regarded as the epilogue. 

Stevenson's death and the publication of this last effort of his finegenius may tend to draw away a measure of public interest from thattype of novel which he, his imitators, and his rivals have soabundantly produced. This may be the close of a 'period' such as weread about in histories of literature. 

If the truth be told, has not our generation had enough of duels, hair-breadth escapes, post-chaises, and highwaymen, mysteriousstrangers muffled in great-coats, and pistols which always miss firewhen they shouldn't? To say positively that we _have_ done with allthis might appear extravagant in the light of the popularity ofcertain modern heroic novels. But it might not be too radical a viewif one were to maintain that these books are the expression ofsomething temporary and accidental, that they sustain a chronologicalrelation to modern literature rather than an essential one. 

Matthew Arnold spoke of Heine as a sardonic smile on the face of theZeitgeist. Let us say that these modern stories in the heroic vein area mere heightening of color on the cheeks of that interesting younglady, the Genius of the modern novel--a heightening of color _on_ thecheeks, for the color comes from without and not from within. It is amatter of no moment. Artificial red does no harm for once, and lookswell under gaslight. 

These novels of adventure which we buy so cheerfully, read with suchpleasure, and make such a good-natured fuss over, are for the greaterpart an expression of something altogether foreign to the deeperspirit of modern fiction. Surely the true modern novel is the onewhich reflects the life of to-day. And life to-day is easy, familiar, rich in material comforts, and on the whole without painfully strikingcontrasts and thrilling episodes. People have enough to eat, reasonable liberty, and a degree of patience with one another whichsuggests indifference. A man may shout aloud in the market-place themost revolutionary opinions, and hardly be taken to task for it; andthen on the other hand we have got our rulers pretty well undercontrol. This paragraph, however, is not the peroration of a eulogyupon 'our unrivaled happiness. ' It attempts merely to lay stress onsuch facts as these, that it is not now possible to hang a clergymanof the Church of England for forgery, as was done in 1777; that a manmay not be deprived of the custody of his own children because heholds heterodox religious opinions, as happened in 1816. There iswidespread toleration; and civilization in the sense in which Ruskinuses the word has much increased. Now it is possible for a Jew tobecome Prime Minister, and for a Roman Catholic to become England'sPoet Laureate. 

If, then, life is familiar, comfortable, unrestrained, and easy, as itcertainly seems to be, how are we to account for the rise of thissemihistoric, heroic literature? It is almost grotesque, the contrastbetween the books themselves and the manner in which they areproduced. One may picture the incongruous elements of thesituation, --a young society man going up to his suite in a handsomemodern apartment house, and dictating romance to a type-writer. In theevening he dines at his club, and the day after the happy launching ofhis novel he is interviewed by the representative of a newspapersyndicate, to whom he explains his literary method, while theinterviewer makes a note of his dress and a comment on the decorationof his mantelpiece. 

Surely romance written in this way--and we have not grosslyexaggerated the way--bears no relation to modern literature other thana chronological one. _The Prisoner of Zenda_ and _A Gentleman ofFrance_, to mention two happy and pleasing examples of this type ofnovel, are not modern in the sense that they express any deep feelingor any vital characteristic of to-day. They are not instinct with thespirit of the times. One might say that these stories represent thenovel in its theatrical mood. It is the novel masquerading. Just as arespectable bookkeeper likes to go into private theatricals, wear awig with curls, a slouch hat with ostrich feathers, a sword andruffles, and play a part to tear a cat in, so does the novel like todo the same. The day after the performance the whole artificialequipment drops away and disappears. The bookkeeper becomes abookkeeper once more and a natural man. The hour before the footlightshas done him no harm. True, he forgot his lines at one place, but whatis a prompter for if not to act in such an emergency? Now that it isover the affair may be pronounced a success, --particularly in thelight of the gratifying statement that a clear profit has beenrealized towards paying for the new organ. 

This is a not unfair comparison of the part played by these books inmodern fiction. The public likes them, buys them, reads them; andthere is no reason why the public should not. In proportion to thedemand for color, action, posturing, and excessive gesticulation, these books have a financial success; in proportion to theconscientiousness of the artist who creates them they have a literaryvitality. But they bear to the actual modern novel a relation notunlike that which _The Castle of Otranto_ bears to _TomJones_, --making allowance of course for the chronological discrepancy. 

From one point the heroic novel is a protest against the commonplaceand stupid elements of modern life. According to Mr. Frederic Harrisonthere is no romance left in us. Life is stale and flat; yet even Mr. Harrison would hardly go to the length of declaring that it is alsocommercially unprofitable. The artificial apartment-house romance isone expression of the revolt against the duller elements in ourcivilization; and as has often been pointed out, the novel ofpsychological horrors is another expression. 

There are a few men, however, whose work is not accounted for bysaying that they love theatrical pomp and glitter for its own sake, orthat they write fiction as a protest against the times in which theylive. Stevenson was of this number. He was an adventurer byinheritance and by practice. He came of a race of adventurers, adventurers who built lighthouses and fought with that bold outlaw, the Sea. He himself honestly loved, and in a measure lived, a wildlife. There is no truer touch of nature than in the scene where St. Ives tells the boy Rowley that he is a hunted fugitive with a priceset upon his head, and then enjoys the tragic astonishment depicted inthe lad's face. 

Rowley 'had a high sense of romance and a secret cultus for allsoldiers and criminals. His traveling library consisted of a chap-booklife of Wallace, and some sixpenny parts of the Old Bailey SessionsPapers; ... And the choice depicts his character to a hair. You canimagine how his new prospects brightened on a boy of this disposition. To be the servant and companion of a fugitive, a soldier, and amurderer rolled in one--to live by stratagems, disguises, and falsenames, in an atmosphere of midnight and mystery so thick that youcould cut it with a knife--was really, I believe, more dear to himthan his meals, though he was a great trencher-man and something of aglutton besides. For myself, as the peg by which all this romanticbusiness hung, I was simply idolized from that moment; and he wouldrather have sacrificed his hand than surrendered the privilege ofserving me. '

One can believe that Stevenson was a boy with tastes and ambitionslike Rowley. But for that matter Rowley stands for universalboy-nature. 

Criticism of _St. Ives_ becomes both easy and difficult by reason ofthe fact that we know so much about the book from the author's pointof view. He wrote it in trying circumstances, and never completed it;the last six chapters are from the pen of a practiced story-teller, who follows the author's known scheme of events. Stevenson was almosttoo severe in his comment upon his book. He says of _St. Ives_:--

'It is a mere tissue of adventures; the central figure not very wellor very sharply drawn; no philosophy, no destiny, to it; some of thehappenings very good in themselves, I believe, but none of them_bildende_, none of them constructive, except in so far perhaps asthey make up a kind of sham picture of the time, all in italics, andall out of drawing. Here and there, I think, it is well written; andhere and there it's not.... If it has a merit to it, I should say itwas a sort of deliberation and swing to the style, which seems to meto suit the mail-coaches and post-chaises with which it sounds allthrough. 'Tis my most prosaic book. '

One must remember that this is epistolary self-criticism, and that itis hardly to be looked upon in the nature of an 'advance notice. 'Still more confidential and epistolary is the humorous and recklessaffirmation that _St. Ives_ is 'a rudderless hulk. ' 'It's a pagoda, 'says Stevenson in a letter dated September, 1894, 'and you can justfeel--or I can feel--that it might have been a pleasant story if ithad only been blessed at baptism. '

He had to rewrite portions of it in consequence of having receivedwhat Dr. Johnson would have called 'a large accession of new ideas. 'The ideas were historical. The first five chapters describe theexperiences of French prisoners of war in Edinburgh Castle. St. Iveswas the only 'gentleman' among them, the only man with ancestors and aright to the 'particle. ' He suffered less from ill treatment than fromthe sense of being made ridiculous. The prisoners were dressed inuniform, --'jacket, waistcoat, and trousers of a sulphur or mustardyellow, and a shirt of blue-and-white striped cotton. ' St. Ivesthought that 'some malignant genius had found his masterpiece of ironyin that dress. ' So much is made of this point that one reads withunusual interest the letter in which Stevenson bewails his 'miserableluck' with _St. Ives_; for he was halfway through it when a book, which he had ordered six months before, arrived, upsetting all hisprevious notions of how the prisoners were cared for. Now he mustchange the thing from top to bottom. 'How could I have dreamed theFrench prisoners were watched over like a female charity school, keptin a grotesque livery, and shaved twice a week?' All his points hadbeen made on the idea that they were 'unshaved and clothed anyhow. ' Hewelcomes the new matter, however, in spite of the labor it entails. And it is easy to see how he has enriched the earlier chapters byaccentuating St. Ives's disgust and mortification over his hideousdress and stubby chin. 

The book has a light-hearted note, as a romance of the road shouldhave. The events take place in 1813; they might have occurred fifty orseventy-five years earlier. For the book lacks that convincingsomething which fastens a story immovably within certain chronologicallimits. It is the effect which Thomas Hardy has so wonderfullyproduced in that little tale describing Napoleon's night-time visit tothe coast of England; the effect which Stevenson himself was equallyhappy in making when he wrote the piece called _A Lodging for aNight_. 

_St. Ives_ has plenty of good romantic stuff in it, though on thewhole it is romance of the conventional sort. It is too well bred, letus say too observant of the forms and customs which one has learned toexpect in a novel of the road. There is an escape from the castle inthe sixth chapter, a flight in the darkness towards the cottage of thelady-love in the seventh chapter, an appeal to the generosity of thelady-love's aunt, a dragon with gold-rimmed eyeglasses, in the ninthchapter. And so on. We would not imply that all this is lacking indistinction, but it seems to want that high distinction whichStevenson could give to his work. Ought one to look for it in a bookconfessedly unsatisfactory to its author, and a book which was leftincomplete?

There is a pretty account of the first meeting between St. Ives andFlora. One naturally compares it with the scene in which David Balfourdescribes his sensations and emotions when the spell of Catriona'sbeauty came upon him. Says David:--

'There is no greater wonder than the way the face of a young womanfits in a man's mind and stays there, and he could never tell you why;it just seems it was the thing he wanted. '

This is quite perfect, and in admirable keeping with the genuinesimplicity of David's character:--

'She had wonderful bright eyes like stars; ... And whatever was thecause, I stood there staring like a fool. '

This is more concise than St. Ives's description of Flora; but St. Ives was a man of the world who had read books, and knew how tocompare the young Scotch beauty to Diana:--

'As I saw her standing, her lips parted, a divine trouble in her eyes, I could have clapped my hands in applause, and was ready to acclaimher a genuine daughter of the winds. '

The account of the meeting with Walter Scott and his daughter on themoors does not have the touch of reality in it that one would like. Here was an opportunity, however, of the author's own making. 

There are flashes of humor, as when St. Ives found himself locked inthe poultry-house 'alone with half a dozen sitting hens. In thetwilight of the place all fixed their eyes on me severely, and seemedto upbraid me with some crying impropriety. '

There are sentences in which, after Stevenson's own manner, realinsight is combined with felicitous expression. St. Ives is commentingupon the fact that he has done a thing which most men learned in thewisdom of this world would have pronounced absurd; he has 'made aconfidant of a boy in his teens and positively smelling of thenursery. ' But he has no cause to repent it. 'There is none so apt as aboy to be the adviser of any man in difficulties like mine. To thebeginnings of virile common sense he adds the last lights of thechild's imagination. '

Men have been known to thank God when certain authors died, --notbecause they bore the slightest personal ill-will, but because theyknew that as long as the authors lived nothing could prevent them fromwriting. In thinking of Stevenson, however, one cannot tell whether heexperiences the more a feeling of personal or of literary loss, whether he laments chiefly the man or the author. It is not possibleto separate the various cords of love, admiration, and gratitude whichbind us to this man. He had a multitude of friends. He appealed to awider audience than he knew. He himself said that he was read byjournalists, by his fellow novelists, and by boys. Envious admirationmight prompt a less successful writer to exclaim, 'Well, isn't thatenough?' No, for to be truly blest one must have women among one'sreaders. And there are elect ladies not a few who know Stevenson'snovels; yet it is a question whether he has reached the great mass offemale novel-readers. Certainly he is not well known in that circle offashionable maidens and young matrons which justly prides itself uponan acquaintance with Van Bibber. And we can hardly think he is afamiliar name to that vast and not fashionable constituency whichbattens upon the romances of Marie Corelli under the impression thatit is perusing literature, while he offers no comfort whatever to thattype of reader who prefers that a novel shall be filled with hardthinking, with social riddles, theological problems, and 'sexualtheorems. ' Stevenson was happy with his journalists and boys. Amongall modern British men of letters he was in many ways the most highlyblest; and his career was entirely picturesque and interesting. Othermen have been more talked about, but the one thing which he did notlack was discriminating praise from those who sit in high criticalplaces. 

He was prosperous, too, though not grossly prosperous. It is no newfact that the sales of his books were small in proportion to themagnitude of his contemporary fame. People praised him tremendously, but paid their dollars for entertainment of another quality than thatsupplied by his fine gifts. _An Inland Voyage_ has never been aspopular as _Three Men in a Boat_, nor _Treasure Island_ and_Kidnapped_ as _King Solomon's Mines_; while _The Black Arrow_, whichMr. Lang does not like, and Professor Saintsbury insists is 'awonderfully good story, ' has not met a wide public favor at all. _Travels with a Donkey_, which came out in 1879, had only reached itssixth English edition in 1887. Perhaps that is good for a book soentirely virtuous in a literary way, but it was not a success to keepa man awake nights. 

We have been told that it is wrong to admire _Jekyll and Hyde_, thatthe story is 'coarse, ' an 'outrage upon the grand allegories of thesame motive, ' and several other things; nay, it is even hinted thatthis popular tale is evidence of a morbid strain in the author'snature. Rather than dispute the point it is a temptation to urge uponthe critic that he is not radical enough, for in Stevenson's opinionall literature might be only a 'morbid secretion. '

The critics, however, agree in allowing us to admire without stintthose smaller works in which his characteristic gifts displayedthemselves at the best. _Thrawn Janet_ is one of these, and the storyof Tod Lapraik, told by Andie Dale in _Catriona_, is another. Stevenson himself declared that if he had never written anythingexcept these two stories he would still have been a writer. We hopethat there would be votes cast for _Will o' the Mill_, which is alovely bit of literary workmanship. And there are a dozen besidesthese. 

He was an artist of undoubted gifts, but he was an artist in smallliterary forms. His longest good novels are after all little books. When he attempted a large canvas he seemed not perfectly in command ofhis materials, though he could use those materials as they could havebeen used by no other artist. There is nothing in his books akin tothat broad and massive treatment which may be felt in a novel like_Rhoda Fleming_ or in a tragedy like _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_. 

Andrew Lang was right when he said of Stevenson: He is a 'LittleMaster, ' but of the Little Masters the most perfect and delightful. 

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