diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:51:29 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:51:29 -0700 |
| commit | 2978398029970268de5d4a290e12c14306c9e791 (patch) | |
| tree | 082312583c73445ac71bc6a23f7a047f79dcef45 /17601-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '17601-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 17601-h/17601-h.htm | 6304 |
1 files changed, 6304 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/17601-h/17601-h.htm b/17601-h/17601-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fa6e4f --- /dev/null +++ b/17601-h/17601-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6304 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Masques & Phases</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Masques & Phases, by Robert Ross</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Masques & Phases, by Robert Ross + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Masques & Phases + + +Author: Robert Ross + + + +Release Date: January 24, 2006 [eBook #17601] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASQUES & PHASES*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the December 1909 Arthur L. Humphreys edition by +David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1><!-- page iii--><a name="pageiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iii</span>MASQUES +& PHASES</h1> +<p>BY<br /> +ROBERT ROSS</p> +<p>LONDON:<br /> +ARTHUR L. HUMPHREYS<br /> +187 PICCADILLY, W.<br /> +1909</p> +<p><!-- page iv--><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iv</span>The +author wishes to express his indebtedness, to Messrs. Smith, Elder for +leave to reproduce ‘A Case at the Museum,’ which appeared +in the <i>Cornhill</i> of October, 1900; to the Editor of the <i>Westminster +Gazette</i>, which first published the account of Simeon Solomon; and +to the former proprietors of the Wilsford Press, for kindly allowing +other articles to be here reissued. ‘How we Lost the Book +of Jasher’ and ‘The Brand of Isis’ were contributed +to two undergraduate publications, <i>The Spirit Lamp</i> and <i>The +Oxford Point of View</i>.</p> +<p><!-- page vi--><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span><i>To</i> +HAROLD CHILD, <span class="smcap">Esq</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page ix--><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span>THE +DEDICATION.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Child</span>,</p> +<p>It is not often the privilege of a contributor to address his former +editor in so fatherly a fashion; yet it is appropriate because you justified +an old proverb in becoming, if I may say so, my literary parent. +Though I had enjoyed the hospitality, I dare not say the welcome, of +more than one London editor, you were the first who took off the bearing-rein +from my frivolity. You allowed me that freedom, of manner and +matter, which I have only experienced in undergraduate periodicals. +It is not any lack of gratitude to such distinguished editors as the +late Mr. Henley; or Mr. Walter Pollock, who first accorded me the courtesies +of print in a periodical not distinguished for its courtesy; or Professor +C. J. Holmes, who has occasionally endured me with patience in the <i>Burlington +Magazine</i>; or Mr. Edmund Gosse, to whom I <!-- page x--><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. x</span>am +under special obligations; that I address myself particularly to you. +But I, who am not frightened of many things, have always been frightened +of editors. I am filled with awe when I think of the ultramarine +pencil that is to delete my ultramontane views. You were, as I +have hinted, the first to abrogate its use in my favour. When +you, if not Consul, were at least Plancus, I think the only thing you +ever rejected of mine was an essay entitled ‘Editors, their Cause +and Cure.’ It is not included, for obvious reasons, in the +present volume, of which you will recognise most of the contents. +These may seem even to your indulgent eyes a trifle miscellaneous and +disconnected. Still there is a thread common to all, though I +cannot claim for them uniformity. There is no strict adherence +to those artificial divisions of literature into fiction, essay, criticism, +and poetry. Count Tolstoy, however, has shown us that a novel +may be an essay rather than a story. No less a writer than Swift +used the medium of fiction for his most brilliant criticism of life; +his fables, apart from their satire, are often mere essays. Plato, +Sir Thomas More, <!-- page xi--><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>William +Morris, and Mr. H. G. Wells have not disdained to transmit their philosophy +under the domino of romance or myth. Some of the greatest poets—Ruskin +and Pater for example—have chosen prose for their instrument of +expression. If that theory is true of literature—and I ask +you to accept it as true—how much truer is it of journalism, at +least such journalism as mine; though I see a great gulf between literature +and journalism far greater than that between fiction and essay-writing. +The line, too, dividing the poetry of Keats from the prose of Sir Thomas +Browne is far narrower, in my opinion, than the line dividing Pope from +Tennyson. And I say this mindful of Byron’s scornful couplet +and the recent animadversions of Lord Morley.</p> +<p>There are essays in my book cast in the form of fiction; criticism +cast in the form of parody; and a vein of high seriousness sufficiently +obvious, I hope, behind the masques and phases of my jesting. +The psychological effects produced by works of art and archæology, +by drama and books, on men and situations—such are the themes +of these passing observations.</p> +<p><!-- page xii--><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xii</span>And +though you find them like an old patchwork quilt I hope you will laugh, +in token of your acceptance, if not of the book at least of my lasting +regard and friendship for yourself.</p> +<p>Ever yours,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Robert Ross</span>.</p> +<p>5 <i>Hertford Street</i>, <i>Mayfair</i>, <i>W</i>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>A +CASE AT THE MUSEUM.</h2> +<p>It is a common error to confuse the archæologist with the mere +collector of ignoble trifles, equally pleased with an unusual postage +stamp or a scarce example of an Italian primitive. Nor should +the impertinent curiosity of local antiquaries, which sees in every +disused chalk-pit traces of Roman civilisation, be compared with the +rare predilection requisite for a nobler pursuit. The archæologist +preserves for us those objects which time has forgotten and passing +fashion rejected; in the museums he buries our ancient eikons, where +they become impervious to neglect, praise, or criticism; while the collector—a +malicious atavist unless he possess accidental perceptions—merely +rescues the mistakes of his forefathers, to crowd public galleries with +an inconsequent lumber which a better taste has taught as to despise.</p> +<p><!-- page 2--><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>In +the magic of escaped conventions surely none is more powerful than the +Greek, and even now, though we yawn over the enthusiasm of the Renaissance +mirrored in our more cadenced prose, there are some who can still catch +the delightful contagion which seized the princes and philosophers of +Europe in that Martin’s Summer of Middle Age.</p> +<p>Of the New Learning already become old, Professor Lachsyrma is reputed +a master. Scarcely any one in England holds a like position. +He is sixty, and, though his youth is said to have been eventful, he +hardly looks his age. He speaks English with a delightful accent, +and there always hangs about his presence a melancholy halo of mystery +and Italy. His quiet unassumed familiarity with every museum and +library on the Continent astonishes even the most erudite Teuton. +Among archæologists he is thought a pre-eminent palæographer, +among palæographers a great archæologist. I have heard +him called the Furtwängler of Britain. His facsimiles and +collated texts of the classics are familiar throughout the world. +He has independent <!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>means, +and from time to time entertains English and foreign <i>cognoscenti</i> +with elegant simplicity at his wonderful house in Kensington. +His conversation is more informing than brilliant. Yet you may +detect an unaccountable melancholy in his voice and manner, attributed +by the irreverent to his constant visits to the Museum. Religious +people, of course, refer to his loss of faith at Oxford; for I regret +to say the Professor has been an habitual freethinker these many years.</p> +<p>However it may be, Professor Lachsyrma is sad, and has not yet issued +his edition of the newly discovered poems of Sappho unearthed in Egypt +some time since—an edition awaited so impatiently by poets and +scholars.</p> +<p>Some years ago, on retiring from his official appointment, Professor +Lachsyrma, being a married man, searched for some apartment remote from +his home, where he might work undisturbed at labours long since become +important pleasures. You cannot grapple with uncials, cursives, +and the like in a domestic environment. The preparation of facsimiles, +transcripts, and palæographical observations, reports of excavations +and <!-- page 4--><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>catalogues, +demands isolation and complete immunity from the trivialities of social +existence.</p> +<p>In a large Bloomsbury studio he found a retreat suitable to his requirements. +The uninviting entrance, up a stone staircase leading immediately from +the street, was open till nightfall, the rest of the house being used +for storage by second-hand dealers in Portland Street. No one +slept on the premises, but a caretaker came at stated intervals to light +fires and close the front door; for which, however, the Professor owned +a pass-key, each room having, as in modern flats, an independent door +that might be locked at pleasure. The general gloom of the building +never tempted casual callers. The Professor purposely abstained +from the decoration or even ordinary furnishing of his chamber. +The whitewashed walls were covered with dust-bitten maps, casts of bas-reliefs, +engravings of ruins. Behind the door were stacked huge packing-cases +containing the harvest of a recent journey to the eastern shores of +the Mediterranean. Along one wall mutilated statues and torsos +were promiscuously mounted on trestles or temporary <!-- page 5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>pedestals +made of inverted wooden boxes. Above them a large series of shelves +bulging with folios, manuscript notebooks, pamphlets, and catalogues +ran up to the window, which faced north-east, admitting a strong top-light +through panes of ground glass; the lower sash was hidden by permanent +blinds in order to shut out all view of the opposite houses and the +street below. A long narrow table occupied the centre of the room. +It was always strewn with magnifying-glasses, proofs, printers’ +slips, negatives—the litter of a palæographic student. +There were three or four wooden chairs for the benefit of scholarly +friends, and an armchair upholstered in green rep near the stove. +In a corner stood the most striking, perhaps the only striking, object +in the room—a huge mummy from the Fayyûm. The canopic +jars and outer coffins belonging to it were still unpacked in the freight +cases. It had been purchased from a bankrupt Armenian dealer in +Cairo along with a number of Græco-Egyptian antiquities and papyri, +of far greater interest to the Professor than the mummy itself. +As soon as the interior was examined it was to be presented to the Museum; +but more <!-- page 6--><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>entertaining +and important studies delayed its removal. For many months, with +a curious grave smile, the face on the shell seemed to look down with +amused and permanent interest on Professor Lachsyrma struggling with +the orthography of some forgotten scribe, and arguing with a friend +on mutilated or corrupt passages in a Greek palimpsest.</p> +<p>Here, late one afternoon, Professor Lachsyrma was deciphering some +yellow leaves of papyrus. The dusk was falling, and he laid down +the pen with which he was delicately transcribing uncials on sheets +of foolscap, in order to light a lamp on the table. It was 6.30 +by an irritating little American clock recently presented him by one +of his children, noisy symbol and only indication that he held commune +with a modern life he so heartily despised. As the housekeeper +entered with some tea he took up a copy of a morning paper (a violent +transition from uncials), and glanced at the first lines of the leader:</p> +<blockquote><p>The Trustees of the British Museum announce one of the +most sensational literary discoveries in recent years, a discovery which +must startle the world of scholars, and even the apathetic public at +large. This <!-- page 7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>is +none other than the recovery of the long-lost poems of Sappho, manuscripts +of which were last heard of in the tenth century, when they were burnt +at Rome and Byzantium. We shall have to go back to the fifteenth +century, to the Fall of Constantinople, to the Revival of Learning, +ere we can find a fitting parallel to match the importance of this recent +find. Not since the spade of the excavator uncovered from its +shroud of earth the flawless beauty of the Olympian Hermes has such +a delightful acquisition been made to our knowledge of Greek literature. +The name of Professor Lachsyrma has long been one to conjure with, and +all of us should experience pleasure (where surprise in his case is +out of the question) on learning that his recent tour to Egypt, besides +greatly benefiting his health, was the means of restoring to eager posterity +one of the most precious monuments of Hellenic culture.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Dear me, I had no idea the press could be so entertaining,’ +thought the Professor, as a smile of satisfaction spread over his well-chiselled +face. Archæologists are not above reading personal paragraphs +and leaders about themselves, though current events do not interest +them. So absorbing is their pursuit of antiquity that they are +obliged to affect a plausible indifference and a refined ignorance about +modern affairs. Nor are they very <!-- page 8--><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>generous +members of the community. Perhaps dealing in dead gods, perpetually +handling precious objects which have ceased to have any relation to +life, or quarrelling about languages no one ever uses, blunts their +sensibilities. At all events, they have none of that loyalty distinguishing +members of other learned professions. The canker of jealousy eats +perpetually at their hearts.</p> +<p>Professor Lachsyrma was too well endowed by fortune to grudge his +former colleagues their little incomes or inadequate salaries at the +Museum. Still, his recent discovery would not only enhance his +fame in the learned world and his reputed <i>flair</i> for manuscripts—it +would irritate those rivals in England and Germany who, in the more +solemn reviews, resisted some of his conclusions, canvassed his facts, +and occasionally found glaring errors in his texts. How jealous +the discovery would make young Fairleigh, for all his unholy knowledge +of Greek vases, his handsome profile, and his predilection for going +too frequently into society!—a taste not approved by other officials. +How it would anger old Gully! Professor Lachsyrma drank some more +tea with further satisfaction. <!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>Sappho +herself could not have felt more elated on the completion of one of +her odes; we know she was poignant and sensitive. Thus for a whole +hour he idled with his thoughts—rare occupation for so industrious +a man. He was startled from the reverie by a slight knock at his +door.</p> +<p>‘Come in,’ he said coldly. There was a touch of +annoyance in his tone. Visitors, frequent enough in the morning, +rarely disturbed him in the afternoon.</p> +<p>‘To whom have I the—duty of speaking?’ He +raised his well-preserved spare form to its full height. The long +loose alpaca coat, velvet skull-cap, and pointed beard gave him the +appearance of an eminent ecclesiastic.</p> +<p>The subdued light in the room presented only a dim figure on the +threshold, and the piercing eyes of the Professor could only see a blurred +white face against the black frame of the open door. A strange +voice replied:</p> +<p>‘I am sorry to disturb you, Professor Lachsyrma. I shall +not detain you for more than—an hour.’</p> +<p>‘If you will kindly write and state the nature of your business, +I can give you an <!-- page 10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>appointment +to-morrow or the day after. At the present moment, you will observe, +I am busy. I never see visitors except by appointment.’</p> +<p>‘I am sorry to inconvenience you. Necessity compels me +to choose my own hours for interviewing any one.’</p> +<p>The Professor then suddenly removed the green cardboard shade from +the lamp. The discourteous intruder was now visible for his inspection.</p> +<p>He was a fair man of uncertain age, but could not be more than twenty-eight. +He wore his flaxen hair rather long and ill-kempt; his face might have +been handsome, but the flesh was white and flaccid; the features, though +regular, devoid of character; the blue eyes had so little expression +that a professed physiognomist would have found difficulty in ‘placing’ +their possessor. His black clothes were shiny with age; his gait +was shuffling and awkward.</p> +<p>‘My name, though it will not convey very much to you, is Frank +Carrel. I am a scholar, an archæologist, a palæographer, +and—other things besides.’</p> +<p><!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>‘A +beggar and a British Museum reader,’ was the mental observation +of the Professor. The other seemed to read his thoughts.</p> +<p>‘You think I want pecuniary assistance; well, I do.’</p> +<p>‘I fear you have come to the wrong person, at the wrong time, +and if I may say so, in the wrong way. I do not like to be disturbed +at this hour. Will you kindly leave me this instant?’</p> +<p>Carrel’s manner changed and became more deferential.</p> +<p>‘If you will allow me to show you something on which I want +your opinion, something I can leave with you, I will go away at once +and come back to-morrow at any time you name.’</p> +<p>‘Very well,’ said the Professor, wearily, ready to compromise +the matter for the moment.</p> +<p>From a small bag he was carrying Carrel produced a roll of papyrus. +The Professor’s eyes gleamed; he held out his hands greedily to +receive it, fixing a searching, suspicious glance on Carrel.</p> +<p>‘Where did you get this, may I ask?’</p> +<p><!-- page 12--><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>‘I +want your opinion first, and then I will tell you.’</p> +<p>The Professor moved towards the lamp, replaced the cardboard green +shade, sat down, and with a strong magnifying-glass examined the papyrus +with evident interest. Carrel, appreciating the interest he was +exciting, talked on in rapid jerky sentences.</p> +<p>‘Yes. I think you will be able to help me. I am +sure you will do so. Like yourself, I am a scholar, and might +have occupied a position in Europe similar to your own.’</p> +<p>The Professor smiled grimly, but did not look up from the table as +Carrel continued:</p> +<p>‘Mine has been a strange career. I was educated abroad. +I became a scholar at Cambridge. There was no prize I did not +carry off. I knew more Greek than both Universities put together. +Then I was cursed not only with inclination for vices, but with capacity +and courage to practise them—liquor, extravagance, gambling—amusements +for rich people; but I was poor.’</p> +<p>‘It is a very sad and a very common story,’ said the +Professor sententiously, but without looking up from the table. +‘I myself was an <!-- page 13--><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>Oxford +man. Your name is quite unfamiliar to me.’</p> +<p>‘I fancy if you asked them at Cambridge they would certainly +remember me.’</p> +<p>‘I shall make a point of doing so,’ said the professor +drily. He affected to be giving only partial attention to the +narrative; but though he seemed to be sedulous in his examination of +the papyrus, he was listening intently.</p> +<p>‘I was a great disappointment to the Dons,’ Carrel said +with a short laugh, and he lit a cigarette with all the swagger of an +undergraduate.</p> +<p>‘And to your parents?’ queried Lachsyrma.</p> +<p>‘My mother was dead. I don’t exactly know who my +father was. I fear these details bore you, however. To-morrow—’ +he added satirically.</p> +<p>‘A very romantic story, no doubt,’ said the Professor, +rising from his chair, ‘and it interests me—moderately; +but before we go on any further, I will be candid with you. That +papyrus is a forgery—a very clever forgery, too. I wonder +why the writer tried Euripides; we have almost enough of him.’</p> +<p><!-- page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>‘So +do I sometimes,’ returned Carrel cheerfully. The Professor +arched his eyebrows in surprise.</p> +<p>He removed the green cardboard lampshade to keep his equivocal visitor +under strict observation.</p> +<p>‘If you knew it was a forgery, why did you waste my time and +your own in bringing it here? In order to tell me a long story +about yourself, which if true is extraordinarily dull?’</p> +<p>It is almost an established convention for experts to be rude when +they have given an adverse opinion on anything submitted to them. +It gives weight to their statements. In the present case, however, +the Professor was really annoyed.</p> +<p>‘I wanted to know if you recognised the papyrus,’ said +Carrel, and he smiled disingenuously. The Professor was startled.</p> +<p>‘Yes; it was offered to me in Cairo last winter by a German +dealer in antiquities. I recognised it at once. May I felicitate +the talented author?’</p> +<p>‘No. You would have been taken in if I were the author.’</p> +<p><!-- page 15--><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>Professor +Lachsyrma waved a white hand, loaded with scarabs and gems, in a deprecatory, +patronising manner towards Carrel.</p> +<p>‘I must apologise if I have wronged you. I am hardened +to these little amenities between brother palæographers. +Envy, jealousy, call it what you will, attacks those in high places. +There may be unrecognised artists, mute inglorious Miltons, Chattertons, +starving in garrets, Shakespeares in the workhouse, while dull modern +productions are applauded on the silly English stage, and poetasters +are crowned by the Academies; but believe me that in Archæology, +in the deciphering of manuscripts, the quack is detected immediately. +The science has been carried to such a state of perfection that, if +our knowledge is still unhappily imperfect, our materials inadequate, +the public recognition of our services quite out of proportion to our +labours, there is now no permanent place for the charlatan or the forger. +The first would do better as an art critic for the daily papers; the +other might turn his attention to the simple necessary cheque, or the +safer and more enticing Bank of England <!-- page 16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>note. +If you are an honest expert, there is a wide field for your talents; +and if I do not believe you to be anything of the kind, you have yourself +to blame for my scepticism. You came here without an introduction, +without any warning of your arrival. You refuse to leave my room. +You inform me that you want money with a candour unusual among beggars. +You then ask me to inspect a forged manuscript which you either know +or suspect me to have seen before. Should you have no explanation +to offer for this outrageous intrusion, may I ask you to leave the premises +immediately?’</p> +<p>As he finished this somewhat pompous harangue he pointed menacingly +towards the door. He was slightly nervous, for Carrel, who was +sitting down, remained seated, his hands folded, gazing up with an insolent +childish stare. He might have been listening to an eloquent preacher +whom he thoroughly despised.</p> +<p>‘Professor Lachsyrma,’ Carrel said in a sweet winning +voice, ‘I will go away if you like now, but I have nearly finished +my errand and we may as well dispatch an affair tiresome <!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>to +both of us, this evening, instead of postponing it. I want you +to give me 1000<i>l</i>.’</p> +<p>The Professor rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? Was this +some elaborate practical joke? Was it the confidence trick? +He seemed to lose his self-possession, gaped on Carrel for some seconds, +then controlled himself.</p> +<p>‘And why should I give you 1000<i>l</i>.?’</p> +<p>‘I am a blackmailer. I am a forger of manuscripts. +I have more Greek in my little finger than you have in your long body. +I began to tell you my history. I thought it might interest you. +I do not propose to burden you with it any further. To-night I +ask you for 1000<i>l</i>., to-morrow I shall ask you for 2000<i>l</i>., +and the day after—’</p> +<p>‘The Sibyl was scarcely so extortionate when she offered the +Tarquin literary wares that no subsequent research with which I am acquainted +has proved to be spurious. And you, Mr. Carrel, offer me forgeries—merely +forgeries.’</p> +<p>Fear expressed itself in clumsy satire. He was thoroughly alarmed. +He began rapidly to review his own antecedents, and to scrape <!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>his +memory for discreditable incidents. He could think of nothing +he need feel ashamed of, nothing the world might not thoroughly investigate. +There were mean actions, but many generous ones to balance in the scale.</p> +<p>His knowledge of life was really slight, as his intimacy with Archæology +(so he told himself) was profound. One foolish incident, a midsummer +madness, before he went to Oxford, was all he had to blush for. +This, he frequently confessed, not without certain pride, to his wife, +the daughter of a respectable man of letters from Massachusetts. +He firmly and privately believed an omission in a catalogue a far greater +sin than a breach of the Decalogue. But ethics are of little consequence +where conduct is above reproach. When buying antiquities he would +come across odd people from time to time, but never any one who openly +avowed himself a blackmailer and a forger. The novel experience +was embarrassing and unpleasant, but there was really little to fear. +In all the delight of a clear conscience, since Carrel vouchsafed no +reply to his sardonic Sibylline allusion, he said:</p> +<p><!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>‘You +have advanced no reason why I should hand you to-day or to-morrow these +modest sums you demand.’</p> +<p>‘Then I will tell you,’ said Carrel, standing up suddenly. +‘I fabricated the poems of Sappho,—yes, the manuscript from +which <i>you</i> are reaping so much credit’—he took up +the newspaper—‘from the morning press. When I take +to art criticism, as you kindly suggested a dishonest man might do, +it will be of a livelier description than any to which you are usually +accustomed. Vain dupe, you think yourself impeccable. Infallible +ass, there is hardly a museum in Europe where my manuscripts are not +carefully preserved for the greatest and rarest treasures by senile +curators, too ignorant to know their errors or too vain to acknowledge +them. I fancied you clever; until now I do not know that I ever +caught you out, though you may have bought many of my wares for all +I know. I find you, however, like the rest—dull, pedantic, +and Pecksniffian. At Cambridge we were not taught pretty manners, +but we knew enough not to give fellowships to pretentious charlatans +like yourself.’</p> +<p><!-- page 20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>The +room swam round Professor Lachsyrma, and the mummy behind the door grinned. +The plaster casts and the statues seemed to wave their mutilated limbs +with the joy of demoniacal possession. Dead things were startled +into life. Sick giddiness permeated his brain. It was some +horrible nightmare. Yet his soul’s tempest was entirely +subjective; outwardly his demeanour suffered no change. His tormentor +noted with astonishment and admiration his apparent self-control. +There was merely a slight falter in his speech.</p> +<p>‘What proofs have you? A blackmailer must have some token—something +on which to base a ridiculous libel.’</p> +<p>‘A few minutes ago I handed you a spurious papyrus, which you +tell me you recognise. In the same lot of rubbish, purporting +to come from the Fayyûm, were the alleged poems of Sappho. +You swallowed the bait which has waited for you so long, and, if it +is any consolation to you, I will admit that in the opinion of the profession, +to continue my piscatorial simile, I have landed the largest salmon.’</p> +<p>‘I am deeply sensible of the compliment, but I must point out +to you, my friend, that <!-- page 21--><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>your +coming to tell me that a papyrus I happen to have purchased from one +of your shady friends is counterfeit, does not necessarily prove it +to be so.’</p> +<p>The Professor realised that he must act cautiously, and consider +his position quietly. Each word must be charged with suppressed +meaning. His eyes wandered over the room, resting now and again +on the majestic, impassive smile of the mummy. It seemed to restore +his nerve. He found himself unconsciously looking towards it over +Carrel’s head each time he spoke. While the blackmailer, +seated once more, gazed up to his face with a defiant, insolent stare, +swinging his chair backwards and forwards, unconcerned at the length +of the interview, apparently careless of its issue. The Professor +brooded on the terrible chagrin, the wounded vanity of discovering himself +the victim of an obviously long-contrived hoax. At his asking +for a proof, Carrel laughed.</p> +<p>‘You are sceptical at last,’ he sneered. ‘I +have the missing portions of the papyrus here with me. You can +have them for a song. I was afraid to leave the roll too complete, +lest I <!-- page 22--><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>should +invite detection. It would be a pity to let them go to some other +museum. Berlin is longing for a new acquisition.’</p> +<p>Then he produced from his bag damning evidence of the truth of his +story—deftly confected sheets of papyrus, brown with the months +it had taken to fabricate them, and cracked with forger’s inks +and acids—ghastly replicas of the former purchase. Nervously +the Professor replaced the green cardboard shade over the lamp, as though +the glare affected his eyes.</p> +<p>‘But how do you know I have not discovered the forgery already?’ +he said, craftily. Carrel started. ‘And see what I +am sending to the press this evening,’ he added.</p> +<p>Walking to the end of the table, he picked up a sheet of paper where +there was writing, and another object which Carrel could not see in +the gloom, so quickly and adroitly was the action accomplished.</p> +<p>‘Shall I read it to you, or will you read it yourself?’</p> +<p>He advanced again towards the lamp, held the paper in the light, +and beckoned to Carrel, who leant over the table to see what was written. +<!-- page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>Then +Professor Lachsyrma plunged a long Greek knife into his back. +A toreador could hardly have done it more skilfully; the bull was pinned +through the heart, and expired instantaneously.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Now he paced the room in deep thought. For the first time he +found himself an actor in modern life, which hitherto for him meant +digging among excavations, or making romantic restoration for jaded +connoisseurs, of some faultless work of art described by Pausanias and +hidden for centuries beneath the rubbish of modern Greece. The +entire absence of horror appalled him. Even the dignity of tragedy +was not there. He was wrestling with hideous melodrama, often +described to him by patrons of Thespian art at transpontine theatres. +The vulgarity—the anachronism—made him shudder. Having +till now ignored the issue of the present, he began to be sceptical +about the virtues of antiquity. Antiquity, his only religion, +his god, whose mangled incompleteness endeared it to him, was crumbling +away. He wondered if there were friends with whom he might share +his <!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>ugly +secret. There was young Fairleigh, who was always so modern, and +actually read modern books. He might have coped with the blackmailer +alive, but hardly with his corpse. You cannot run round and ask +neighbours for coffins, false beards, and rope in the delightful convention +of the <i>Arabian Nights</i>, because you have grazed modern life at +a sharp angle, without exciting suspicion or running the risk of positive +refusal. There was his wife, to whom he confided everything; but +she was a lady from Massachusetts, and her father was European correspondent +to many American papers of the highest repute. How could their +pure ears be soiled with so sordid a confidence? Poor Irene! she +was to have an ‘At Home’ the following afternoon. +It would have to be postponed. Professor Lachsyrma fell to thinking +of such trivial matters, contemptible in their unimportance, as we do +at the terrible moments of our lives. He wondered if they would +wait dinner for him. He often remained at his club—the Serapeum—to +finish a discussion with some erudite antagonist. His absence +would therefore cause no alarm. He consulted the little <!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>American +clock; it had stopped. How like America! The only recorded +instance, he would explain to Irene, of an export from that country +being required—the commodity proved inadequate. No, that +would make Irene cry. . . . The folly of hopeless, futile thoughts jingled +on. Suddenly he heard the cry of a belated newsvendor, howling +some British victory, some horrible scandal in Paris. Scandal, +exposure, publicity—<i>there</i> was the horror. He could +almost hear the journalists stropping their pens. If his thoughts +drifted towards any potential expiation demanded by officialism, he +put them aside. A social <i>débâcle</i> was more +fearful and vivid than the dock and its inevitable consequence. . . +. Presently his eyes rested again on the mummy case. A brilliant +inspiration! Here, at all events, was a temporary hiding-place +for the corpse of the blackmailer. If it was putting new wine +into old bottles, circumstances surely justified a violation of the +proverb. Till now a severe unromantic Hellenist, he held Egyptology +in some contempt; and for Egypt, except in so far as it illustrated +the art of Greece or remained a treasure-house for Greek manuscripts, +<!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>his +distaste was only surpassed by that of the Prophet Isaiah. A bias +so striking in the immortal Herodotus is hardly shared by your modern +encyclopædist. While the science of Egyptology and its adepts +command rather awe and wonder than sympathy from the uninitiated, who +keep their praises for the more attractive study of Greek art. +Yet some of us still turn with relief from the serene material masterpieces +of Greece, soulless in their very realism and truth of expression, to +the vague and happily unexplained monsters, the rigid gods and hieratic +princes, who are given new names by each succeeding generation. +A knowledge that behind painted masks and gilded, tawdry gew-gaws are +the remains of a once living person gives even the mummy a human interest +denied to the most exquisite handiwork of Pheidias.</p> +<p>Professor Lachsyrma at present felt only the impossibility of a situation +that would have been difficult for many a weaker man to face. +Humiliation overwhelms the strongest. Modern agencies for the +concealment of a body having failed to suggest themselves, he must needs +fall back on the despised expedient <!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>of +Egypt. Palæography and Greek art were obviously useless +in the present instance. He understood at last why deplorable +people wanted to abolish Greek from the University curriculum.</p> +<p>The coffin was of varnished sycamore wood, ornamented on the outside +with gods in their shrines and inscriptions relating to the name and +titles of the deceased, painted in red and green. The face was +carved out of a separate piece of wood, with the conventional beard +attached to the chin; the eyelids were of bronze; the eyes of obsidian; +wooden hands were crossed on the breast. Inside the lid were pictures +of apes in yellow on a purple background, symbolising the Spirits of +the East adoring the Gods of the Morning and Evening. The mummy +itself was enclosed in a handsome cartonnage case laced up the back. +The Professor lifted it gently out on the table, and substituted Carrel’s +body. He staunched as he best could the blood which trickled on +to the glaring pictures of the Judgment of Osiris and the goddess Nut +imparting the Waters of Life; then he turned to examine the former occupant, +whom two thousand years, even at such <!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>a +moment endowed with a greater interest than could attach to the corpse +of a defunct blackmailer. It now occurred to him that he might +profitably utilise the mummy cerements along with the coffin for more +effectually concealing Carrel’s body until he could arrange for +its final disposal. He hastened to carry his idea into effect.</p> +<p>The cartonnage case, composed of waste papyrus fragments glued together, +was painted with figures of deities. The face was a gilded mask, +on the headdress were lotus flowers, and the collar was studded to imitate +precious stones. Over the breast were representations of Horus, +Apis, and Thoth, and lower down the dead man was seen on his bier attended +by Anubis and the children of Horus, while the soul in the form of a +hawk hovered above. The Professor observed that an earlier method +had been employed for the preservation and protection of the body than +is usually found among Ptolemaic mummies.</p> +<p>Beneath a network of blue porcelain bugles and a row of sepulchral +gods suspended by a wire to the neck was a dusky, red-hued sheet, sewn +at the head and feet and fastened with <!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>brown +strips of linen. Under this last shroud were the bandages which +swathed the actual corpse, inscribed with passages from the Book of +the Dead, the mysterious fantastic directions for the life hereafter. +The symbolism requisite for the external decoration of the mummy had +been scrupulously executed by skilful artists, and the conscientious +method of wrapping again indicated the pristine mode of embalmment practised +when the craft was at its zenith, long before the Greek conquest of +Egypt.</p> +<p>A considerable time was occupied in unrolling the three or four hundred +yards of linen. Meanwhile a strange fragrance of myrrh, cassia, +cinnamon, the sweet spices and aromatic unguents used in embalming, +filled the room. Gradually the yellow skin preserved by the natron +began to appear through the cross-hatchings of the bandages. Attached +to a thick gold wire round the neck and placed over the heart was a +scarab of green basalt, mounted in a gold setting; and on the henna-stained +little finger of the left hand was another of steatite. As the +right arm was freed from its artificially tightened grasp a peculiar +wooden cylinder rolled on to the floor <!-- page 30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>into +the heap of scented mummy dust and bandages.</p> +<p>Languidly inquisitive, Professor Lachsyrma groped for it. Such +objects are generally found beneath the head. There was a seal +at each end, both of which he broke. A roll of papyrus was inside. +He trembled, and with forced deliberation made for the table, his knees +tottering from exhaustion. Excitement at this unexpected discovery +made him forget Carrel. The ghastly events of the evening were +for the moment blotted from his memory. After all, he was a palæographer—an +archæologist first, a murderer afterwards. Eagerly, painfully, +he began to read, adjusting his spectacles from time to time, the muscles +of his face twitching with anxiety and expectation. For a long +time the words were strange to him. Suddenly his glasses became +dim. There were tears in his eyes; he was reading aloud, unconsciously +to himself, the beautiful verses familiar to all students of Greek poetry:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Οιον το γλυκυμαλον +ερευθεται ακρω +επ’ υσδω<br /> +ακρον επ ακροτατω’ +λελαθοντο δε +μαλοδροπηες,<br /> +ου μαν εκλελαθοντ’, +αλλ’ ουκ εδυναντ’ +εφικεσθαι—</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>and +to students of English, in the marvellous, rendering of them by the +late Mr. Rossetti:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost +bough,<br /> +A-top on the topmost twig,—which the pluckers forgot, somehow,—<br /> +Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The papyrus was of great length, and contained the poems of Sappho +in a cursive literary handwriting of the third century—the real +poems, lost to the world for over eight hundred years. It was +morning now—a London spring morning; dawn was creeping through +the great north-east light of the studio; birds were twittering outside. +The murderer sobbed hysterically.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>On referring to ‘Euterpe,’ the second book of the Histories +of Herodotus, Professor Lachsyrma selected the second method of embalming +as less troublesome and more expeditious. The whole matter lasted +little longer than the seventy prescribed days. At the end of +which time he was able, in accordance with his original intention, to +deposit <!-- page 32--><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>in +a handsome glass case at the British Museum the Mummy of Heliodorus, +a Greek settler in Egypt who held some official appointment at the Court +of Ptolemy Philadelphus. It is described in the catalogue as one +of the best examples of its kind in Europe. Indeed, it is probably +unique.</p> +<p>Professor Lachsyrma often pauses before the case when visiting our +gaunt House of Art. Even the policeman on duty has noticed this +peculiarity, and smiles respectfully. The Professor has ceased +to ridicule Egyptology; and his confidence in the resources and sufficiency +of antiquity, so rudely shaken for one long evening, is completely re-established.</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">S. S. Sprigge</span>, <span class="smcap">Esq.</span>, +M.D.</p> +<h2><!-- page 33--><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>THE +BRAND OF ISIS.</h2> +<blockquote><p>‘Videant irreligiosi videant et errorem suum recognoscant. +En ecce pristinis aerumnis absolutus, Isidis magnae providentia gaudens +Lucius de sua fortuna triumphat.’ <span class="smcap">Apuleius</span>.</p> +<p>‘Her image comes into the gloom<br /> +With her pale features moulded fair,<br /> +Her breathing beauty, morning bloom,<br /> +My heart’s delight, my tongue’s despair.’ <span class="smcap">Binyon</span>.</p> +<p>‘An Oxford scholar of family and fortune; but quaint and opinionated, +despising every one who has not had the benefit of an University education.’ +<span class="smcap">Richardson</span>.</p> +<p>Τροπφ δε ζοης +τοιφδε διαχρεωνται, +πατριοσι δε χρεωμενοι +νομοισι αλλον +ουδενα επικτεωνται. +<span class="smcap">Herodotus</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I once had the good fortune to take down to dinner a young American +lady of some personal attractions. Her vivacity and shrewdness +were racial; her charm peculiar to herself. Her conversation consisted +in a rather fierce denunciation of Englishmen, young Oxford Englishmen +in particular. Their thoughts, their dress, their speech, their +airs of superiority offended one brought up with that Batavian type +of humanity, the American youth, to whom we have nothing exactly corresponding +in this country except among drawing-room conjurors. But I was +startled at her keen observation when I inquired with a smile <!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>how +she knew I was not an Oxford man myself.</p> +<p>‘Had you been one, you would never have listened to what I +have been saying,’ she retorted. Rather nettled, I challenged +her to pick out from the other guests those on whom she detected the +brand of Isis. A pair of gloves was the prize for each successful +guess. She won seven; in fact all the stakes during the course +of the evening. Over one only she hesitated, and when he mentioned +that he had neither the curiosity nor the energy to cross the Atlantic, +she knew he came from Oxford.</p> +<p>Yes, there is something in that manner after all. It irritates +others besides Americans. Novelists try to describe it. +We all know the hero who talks English with a Balliol accent—that +great creature who is sometimes bow and sometimes cox of his boat on +alternate evenings; who puts the weight at the University Sports and +conducts the lady home from a College wine without a stain on her character; +is rusticated for a year or so; returns to win the Newdigate and leaves +without taking a degree. Or that other delightful abstraction—he +has a Balliol <!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>accent +too—with literary tastes and artistic rooms, where gambling takes +place. He is invariably a coward, but dreadfully fascinating all +the same; though he scorns women he has an hypnotic influence over them; +something in his polished Oxford manner is irresistible. Throughout +a career of crime his wonderful execution on the piano, his knowledge +of Italian painting, and his Oxford manner never seem to desert him. +We feel, not for the first time, how dangerous it must be to allow our +simple perky unspoiled Colonials to associate with such deleterious +exotic beings, who, though in fiction horsewhipped or (if heroes) shot +in the last chapter, in real life are so apt to become prosperous city +men or respected college officials.</p> +<p>The Oxford manner is, alas, indefinable; I was going to say indefensible. +Perhaps it is an attitude—a mental attitude that finds physical +expression in the voice, the gesture, the behaviour. Oxford, not +conduct, is three-fourths of life to those who acquire the distemper. +Without becoming personal it is not easy to discuss purely social aspects, +and we must seek chiefly in literature for <!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>manifestations +of the phenomenon: in the prose of Matthew Arnold for instance—in +the poems of Mr. Laurence Binyon, typical examples where every thought +seems a mental reservation. Enemies rail at the voice, and the +voice counts for something. Any one having the privilege of hearing +Mr. Andrew Lang speak in public will know at once what I mean—a +pleasure, let me hasten to say, only equalled by the enjoyment of his +inimitable writing, so pre-eminently Oxonian when the subject is not +St. Andrews, Folk Lore, or cricket. Though Oxford men have their +Cambridge moments, and beneath their haughty exterior there sometimes +beats a Cambridge heart. Behind such reserve you would never suspect +any passions at all save one of pride. Even frankly irreligious +Oxford men acquire an ecclesiastical pre-Reformation aloofness which +must have piqued Thackeray quite as much as the refusal of the city +to send him to Westminster. He complains somewhere that the undergraduates +wear kid gloves and drink less wine than their jolly brethren of the +Cam. He was thoroughly Cambridge in his attitude towards life, +as you <!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>may +see when he writes of his favourite eighteenth century in his own fascinating +style. How angry he becomes with the vices and corruption of a +dead past! Now no Oxford essayist would dream of being angry with +the past. How annoyed the sentimental author of <i>The Four Georges</i> +would be with Mr. Street’s genial treatment of the same epoch! +It would, however, be the annoyance of a father for his eldest son, +whom he sent to Oxford perhaps to show that an old slight was forgiven +and forgotten.</p> +<p>There have been, of course, plenty of men unravaged by the blithe +contagion. Mr. Gladstone intellectually always seemed to me a +Cambridge man in his energy, his enthusiasm, his political outlook. +Only in his High Church proclivities is he suspect. The poet Shelley +was an obvious Cantab. He was, we are told, a man of high moral +character. Well, principles and human weakness are common to all +Universities, and others besides Shelley have deserted their wives: +but to desert your wife on principle seems to me callous, calculating, +and Cambridge-like.</p> +<p>A painful but interesting case came under <!-- page 38--><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>my +personal observation, and it illustrates the other side of the question. +A clever young graduate of my acquaintance, after four years of distinguished +scholarship at Oxford, came up to the metropolis and entered the dangerous +lists of literature. It is not indiscreet if I say that he belonged +to what was quite a brilliant little period—the days of Mr. Eric +Parker, Mr. Max Beerbohm, and Mr. Reginald Turner. So there was +nothing surprising in his literary tastes, though I believe he was unknown +to those masters of prose. He was tall, good-looking, and prepossessing, +but his Oxford manner was unusually pronounced. He never expressed +disgust—no Oxford man does—only pained surprise at what +displeased him; he never censured the morals or manners of people as +a Cambridge man might have done. Out of the University pulpit +no Oxford man would dream of scolding people for their morals. +After a year of failure he fell into a decline. His parents became +alarmed. They hinted that his ill success was due to his damned +condescension (the father was of course a Cambridge man). I too +suggested in a mild <!-- page 39--><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>way +that a more ingratiating manner might produce better luck with editors. +At last his health broke down, and a wise family physician was called +in. After studying the case for some months, Aesculapius (he was +M.B. of Cambridge) divined that ill success rather than ill health was +the provocative; and he related to the patient (this is becoming like +an Arabian Night) the following story:</p> +<p>‘A certain self-made man, confiding to a friend plans for his +son’s education, remarked: “Of course I shall send him to +Eton.” “Why Eton?” said the friend. “Because +he is to be a barrister, and if he did not go to Eton no one would speak +to him if they knew his poor old father was a self-made man. Then +he will go to Cambridge.” “Why not Oxford?” +said the friend, who was a self-made Oxford tradesman. “Because +then he would never speak to me,” replied the first self-made +man.’</p> +<p>My friend from that moment recovered. He became more tolerant; +he became successful. He became a distinguished dramatist. +He justified his early promise.</p> +<p>There is in this little story perhaps a charge <!-- page 40--><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>of +snobbishness from which Oxford men are really entirely free. They +are too conscious of their own superiority to be tuft-hunters, and I +believe miss some of the prizes of life by their indifference towards +those who have already ‘arrived.’ Yet they appear +snobbish to others who have not had the benefit of a University education, +and in this little essay I endeavour to hold up the mirror to their +ill-nature—the fault to which I am unduly attached. Writers +besides Richardson have referred to it. I might quote many eloquent +tributes from Dryden to Wordsworth and Byron, all Cambridge men, who +have felt the charm and acknowledged a weakness for the step-sister +University. Cambridge has never been fortunate in having the compliment +reciprocated. Neither Oxford men nor her own sons have been over-generous +in her praises: you remember Ruskin on King’s Chapel. And +I, the obscurest of her children, who cast this laurel on the Isis, +will content myself with admitting that I sincerely believe you can +obtain a cheaper and better education at Cambridge, though it has always +been my ambition to be mistaken for an Oxford man.</p> +<p><!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>I +often wonder whether Mr. Cecil Rhodes, while he had the English Government +in one pocket, the English Press in the other, and South Africa in the +hollow of his hand, felt a certain impotency before Oxford. He +had to acknowledge its influence over himself—an influence stronger +than Dr. Jameson or the Afrikander Bond. He was never quite sure +whether he admired more the loneliness of the Matoppos or the rather +over-crowded diamond mines of Kimberley. On the grey veld he used +to read <i>Marius the Epicurean</i>, and sought in Mr. Pater the key +to the mystery he was unable to solve. He turned to the Thirty-nine +Articles (more tampered with at Oxford than in any other cathedral city) +with the same want of success. That always seems to me a real +touch of Oxford in what some one well said, was an ‘ugly life.’ +What a wonderful subject for the brush of a Royal Academician! no ordinary +artist could ever do it justice: the great South African statesman on +the lonely rocks where he had chosen his tomb; a book has fallen from +his hand (Mr. Pater’s no doubt); his eyes are gazing from canvas +into the future he has peopled with his <!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>dreams. +By some clever device of art or nature the clouds in the sky have shaped +themselves into Magdalen Tower—into harmony with his thoughts, +and the setting sun makes a mandorla behind him. He is thinking +of Oxford, and round his head <i>Oriel</i> clings as in ‘The Blessed +Damozel.’</p> +<p>He could terrorise the Colonial Secretary, he could foment a war +and add a new empire to England; he could not overcome his love of Oxford, +the antithesis of all sordid financial intrigue and political marauding. +Athens was after all a dearer name than Groot-Schuurr. He set +fire to both.</p> +<p>I speculate sometimes whether the University was aware of his testamentary +dispositions before it conferred on him an honorary degree. I +hope not. He deserved it as the greatest son of Oxford, the greatest +Englishman of his time. Imre Kiralfy, who has done for a whole +district of London what Mr. Rhodes tried to do for the empire, is but +an <i>impresario</i> beside him. A French critic says we cannot +admire greatness in England; and this was shown by the timid way a large +number of Imperialists, while professing to <!-- page 43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>believe +the war a righteous one, thought they would seem independent if they +disclaimed approval of Mr. Rhodes, by not having the pluck to admit +the same motives though ready enough to share the plunder. You +may compare the ungrateful half-unfriendly obituaries in the press with +the leaders a few days later, after the will was opened.</p> +<p>But what immediately concerns us here is the intention of Mr. Rhodes. +Was it entirely benevolence, or some wish to test the strength of Oxford—to +bring undergraduates into contact with something coarser, some terrific +impermeable force that would be manner-proof against Oxford? Would +he conquer from the grave? Several Americans have been known to +go through the University retaining the Massachusetts <i>patina</i>. +What if a number of these savages were grafted on Oxford? How +would they alter the tone? We shall see. It will be an interesting +struggle. Shall we hear of six-shooters in the High?—of +hominy and flannel cake for breakfast?—will undergrads look ‘spry?’—will +they ‘voice’ public opinion? . . . I forbear: my American +vocabulary is limited. <i>Outre</i> <!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span><i>mer, +outrés mœurs</i>, as Mr. Walkley might say in some guarded +allusion to Paul Bourget. . . . I shall be sorry to see poker take the +place of roulette, and the Christ Church meadows turned into a ranch +for priggish cowboys, or Addison’s Walk re-named the Cake Walk. +But no, I believe Mr. Rhodes, if there was just a touch of malice in +his testament, realised that Oxford manners were stronger than the American +want of them. Oxford may be wounded, but I have complete confidence +in the issue. These Bœotian invaders must succumb, as nobler +stock before them. They will form an interesting subject for some +exquisite study by Mr. Henry James, who will deal with their gradual +civilisation. Preserved in the amber of his art they will become +immortal.</p> +<p>I have been able to clip only the fringe of a great theme. +Athletes require an essay to themselves. In later age they seem +to me more melancholy than their Cambridge peers and less successful. +These splendid creatures are really works of art, and form our only +substitute for sculpture in the absence of any native plastic talent. +From the collector’s <!-- page 45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>point +of view they belong to the best period, while the graceful convention +of isocephaly, which has raised the standard of height, renders them +inapt for the ‘battles’ of life, however well equipped for +those of their College where the cuisine is at all tolerable.</p> +<p>I am not enough of an antiquary to conjecture if there was ever a +temple to Isis during the Roman occupation of Britain on the site of +the now illustrious University. But I like to imagine that there +existed a cultus of the venerable goddess in the green fields where +the purple fritillaries, so reminiscent of the lotus, blossom in the +early spring. In the curious formal pattern of their petals I +see a symbol of the Oxford manner—something archaic, rigid, severe. +The Oxford Don may well be a reversion to some earlier type, learned, +mystic, and romantic as those priests of whom Herodotus has given us +so vivid a picture. The worship of Apis, as Mr. Frazer or Mr. +Lang would tell us, becomes then merely the hieroglyph for a social +standard, a manner of life. This, I think, will explain the name +Oxford on the Isis—the Ford of Apis, the ox-god at this one place +able to <!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>pass +over the benign deity. You remember, too, the horrid blasphemy +of Cambyses (his very name suggests Cambridge), and the vengeance of +the gods. So be it to any sacrilegious reformer who would transmute +either the Oxford Don or the Oxford undergraduate—the most august +of human counsellors, the most delightful of friends.</p> +<p>(1902.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>HOW +WE LOST THE BOOK OF JASHER.</h2> +<p>Everyone who knows anything about art, archæology, or science +has heard of the famous FitzTaylor Museum at Oxbridge. And even +outsiders who care for none of these things have heard of the quarrels +and internal dissensions that have disturbed that usual calm which ought +to reign within the walls of a museum. The illustrious founder, +to whose munificence we owe this justly famous institution, provided +in his will for the support of four curators, who govern the two separate +departments of science and art. The University has been in the +habit of making grants of money from time to time to these separate +departments for the acquisition of scientific or archæological +curiosities and MSS. I suppose there was something wrong in the +system, but whatever it may be, it led to notorious jealousies and disputes. +At the time of which I write, the principal curators of the art <!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>section +were Professor Girdelstone and Mr. Monteagle, of Prince’s College. +I looked after the scientific welfare of the museum with Lowestoft as +my understudy—he was practically a nonentity and an authority +on lepidoptera. Now, whenever a grant was made to the left wing +of the building, as I call it, I always used to say that science was +being sacrificed to archæology. I mocked at the illuminated +MSS. over which Girdelstone grew enthusiastic, and the musty theological +folios purchased by Monteagle. They heaped abuse upon me, of course, +when my turn came, and cracked many a quip on my splendid skeleton of +the ichthyosaurus, the only known specimen from Greenland. At +one time the strife broke into print, and the London press animadverted +on our conduct. It became a positive scandal. We were advised, +I remember, to wash our dirty linen at home, and though I have often +wondered why the press should act as a voluntary laundress on such occasions, +I suppose the remark is a just one.</p> +<p>There came a day when we took the advice of the press, and from then +until now science <!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>and +art have gone hand in hand at the University of Oxbridge. How +the breach was healed forms the subject of the present leaf from my +memoirs.</p> +<p>America, it has been wisely said, is the great land of fraud. +It is the Egypt of the modern world. From America came the spiritualists, +from America bogus goods, and cheap ideas and pirated editions, and +from America I have every reason to believe came Dr. Groschen. +But if his ancestors came from Rhine or Jordan, that he received his +education on the other side of the Atlantic I have no doubt. Why +he came to Oxbridge I cannot say. He appeared quite suddenly, +like a comet. He brought introductions from various parts of the +world—from the British Embassy at Constantinople, from the British +and German Schools of Archæology at Athens, from certain French +Egyptologists at Alexandria, and a holograph letter from Archbishop +Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, Curator of the MSS. in the +Monastery of St. Basil, at Mount Olympus. It was this last that +endeared him, I believe, to the High Church party in Oxbridge. +Dr. Groschen was already <!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>the +talk of the University, the lion of the hour, before I met him. +There was rumour of an honorary degree before I saw him in the flesh, +at the high table of my college, a guest of the Provost. If Dr. +Groschen did not inspire me with any confidence, I cannot say that he +excited any feeling of distrust. He was a small, black, commonplace-looking +little man, very neat in his attire, without the alchemical look of +most archæologists. Had I known then, as I know now, that +he presented his first credentials to Professor Girdelstone, I might +have suspected him. Of course, I took it for granted they were +friends. When the University was ringing with praises of the generosity +of Dr. Groschen in transferring his splendid collections of Greek inscriptions +to the FitzTaylor Museum, I rejoiced; the next grant would be devoted +to science, in consideration of the recently enriched galleries of the +art and archæological section. I only pitied the fatuity +of the authorities for being grateful. Dr. Groschen now wound +himself into everybody’s good wishes, and the University degree +was already conferred. He was offered <!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>a +fine set of rooms in a college famous for culture. He became a +well-known figure on the Q.P. But he was not always with us; he +went to Greece or the East sometimes, for the purpose, it was said, +of adding to the Groschen collection, now the glory of the FitzTaylor.</p> +<p>It was after a rather prolonged period of absence that he wrote to +Girdelstone privately, announcing a great discovery. On his return +he was bringing home, he said, some MSS. recently unearthed by himself +in the monastic library of St. Basil, and bought for an enormous sum +from Sarpedon, the Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis. He was willing +to sell them to ‘some public institution’ for very little +over the original price. Girdelstone told several of us in confidence. +It was public news next day. Scholars grew excited. There +were hints at the recovery of a lost MS., which was to ‘add to +our knowledge of the antique world and materially alter accepted views +of the early state of Roman and Greek society.’ On hearing +the news I smiled. ‘Some institution,’ that was suspicious—MSS.—they +meant forgery. <!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>The +new treasure was described as a palimpsest, consisting of fifty or sixty +leaves of papyrus. On one side was a portion of the <i>Lost Book +of Jasher</i>, of a date not later than the fourth century; on the other, +in cursive characters, the too notorious work of Aulus Gellius—<i>De +moribus Romanorum</i>, concealed under the life of a saint.</p> +<p>But why should I go over old history? Every one remembers the +excitement that the discovery caused—the leaders in the <i>Times</i> +and the <i>Telegraph</i>, the doubts of the sceptical, the enthusiasm +of the archæologists, the jealousy of the Berlin authorities, +the offers from all the libraries of Europe, the aspersions of the British +Museum. ‘Why,’ asked indignant critics, ‘did +Dr. Groschen offer his MS. to the authorities at Oxbridge?’ +‘Because Oxbridge had been the first to recognise his genius,’ +was the crushing reply. And Professor Girdelstone said that should +the FitzTaylor fail to acquire the MS. by any false economy on the part +of the University authorities, the prestige of the museum would be gone. +But this is all old history. I only remind the reader of what +he knows already. <!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>I +began to bring all my powers, and the force of the scientific world +in Oxbridge, to bear in opposition to the purchase of the MS. +I pulled every wire I knew, and execration was heaped on me as a vandal, +though I only said the University money should be devoted to other channels +than the purchase of doubtful MSS. I was doing all this, when +I was startled by the intelligence that Dr. Groschen had suddenly come +to the conclusion that his find was after all only a forgery.</p> +<p>The Book of Jasher was a Byzantine fake, and he ascribed the date +at the very earliest to the reign of Alexis Comnenus. Theologians +became fierce on the subject. They had seen the MS.; they knew +it was genuine. And when Dr. Groschen began to have doubts on +Aulus Gellius, suggesting it was a sixteenth-century fabrication, the +classical world ‘morally and physically rose and denounced’ +him. Dr. Groschen, who had something of the early Christian in +his character, bore this shower of opprobrium like a martyr. ‘I +may be mistaken,’ he said, ‘but I believe I have been deceived. +I have been taken in before, and I would not like the MS. <!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>offered +to any library before two of the very highest experts could decide as +to its authenticity.’ People had long learnt to regard Dr. +Groschen himself as quite the highest expert in the world. They +thought he was out of his senses, though the press commended him for +his honesty, and one daily journal, loudest in declaring its authenticity, +said it was glad Dr. Groschen had detected the forgery long recognised +by their special correspondent. Dr. Groschen was furthermore asked +to what experts he would submit his MS., and by whose decision he would +abide. After some delay and correspondence, he could think of +only two—Professor Girdelstone and Monteagle. They possessed +great opportunities, he said, of judging on such matters. Their +erudition was of a steadier and more solid nature than his own. +Then the world and Oxbridge joined again in a chorus of praise. +What could be more honest, more straightforward, than submitting the +MS. to a final examination at the hands of the two curators of the FitzTaylor, +who were to have the first refusal of the MS. if it was considered authentic? +No <!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>museum +was ever given such an opportunity. Professor Girdelstone and +his colleague soon came to a conclusion. They decided that there +could be no doubt as to the authenticity of the Aulus Gellius. +In portions it was true that between the lines other characters were +partly legible; but this threw no slur on the MS. itself. Of the +commentary on the book of Jasher, it will be remembered, they gave no +decisive opinion, and it is still an open question. They expressed +their belief that the Aulus Gellius was alone worth the price asked +by Dr. Groschen. It only remained now for the University to advance +a sum to the FitzTaylor for the purchase of this treasure. The +curators, rather prematurely perhaps, wrote privately to Dr. Groschen +making him an offer for his MS., and paid him half the amount out of +their own pockets, so as to close the bargain once and for all.</p> +<p>The delay of the University in making the grant caused a good deal +of apprehension in the hearts of Professor Girdelstone and Monteagle. +They feared that the enormous sums offered by the Berlin Museum would +<!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>tempt +even the simple-minded Dr. Groschen, though the interests of the FitzTaylor +were so near his heart. These suspicions proved unfounded as they +were ungenerous. The <i>savant</i> was contented with his degree +and college rooms, and showed no hurry for the remainder of the sum +to be paid.</p> +<p>One night, when I was seated in my rooms beside the fire, preparing +lectures on the ichthyosaurus, I was startled by a knock at my door. +It was a hurried, jerky rap. I shouted, ‘Come in.’ +The door burst open, and on the threshold I saw Monteagle, with a white +face, on which the beads of perspiration glittered. At first I +thought it was the rain which had drenched his cap and gown, but in +a moment I saw that the perspiration was the result of terror or anxiety +(cf. my lectures on Mental Equilibrium). Monteagle and I in our +undergraduate days had been friends; but like many University friendships, +ours proved evanescent; our paths had lain in different directions.</p> +<p>He had chosen archæology. We failed to convert one another +to each other’s views. When he became a member of ‘The +Disciples,’ <!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>a +mystic Oxbridge society, the fissure between us widened to a gulf. +We nodded when we met, but that was all. With Girdelstone I was +not on speaking terms. So when I found Monteagle on my threshold +I confess I was startled.</p> +<p>‘May I come in?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Certainly, certainly,’ I said cordially. ‘But +what is the matter?’</p> +<p>‘Good God! Newall,’ he cried, ‘that MS. after +all is a forgery.’</p> +<p>This expression I thought unbecoming in a ‘Disciple,’ +but I only smiled and said, ‘Really, you think so?’ +Monteagle then made reference to our old friendship, our unfortunate +dissensions. He asked for my help, and then really excited my +pity. Some member of the High Church party in Oxbridge had apparently +been to Greece to attend a Conference on the Union of the Greek and +Anglican Churches. While there he met Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, +and in course of conversation told him of the renowned Dr. Groschen. +Sarpedon became distant at mention of the Doctor’s name. +He denied all knowledge of the <!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>famous +letter of introduction, and said the only thing he knew of the Professor +was, that he was usually supposed to have been the thief who had made +off with a large chest of parchments from the monastery of St. Basil.</p> +<p>The Greek Patriarch refused to give any further information. +The English clergyman reported the incident privately to Girdelstone.</p> +<p>Dr. Groschen’s other letters were examined, and found to be +fabrications. The Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius were submitted +to a like scrutiny. Girdelstone and Monteagle came reluctantly +to the conclusion that they were also vulgar and palpable forgeries. +At the end of his story Monteagle almost burst into tears. I endeavoured +to cheer him, although I was shrieking with laughter at the whole story.</p> +<p>Of course it was dreadful for him. If he exposed Dr. Groschen, +his own reputation as an expert would be gone, and the Doctor was already +paid half the purchase money. Monteagle was so agitated that it +was with difficulty I could get his story out of him, and to this day +I have never quite learned the truth. Controlling my laughter, +I sent a note round to Professor <!-- page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>Girdelstone, +asking him to come to my rooms. In about ten minutes he appeared, +looking as draggled and sheepish as poor Monteagle. In his bosom +he carried the fateful MS., which I now saw for the first time. +If it was a forgery (and I have never been convinced) it was certainly +a masterpiece. From what Girdelstone said to me, then and since, +I think that the Aulus Gellius portion was genuine enough, and the Book +of Jasher possibly the invention of Groschen; however, it will never +be discovered if one or neither was genuine. Monteagle thought +the ink used was a compound of tea and charcoal, but both he and Girdelstone +were too suspicious to believe even each other by this time.</p> +<p>I tried to console them, and promised all help in my power. +They were rather startled and alarmed when I laid out my plan of campaign. +In the first place, I was to withdraw all opposition to the purchase +of the MS. Girdelstone and Monteagle, meanwhile, were to set about +having the Aulus Gellius printed and facsimiled; for I thought it was +a pity such a work should be lost to the world. The facsimile +was only to be <i>announced</i>; and <!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>publication +by the University Press to be put in hand at once. The text of +Aulus Gellius can still be obtained, and a translation of those portions +which can be rendered into English forms a volume of Mr. Bohn’s +excellent classical library, which will satisfy the curious, who are +unacquainted with Latin. Professor Girdelstone was to write a +preface in very guarded terms. This will be familiar to all classical +scholars.</p> +<p>It was with great difficulty that I could persuade Girdelstone and +Monteagle of the sincerity of my actions; but the poor fellows were +ready to catch at any straw for hope from exposure, and they listened +to every word I said. As the whole University knew I was not on +speaking terms with Girdelstone, I told him to adopt a Nicodemus-like +attitude, and to come to me in the night-time, when we could hold consultation. +To the outer world, during these anxious evenings, when I would see +no one, I was supposed to be preparing my great syllabus of lectures +on the ichthyosaurus. I communicated to my fellow-curators my +plans bit by bit only, for I thought it would be better for their nerves. +I made Monteagle <!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>send +round a notice to the press:—‘That the MS. about to become +the property of the University Museum was being facsimiled prior to +publication, and at the earliest possible date would be on view in the +Galleries where Dr. Groschen’s collections are now exhibited.’ +This was to quiet the complaints already being made by scholars and +commentators about the difficulty of obtaining access to the MS. +The importunities of several religious societies to examine the Book +of Jasher became intolerable. The Dean of Rothbury, an old friend +of Girdelstone’s, came from the north on purpose to collate the +new-found work. With permission he intended, he said, to write +a small brochure for the S.P.C.K. on the Book of Jasher, though I believe +that he also felt some curiosity in regard to Aulus Gellius. I +may be wronging him. The subterfuges, lies, and devices to which +we resorted were not very creditable to ourselves. Girdelstone +gave him a dinner, and Monteagle and I persuaded the Senate to confer +on him an honorary degree. We amused him with advance sheets of +the commentary. He was quite a month at Oxbridge, but at last +was <!-- page 62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>recalled +on business to the north by some lucky domestic family bereavement. +Our next difficulty was the news that Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, +was about to visit England to attend an Anglican Synod. I thought +Girdelstone would go off his head. Monteagle’s hair became +grey in a few weeks. Sarpedon was sure to be invited to Oxbridge. +He would meet Dr. Groschen and then expose him. Our fears, I soon +found out, were shared by the <i>savant</i>, who left suddenly on one +of those mysterious visits to the East. I saw that our action +must be prompt; or Girdelstone and Monteagle would be lost. They +were horrified when I told them I proposed placing the MS. on public +view in the museum immediately. A large plate-glass case was made +by my orders, in which Girdelstone and Monteagle, who obeyed me like +lambs, deposited their precious burden. It was placed in the Groschen +Hall of the FitzTaylor. The crush that afternoon was terrible. +All the University came to peer at the new acquisition. I must +tell you that Dr. Groschen’s antiquities occupied a temporary +and fire-proof erection built of wood and tin, <!-- page 63--><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>at +the back of the museum, with which it was connected by a long stone +gallery, adorned with plaster casts.</p> +<p>I mingled with the crowd, and heard the remarks; though I advised +Girdelstone and Monteagle to keep out of the way, as it would only upset +them. Various dons came up and chaffed me about the opposition +I made to the MS. being purchased. A little man of dark, sallow +complexion asked me if I was Professor Girdelstone. He wanted +to obtain leave to examine the MS. I gave him my card, and asked +him to call on me, when I would arrange a suitable day. He told +me he was a Lutheran pastor from Pomerania.</p> +<p>I was the last to leave the museum that afternoon. I often +remained in the library long after five, the usual closing hour. +So I dismissed the attendants who locked up everything with the exception +of a small door in the stone gallery always used on such occasions. +I waited till six, and as I went out opened near this door a sash window, +having removed the iron shutters. After dinner I went round to +Monteagle’s rooms. He and <!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>Girdelstone +were sitting in a despondent way on each side of the fire, sipping weak +coffee and nibbling Albert biscuits. They were startled at my +entrance.</p> +<p>‘What <i>have</i> you decided?’ asked Girdelstone, hoarsely.</p> +<p>‘All is arranged. Monteagle and I set fire to the museum +to-night,’ I said, quietly.</p> +<p>Girdelstone buried his face in his hands and began to sob.</p> +<p>‘Anything but that—anything but that!’ he cried. +And Monteagle turned a little pale. At first they protested, but +I overcame their scruples by saying they might get out of the mess how +they liked. I advised Girdelstone to go to bed and plead illness +for the next few days, for he really wanted rest. At eleven o’clock +that night, Monteagle and myself crossed the meadows at the back of +our college, and by a circuitous route reached the grounds surrounding +the museum, which were planted with rhododendrons and other shrubs. +The pouring rain was, unfortunately, not favourable for our enterprise. +I brought however a small box of combustibles from the University Laboratories, +and a dark lantern. <!-- page 65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>When +we climbed over the low wall not far from the stone gallery, I saw, +to my horror, a light emerging from the Groschen Hall. Monteagle, +who is fearfully superstitious, began chattering his teeth. When +we reached the small door I saw it was open. A thief had evidently +forestalled us. Monteagle suggested going back, and leaving the +thief to make off with the MS.; but I would not hear of such a proposal.</p> +<p>The door opening to the Groschen Hall at the end of the gallery was +open, and beyond, a man, whom I at once recognised as the little Lutheran, +was busily engaged in picking the lock of the case where were deposited +the Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius. Telling Monteagle to guard +the door, I approached very softly, keeping behind the plaster casts. +I was within a yard of him before he heard my boots creak. Then +he turned round, and I found myself face to face with Dr. Groschen. +I have never seen such a look of terror on any one’s face.</p> +<p>‘You scoundrel!’ I cried, collecting myself, ‘drop +those things at once!’ and I made for him with my fist. +He dodged me. I ran <!-- page 66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>after +him; but he threaded his way like a rat through the statues and cases +of antiquities, and bolted down the passage out of the door, where he +upset Monteagle and the lantern, and disappeared in the darkness and +rain. I then returned to the scene of his labours. Monteagle +was too frightened, owing to the rather ghostly appearance of the museum +by the light of a feeble oil-lamp. In a small cupboard there was +some dry sacking I had deposited there for the purpose some days before. +This I ignited, along with certain native curiosities of straw and skin, +wicker-work, and other ethnographical treasures.</p> +<p>Some new unpacked cases left by the attendants the previous afternoon +materially assisted the conflagration.</p> +<p>It was an impressive scene, to witness the flames playing round the +pedestals of the torsos, statues, and cases. I only waited for +a few moments to make sure that my work was complete. I shut the +iron door between the gallery and the hall to avoid the possibility +of the fire spreading to the rest of the building. Then I seized +Monteagle by the arm and hurried him through the rhododendrons, <!-- page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>over +the wall, into the meadows. I turned back once, and just caught +a glimpse of red flame bursting through the windows. Having seen +Monteagle half-way back to the college, I returned to see if any alarm +was given. Already a small crowd was collecting. A fire-engine +arrived, and a local pump was almost set going. I returned to +college, where I found the porter standing in the gateway.</p> +<p>‘The FitzTaylor is burning,’ he said. ‘I +have been looking out for you, sir.’</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>There is nothing more to tell. To this day no one suspects +that the fire was the work of an incendiary. The Professor has +returned from the East, but lives in great retirement. His friends +say he has never quite recovered the shock occasioned by the loss of +his collection. The rest of the museum was uninjured.</p> +<p>The death of Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, at Naples, +was a sudden and melancholy catastrophe, which people think affected +Dr. Groschen more than the fire. Strangely enough, he had just +been dining <!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>with +the Doctor the evening before. They met at Naples purposely to +bury the hatchet. Sometimes I ask myself if I did right in setting +fire to the museum. You see, it was for the sake of others, not +myself, and Monteagle was an old friend.</p> +<h2><!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>THE +HOOTAWA VANDYCK.</h2> +<p>‘My own experience,’ said an expert to a group of mostly +middle-aged men, who spent their whole life in investigating spiritual +phenomena, ‘is a peculiar one.</p> +<p>‘It was in the early autumn of 1900. I was at Rome, where +I went to investigate the relative artistic affinity between Pietro +Cavallini and Giotto (whose position, I think, will have to be adjusted). +There were as yet only a few visitors at the Hôtel Russie, chiefly +maiden ladies and casual tourists, besides a certain Scotch family and +myself. Colonel Brodie, formerly of the 69th Highlanders, was +a retired officer of that rather peppery type which always seems to +belong to the stage rather than real life, though you meet so many examples +on the Continent. He possessed an extraordinary topographical +knowledge of modern Rome, the tramway system, and the hours at which +churches and galleries were open. He would <!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>waylay +you in the entrance-hall and inquire severely if you had been to the +Catacombs. In the case of an affirmative answer he would describe +an unvisited tomb or ruin, far better worth seeing; in that of a negative, +he would smile, tell you the shortest and cheapest route, and the amount +which should be tendered to the Trappist Father. Later on in the +evening, over coffee, if he was pleased with you, he would mention in +a very impressive manner, “I am, as you probably know, Colonel +Brodie, of Hootawa.” His wife, beside whom I sat at table +d’hôte, retained traces of former beauty. She was +thin, and still tight-laced; was somewhat acid in manner; censorious +concerning the other visitors; singularly devoted to her tedious husband, +and fretfully attached to the beautiful daughter, for whose pleasure +and education they were visiting Rome. I gathered that they were +fairly well-to-do.</p> +<p>It was Mrs. Brodie who first broke the ice by asking if I was interested +in pictures. Miss Brodie, who sat between her parents, turned +very red, and said, “Oh, mamma, you are talking to one of the +greatest experts in <!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>Europe!” +I was surprised and somewhat gratified by her knowledge (indeed, it +chilled me some days later when she confessed to having learnt the information +only that day by overhearing an argument between myself and a friend +at the Colonna Gallery on Stefano de Zevio, and the indebtedness of +Northern Italian art to Teutonic influences).</p> +<p>Mrs. Brodie took the intelligence quite calmly, and merely inspected +me through her lorgnettes as if I were an object in a museum.</p> +<p>“Ah, you must talk to Flora about pictures. I have no +doubt that she will tell you a good deal that even <i>you</i> do not +know. We have some very interesting pictures up in Scotland. +My husband is Colonel Brodie of Hootawa (no relation to the Brodie of +Brodie). His grandfather was a great collector, and originally +we possessed seven Raphaels.”</p> +<p>“Indeed,” I replied, eagerly, “might I ask the +names of the pictures? I should know them at once.”</p> +<p>“I have never seen them,” said Mrs. Brodie; “they +were not left to my husband, who quarrelled with his father. Fortunately +<!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>none +of us cared for Raphaels; but the most valuable pictures, including +a Vandyck, were entailed. Flora is particularly attached to Vandyck. +He is always so romantic, I think.”</p> +<p>Flora, embarrassed by her mother’s eulogy of family heirlooms, +leaned across, as if to address me, and said, “Oh, mamma, I don’t +think they really were Raphaels; they were probably only by pupils—Giulio +Romano, Perino del Vaga, or Luca Penni.”</p> +<p>“As you never saw them, my dear,” said Mrs. Brodie, severely, +“I don’t think you can possibly tell. Your grandfather” +(she glared at me) “was considered <i>the</i> greatest expert +in Europe, and described them in his will as Raphaels. It would +be impious to suggest that they are by any one else. There were +<i>two</i> Holy Families. One of them was given to your grandfather +by the King of Holland in recognition of his services; and a third was +purchased direct from the Queen of Naples. But your father is +getting impatient for his cigar.”</p> +<p>They rose, and bowed sweetly. I joined them in the glass winter-garden +a few minutes later.</p> +<p><!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>“Have +you been to the Pincio? But I forgot, of course you know Rome. +I do love the Pincio,” sighed Mrs. Brodie over some needlework, +and then, as an afterthought, “Do you know the two things that +have impressed me most since I came here?”</p> +<p>“I could not dare to guess any more than I dare tell you what +has impressed me most,” I replied, gazing softly at Flora.</p> +<p>“The two things which have really and truly impressed me most,” +continued Mrs. Brodie, “more than anything else, more than the +Pantheon, or the Forum, are—St. Peter’s and the Colosseum.” +She almost looked young again.</p> +<p>The next day we visited the Borghese; and I was able to explain to +Flora why the circular “Madonna and Angels” was not by Botticelli. +And, indeed, there was hardly a picture in Rome I was unable to reattribute +to its rightful owner. In the apt Flora I found a receptive pupil. +She even grew suspicious about the great Velasquez at the Doria, in +which she fancied, with all the enthusiasm of youth, that she detected +the <!-- page 74--><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>handling +of Mazo. I soon found that it was better for her training to discourage +her from looking at pictures at all—we confined ourselves to photographs. +In a photograph you are not disturbed by colour, or by impasto. +You are able to study the morphic values in a picture, by which means +you arrive at the attribution without any disturbing æsthetic +considerations.</p> +<p>One afternoon, returning from some church ceremony, Flora said to +me, “Oh, Aleister” (we were already engaged secretly), “papa +is going to ask you next winter to stay at Hootawa. Before I forget, +I want to warn you never to criticise the pictures. They are mostly +of the Dutch and English School, and I dare say you will find a great +many of the names wrong; but, you know, papa is irritable, and it would +offend him if you said that the ‘Terborch’ was really by +Pieter de Hooghe. You can easily avoid saying anything—and +then, you will really admire the Vandyck.”</p> +<p>“Darling Flora, of course I promise. By the way, you +never speak of your family ghost, although Mrs. Brodie always refers +to it as if I knew all about it; and the Colonel has <!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>often +told me of Sir Rupert’s military achievements.”</p> +<p>“Oh, Aleister, I don’t know whether you believe in ghosts: +it <i>is</i> very extraordinary. Whenever any disaster, or any +good fortune happens to our family, Sir Rupert Brodie’s figure, +just as he appears in the Vandyck, is seen walking in the Long Gallery; +and every night he appears at twelve o’clock in the green spare +bedroom; but only guests and servants ever see him there. We have +a saying at Hootawa, that servants will not stay unless they are able +to see Sir Rupert the first month after their arrival. Only members +of the family are able to see him in the Long Gallery, and, of course, +we never know whether he betokens good or ill luck. The last time +he appeared there, papa was so nervous that he sold out of Consols, +which went down an eighth the day after. We were all very much +relieved. But he invested the money in some concern called “The +Imperial Federation Stylograph Pen Company,” and lost most of +it; so it was not of much use.”</p> +<p>“Tell me, darling, of your father’s other investments,” +I asked anxiously.</p> +<p><!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>“Oh, +you must ask papa about them, I don’t understand business; but +I want to tell you about Sir Rupert. The Society for Psychical +Research sent down a Committee to inquire into the credibility of the +ghost, and recorded four authentic apparitions in the spare bedroom; +and on family evidence accepted at least three events in the Long Gallery. +It was just after their report was issued that papa was invited to lease +the house to some Americans for the summer. He always gets a good +price for it now, simply on account of the ghost. I always think +that rather horrid. I don’t believe poor Sir Rupert would +like it.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps he doesn’t know,” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Of course, you don’t believe in him,” she said +in rather an offended way.</p> +<p>“My darling, of course I do; I have always believed in ghosts. +Most of the pictures in the world, as I am always saying, were painted +by <i>ghosts</i>.”</p> +<p>“Oh, no, Aleister, you’re laughing at me; but when you +see Sir Rupert, as you will, in the spare bedroom, you will believe +too.”</p> +<p>At the end of January, I became Flora’s accepted fiancé.</p> +<p><!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>In +February, I moved with the Brodies to Florence, where I was able to +introduce them to all my kind and hospitable friends,—the Berensons, +Mr. Charles Loeser, Mr. Herbert Horne, and Mr. Hobart Cust. Flora +was in every way a great success, and commenced a little book on Nera +di Bicci for Bell’s Great Painters Series. She was invited +to contribute to the <i>Burlington Magazine</i>. It was quite +a primavera. Our marriage was arranged for the following February. +The Brodies were to return to Hootawa after it was vacated by the American +summer tenants. I was to join them for Christmas on my return +from America, where I was compelled to go in order to settle my affairs. +My father, Lorenzo Q. Sweat, of Chicago, evinced great pleasure at my +approaching union with an old Scotch family; he promised me a handsome +allowance considering his recent losses in the meat packing swindle—I +mean trade. I was able to dissuade him from coming to Europe for +the ceremony. After delivering two successful lectures on Pietro +Cavallini in the early fall at mothers’ soirées, I sailed +for Liverpool.</p> +<p><!-- page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>There +was deep snow on the ground when I arrived at Hootawa in the early afternoon +of a cold December day. The Colonel met me at the station in the +uniform of the 69th, attended by two gillies holding torches.</p> +<p>“There will just be enough light to glance at the pictures +before tea,” he said gaily, and in three-quarters of an hour I +was embracing Flora and saluting her mother, who were in the hall to +greet me. For the most part Hootawa was a typical old Scotch castle, +with extinguisher turrets; an incongruous Jacobean addition rather enhancing +its picturesque ensemble.</p> +<p>“You’ll see better pictures here than anything in Rome,” +remarked the Colonel; but Flora giggled rather nervously.</p> +<p>In the smoking-room and library, I inspected, with assumed interest, +works by the little masters of Holland, and some more admirable examples +of the English Eighteenth Century School. Faithful to my promise, +I pronounced every one of them to be little gems, unsurpassed by anything +in the private collections of America or Europe. We passed into +the drawing-room and parlour with the same success. In the latter +apartment the <!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>Colonel, +grasping my arm, said impressively: “Now you will see our great +treasure, the Brodie Vandyck, of which Flora has so often told you. +I have never lent it for exhibition, for, as you know, we are rather +superstitious about it. Sir Joshua Reynolds, in 1780, offered +to paint the portraits of the whole family in exchange for the picture. +Dr. Waagen describes it in his well-known work. Dr. Bode came +from Berlin on purpose to see it some years ago, when he left a certificate +(which was scarcely necessary) of its undoubted authenticity. +I was so touched by his genuine admiration, that I presented him with +a small Dutch picture which he admired in the smoking-room, and thought +not unworthy of placing in the Berlin Gallery. I expect you know +Dr. Bode.”</p> +<p>“Not personally,” I said, as we stepped into the Long +Gallery.</p> +<p>It was a delightful panelled room, with oak-beamed ceiling. +Between the mullioned windows were old Venetian mirrors and seventeenth-century +chairs. At the end, concealed by a rich crimson brocade, hung +the Vandyck, the only picture on the walls.</p> +<p><!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>It +was the Colonel himself who drew aside the curtain which veiled discreetly +the famous picture of Sir Rupert Brodie at the age of thirty-two, in +the beautiful costume of the period. The face was unusually pallid; +it was just the sort of portrait you would expect to walk out of its +frame.</p> +<p>“You have never seen a finer Vandyck, I am sure,” said +Mrs. Brodie, anxiously. I examined the work with great care, employing +a powerful pocket-glass. There was an awkward pause for about +five minutes.</p> +<p>“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, sternly, “have you +nothing to say?”</p> +<p>“It is a very interesting and excellent work, though <i>not</i> +by Vandyck; it is by Jamieson, his Scotch pupil; the morphic forms . +. .”—but I got no further. There was a loud clap of +thunder, and Flora fainted away. I was hastening to her side when +her father’s powerful arm seized my collar. He ran me down +the gallery and out by an egress which led into the entrance hall, where +some menial opened the massive door. I felt one stinging blow +on my face; then, bleeding and helpless, I was kicked down the steps +into the snow <!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>from +which I was picked up, half stunned, by one of the gillies.</p> +<p>“Eh, mon, hae ye seen the bogles at Hootawa?” he observed.</p> +<p>“It will be very civil of you if you will conduct me to the +depôt, or the nearest caravanserai,” I replied.</p> +<p>I never saw Flora again.’</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>‘But what has happened about the ghost, Mr. Sweat? You +never told us anything about it. Did you ever see it?’ asked +one of the listeners in a disappointed tone.</p> +<p>‘Oh, I forgot; no, that was rather tragic. <i>Sir Rupert +Brodie never appeared again</i>, not even in the spare bedroom; he seemed +offended. Eventually his portrait was sent up to London, where +Mr. Lionel Cust pointed out that it could not have been painted until +after Vandyck’s death, at which time Sir Rupert was only ten years +old. Indeed, there was some uncertainty whether the picture represented +Sir Rupert at all. Mr. Bowyer Nichols found fault with the costume, +which belonged to an earlier date prior to Sir Rupert’s <!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>birth. +Colonel Brodie never recovered from the shock. He resides chiefly +at Harrogate. Gradually the servants all gave notice, and Hootawa +ceased to attract Americans. Poor Flora! I ought to have +remembered my promise; but the habit was too strong in me. Sir +Oliver Lodge, I believe, has an explanation for the non-appearance of +the phantom after the events I have described. He regards it as +a good instance of <i>bypsychic duality</i>—the fortuitous phenomenon +by which spirits are often uncertain as to whom they really represent. +But I am only an art critic, not a physicist.’</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert Horne, Esq</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>THE +ELEVENTH MUSE.</h2> +<p>In the closing years of the last century I held the position of a +publisher’s hack. Having failed in everything except sculpture, +I became publisher’s reader and adviser. It was the age +of the ‘dicky dongs,’ and, of course, I advised chiefly +the publication of deciduous literature, or books which dealt with the +history of decay. The business, unfortunately, closed before my +plans were materialised; but there was a really brilliant series of +works prepared for an ungrateful public. A cheap and abridged +edition of Gibbon was to have heralded the ‘Ruined Home’ +Library, as we only dealt with the decline and fall of things, and eschewed +Motley in both senses of the word. ‘Bad Taste in All Ages’ +(twelve volumes edited by myself) would have rivalled some of Mr. Sidney +Lee’s monumental undertakings. It was a memory of these +unfulfilled designs which has turned my thoughts to an old notebook—the +skeleton of what was destined never to be a book in being.</p> +<p>I have often wondered why no one has ever <!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>tried +to form an anthology of bad poetry. It would, of course, be easy +enough to get together a dreary little volume of unreadable and unsaleable +song. There are, however, certain stanzas so exquisite in their +unconscious absurdity that an inverted immortality may be claimed for +them. It is essential that their authors should have been serious, +because parody and light verse have been carried to such a state of +perfection that a tenth muse has been created—the muse of Mr. +Owen Seaman and the late St. John Hankin for example. When the +Anakim, men of old, which were men of renown—Shelley, Keats, or +Tennyson—become playful, I confess to a feeling of nervousness: +the unpleasant, hot sensation you experience when a distinguished man +makes a fool of himself. Rossetti—I suppose from his Italian +origin—was able to assume motley without loss of dignity, and +that wounded Titan, the late W. E. Henley, was another exception. +Both he and Rossetti had the faculty of being foolish, or obscene, without +impairing the high seriousness of their superb poetic gifts.</p> +<p>But I refer to more serious folly—that of <!-- page 85--><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>the +disciples of Silas Wegg. Some friends of mine in the country employed +a ladies’-maid with literary proclivities. She was never +known to smile; the other servants thought her stuck up; she was a great +reader of novels, poetry, and popular books on astronomy. One +day she gave notice, departed at the end of a month, left no address, +and never applied for a character. Beneath the mattress of her +bed was found a manuscript of poems. One of these, addressed to +our satellite, is based on the scientific fact (of which I was not aware +until I read her poem) that we see only one side of the moon. +The ode contains this ingenious stanza:—</p> +<blockquote><p>O beautiful moon!<br /> +When I gaze on thy face<br /> +Careering among the boundaries of space,<br /> +The thought has often come to my mind<br /> +If I ever shall see thy glorious behind.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It was my pleasure to communicate this verse to our greatest living +conversationalist, a point I mention because it may, in consequence, +be already known to those who, like myself, enjoy the privileges of +his inimitable talk. I possess the original manuscript of the +<!-- page 86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>poem, +and can supply copies of the remainder to the curious.</p> +<p>In a magazine managed by the physician of a well-known lunatic asylum +I found many inspiring examples. The patients are permitted to +contribute: they discuss art and literature, subject of course to a +stringent editorial discretion. As you might suppose, poetry occupies +a good deal of space. It was from that source of clouded English +I culled the following:—</p> +<blockquote><p>His hair is red and blue and white,<br /> +His face is almost tan,<br /> +His brow is wet with blood and sweat,<br /> +He steals from where he can:<br /> +And looks the whole world in the face,<br /> +A drunkard and a man.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I think we have here a Henley manqué. In robustious +assertion you will not find anything to equal it in the Hospital Rhymes +of that author. I was so much struck by the poem that I obtained +permission to correspond with the poet. I discovered that another +Sappho might have adorned our literature; that a mute inglorious Elizabeth +Barrett was kept silent in Darien—for the asylum was in <!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>the +immediate vicinity of the Peak in Derbyshire. Of the correspondence +which ensued I venture to quote only one sentence:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I was brought up to love beauty; my home was more +than cultured; it was refined; we took in the <i>Art Journal</i> regularly.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Of all modern artists, I suppose that Sir Edward Burne-Jones has +inspired more poetry than any other. A whole school of Oxford +poets emerged from his fascinating palette, and he is the subject of +perhaps the most exquisite of all the <i>Poems and Ballads</i>—the +‘<i>Dedication</i>’—which forms the colophon to that +revel of rhymes. I sometimes think that is why his art is out +of fashion with modern painters, who may inspire dealers, but would +never inspire poets. For who could write a sonnet on some uncompromising +pieces of realism by Mr. Rothenstein, Mr. John, or Mr. Orpen? +Theirs is an art which speaks for itself. But Sir Edward Burne-Jones +seems to have dazzled the undergrowth of Parnassus no less than the +higher slopes. In a long and serious epic called ‘The Pageant +of Life,’ dealing with every conceivable subject, I found:—</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>With +some the mention of Burne-Jones<br /> +Elicits merely howls and groans;<br /> +But those who know each inch of art<br /> +Believe that he can bear his part.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I don’t remember what he could bear. Perhaps it referred +to his election at the Royal Academy. Then, again, in a ‘Vision’ +of the next world, a poet described how—</p> +<blockquote><p>Byron, Burne-Jones, and Beethoven,<br /> +Charlotte Bronte and Chopin are there.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I wonder if this has escaped the eagle eye of Mr. Clement Shorter. +Though perhaps the most delightful nonsense, for which, I fear, this +great painter is partly responsible, may be found in a recent poem addressed +to the memory of my old friend, Simeon Solomon:—</p> +<blockquote><p>More of Rossetti? Yes:<br /> + You follow’d than Burne-Jones,<br /> +Your depth of colour his<br /> + than that of monochromes!<br /> +Yes; amber lilies poured, I say,<br /> +A joy for thee, than poet’s bay.</p> +<p>But while true art refines<br /> + and often stimulates,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Art</span> does, at times, I say,<br /> + sit grief within our gates!<br /> +Art causes men to weep at times—<br /> +If you may heed these falt’ring rhymes.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>A +small volume of lyrics once sent to me for review afforded another flower +for my garland:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Where in the spring-time leaves are wet,<br /> +Oh, lay my love beneath the shades,<br /> +Where men remember to forget,<br /> +And are forgot in Hades.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But I have given enough examples for what would form Part I. of the +English anthology. Part II. would consist of really bad verses +from really great poetry.</p> +<blockquote><p>Auspicious Reverence, hush all meaner song,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>is one of the most pompously stupid lines in English poetry. +Arnold did not hesitate to quote instances from Shakespeare:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in +proof,<br /> +Confronted him with self-comparisons.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You would have to sacrifice Browning, because it might fairly be +concluded—well, anything might be concluded about Browning. +Byron is, of course, a mine. Arthur Hugh Clough is, perhaps, the +‘flawless numskull,’ as, I think, Swinburne calls him. +Tennyson surpassed</p> +<blockquote><p>A Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman,</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>in +many of his serious poems.</p> +<blockquote><p>To travellers indeed the sea<br /> +Must always interesting be</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I have heard ascribed to Wordsworth, but wrongly, I believe. +I should, of course, exclude from the collection living writers; only +the select dead would be requisitioned. They cannot retort. +And the entertaining volume would illustrate that curious artistic law—the +survival of the unfittest, of which we are only dimly beginning to realise +the significance. It is like the immortality of the invalid, now +recognised by all men of science. You see it manifested in the +plethora of memoirs. All new books not novels are about great +dead men by unimportant little living ones. When I am asked, as +I have been, to write recollections of certain ‘people of importance,’ +as Dante says, I feel the force of that law very keenly.</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Frederick Stanley Smith, Esq</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>SWINBLAKE: +A PROPHETIC BOOK, WITH HOME ZARATHRUSTS.</h2> +<p>Every student of Blake has read, or must read, Mr. Swinburne’s +extraordinary essay, <i>William Blake: a critical study</i>, of which +a new edition was recently published. It would be idle at this +time of day to criticise. Much has been discovered, and more is +likely to be discovered, about Blake since 1866. The interest +of the book, for us, is chiefly reflex. <i>And does not the great +mouth laugh at a gift</i>, if scheduled in an examination paper with +the irritating question, ‘From what author does this quotation +come?’ would probably elicit the reply, ‘Swinburne.’ +Yet it occurs in one of Blake’s prophetic books.</p> +<p>How fascinated Blake would have been with Mr. Swinburne if by some +exquisite accident he had lived <i>after</i> him. We should <!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>have +had, I fancy, another Prophetic Book; something of this kind:</p> +<blockquote><p>Swinburne roars and shakes the world’s literature—<br /> +The English Press, and a good many contemporaries—<br /> +Tennyson palls, Browning is found—<br /> +Only a brownie—<br /> +The mountains divide, the Press is unanimous—<br /> +Aylwin is born—<br /> +On a perilous path, on the cliff of immortality—<br /> +I met Theodormon—<br /> +He seemed sad: I said, ‘Why are you sad—<br /> +Are you writing the long-promised life—<br /> +Of Dante Gabriel Rossetti?’—<br /> +He sighed and said, ‘No, not that—<br /> +Not that, my child—<br /> +I consigned the task to William Michael—<br /> +Pre-Raphaelite memoirs are cheap to-day—<br /> +You can have them for a sextet or an octave.’—<br /> +I brightened and said, ‘Then you are writing a sonnet?’<br /> +He shook his head and said it was symbolical—<br /> +For six and eightpence!—<br /> +A golden rule: Never lend only George Borrow—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A new century had begun, and I asked Theodormon what he was doing +on that path and where Mr. Swinburne was. Beneath us yawned the +gulf of oblivion.</p> +<p><!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>‘Be +careful, young man, not to tumble over; are you a poet or a biographer?’</p> +<p>I explained that I was merely a tourist. He gave a sigh of +relief: ‘I have an appointment here with my only disciple, Mr. +Howlglass; if you are not careful he may write an appreciation of you.’</p> +<p>‘My dear Theodormon, if you will show me how to reach Mr. Swinburne +I will help you.’</p> +<p>‘I swear by the most sacred of all oaths, by Aylwin, you shall +see Swinburne.’</p> +<p>Just then we saw a young man coming along the path with a Kodak and +a pink evening paper. He seemed pleased to see me, and said, ‘May +I appreciate you?’</p> +<p>I gave the young man a push and he fell right over the cliff. +Theodormon threw down after him a heavy-looking book which, alighting +on his skull, smashed it. ‘My preserver,’ he cried, +‘you shall see what you like, you shall do what you like, except +write my biography. Swinburne is close at hand, though he occasionally +wanders. His permanent address is the Peaks, Parnassus. +Perhaps you would like to pay some other calls as well.’</p> +<p>I assented.</p> +<p><!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>We +came to a printing-house and found William Morris reverting to type +and transmitting art to the middle classes.</p> +<p>‘The great Tragedy of Topsy’s life,’ said Theodormon, +‘is that he converted the middle classes to art and socialism, +but he never touched the unbending Tories of the proletariat or the +smart set. You would have thought, on homœopathic principles, +that cretonne would appeal to cretins.’</p> +<p>‘Vale, vale,’ cried Charles Ricketts from the interior.</p> +<p>I was rather vexed, as I wanted to ask Ricketts his opinions about +various things and people and to see his wonderful collection. +Shannon, however, presented me with a lithograph and a copy of ‘Memorable +Fancies,’ by C. R.</p> +<blockquote><p>How sweet I roamed from school to school,<br /> + But I attached myself to none;<br /> +I sat upon my ancient Dial<br /> + And watched the other artists’ fun.</p> +<p>Will Rothenstein can guard the faith,<br /> + Safe for the Academic fold;<br /> +’Twas very wise of William Strang,<br /> + What need have I of Chantrey’s gold?</p> +<p><!-- page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>Let +the old masters be my share,<br /> + And let them fall on B. B.’s corn;<br /> +Let the Uffizi take to Steer—<br /> + What do I care for Herbert Horne</p> +<p>Or the stately Holmes of England,<br /> + Whose glories never fade;<br /> +The Constable of Burlington,<br /> + Who holds the Oxford Slade.</p> +<p>It’s Titian here and Titian there,<br /> + And come to have a look;<br /> +But ‘thanks of course Giorgione,’<br /> + With Mr. Herbert Cook.</p> +<p>For MacColl is an intellectual thing,<br /> + And Hugh P. Lane keeps Dublin awake,<br /> +And Fry to New York has taken wing,<br /> + And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After turning round a rather sharp corner I began to ask Theodormon +if John Addington Symonds was anywhere to be found. He smiled, +and said: ‘I know why you are asking. Of course he <i>is</i> +here, but we don’t see much of him. He published, at the +Kelmscott, the other day, “An Ode to a Grecian Urning.” +The proceeds of the sale went to the Arts and Krafts Ebbing Guild, but +the issue of “Aretino’s Bosom, and other Poems,” has +been postponed.’</p> +<p><!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>We +now reached a graceful Renaissance building covered with blossoms; on +each side of the door were two blue-breeched gondoliers smoking calamus. +Theodormon hurried on, whispering: ‘<i>That</i> is where he lives. +If you want to see Swinburne you had better make haste, as it is getting +late, and I want you to inspect the Castalian spring.’</p> +<p>The walking became very rough just here; it was really climbing. +Suddenly I became aware of dense smoke emerging with a rumbling sound +from an overhanging rock.</p> +<p>‘I had no idea Parnassus was volcanic now,’ I remarked.</p> +<p>‘No more had we,’ said Theodormon; ‘it is quite +a recent eruption due to the Celtic movement. The rock you see, +however, is not a real rock, but a sham rock. Mr. George Moore +has been turned out of the cave, and is still hovering about the entrance.’</p> +<p>Looming through the smoke, which hung like a veil of white muslin +between us, I was able to trace the silhouette of that engaging countenance +which Edouard Manet and others have immortalised. ‘Go away,’ +he said: ‘I do not want to speak to you.’ <!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>‘Come, +come, Mr. Moore,’ I rejoined, ‘will you not grant a few +words to a really warm admirer?’—but he had faded away. +Then a large hand came out of the cavern and handed me a piece of paper, +and a deep voice with a slight brogue said: ‘If you see mi darlin’ +Gosse give this to him.’ The paper contained these verses:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Georgey Morgie, kidden and sly,<br /> +Kissed the girls and made them cry;<br /> +<i>What</i> the girls came out to say<br /> +George never heard, for he ran away.</p> +<p>W. B. Y</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We skirted the edge of a thick wood. A finger-post pointed +to the Castalian spring, and a notice-board indicated <i>Trespassers +will be prosecuted</i>. <i>The lease to be disposed of. +Apply to G. K. Chesterton</i>.</p> +<p>Soon we came to an open space in which was situated a large, rather +dilapidated marble tank. I noticed that the water did not reach +further than the bathers’ stomachs. Theodormon anticipated +my surprise. ‘Yes, we have had to depress the level of the +water during the last few years out of compliment to some <!-- page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>of +the bathers, and there have been a good many bathing fatalities of a +very depressing description.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean to say,’ I replied, ‘Richard +le Gallienne?’</p> +<p>‘Hush! hush! he was rescued.’</p> +<p>‘Stephen Phillips?’ I asked, anxiously.</p> +<p>‘Well, he couldn’t swim, of course, but he floated; you +see he had the Sidney Colvin lifebelt on, and that is always a great +assistance.’</p> +<p>‘Not,’ I almost shrieked, ‘my favourite poet, the +author of “Lord ’a Muzzy don’t you fret. Missed +we De Wet. Missed we De Wet”?’</p> +<p>Theodormon became very grave. ‘We do not know any of +their names,’ he said. ‘I will show you, presently, +the Morgue. Perhaps you will be able to identify some of your +friends. The Coroner has refused to open an inquest until Mr. +John Lane can attend to give his evidence.’</p> +<p>I saw the Poet Laureate trying very hard to swim on his back. +Another poet was sitting down on the marble floor so that the water +might at least come up to his neck. Gazing <!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>disconsolately +into the pellucid shallows I saw the revered and much-loved figures +of Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, and Mr. Edmund Gosse. ‘Going +for a dip?’ said Theodormon. ‘Thanks, we don’t +care about paddling,’ Mr. Lang retorted.</p> +<p>‘I hope it is not <i>always</i> so shallow,’ I said to +my guide.</p> +<p>‘Oh, no; we have a new water-supply, but as the spring is in +the nature of a public place, we won’t turn on the fresh water +until people have learnt to appreciate what is good. That handsome +little marble structure which you see at the end of the garden is really +the <i>new</i> Castalian Spring. At all events, that is where +all the miracles take place. The old bath is terribly out of repair, +in spite of plumbing.’</p> +<p>We then inspected a very neat little apartment mosaiced in gold. +Round the walls were attractive drinking-fountains, and on each was +written the name of the new water—I mean the new poet. Some +of them I recognised: Laurence Binyon, A. E. Housman, Sturge Moore, +Santayana, Arthur Symons, Herbert Trench, Henry Simpson, Laurence <!-- page 100--><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Housman, +F. W. Tancred, Arthur Lyon Raile, William Watson, Hugh Austin.</p> +<p>‘You see we have the very latest,’ said Theodormon, ‘provided +it is always the best. I am sorry to say that some of the taps +don’t give a constant supply, but that is because the machinery +wants oiling. Try some Binyon,’ said my guide, filling a +gold cup on which was wrought by some cunning craftsman the death of +Adam and the martyrdom of the Blessed Christina. I found it excellent +and refreshing, and observed that it was cheering to come across the +excellence of sincerity and strength at a comparatively new source . +. .</p> +<p>Mr. Swinburne was seated in an arbour of roses, clothed in a gold +dalmatic, a birthday gift from his British Peers. Their names +were embroidered in pearls on the border. I asked permission to +read my address:—</p> +<blockquote><p>There beats no heart by Cam or Isis<br /> + (Where tides of poets ebb and flow),<br /> +But guards Dolores as a crisis<br /> + Of long ago.</p> +<p><!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>A +crisis bringing fire and wonder,<br /> + A gift of some dim Eastern Mage,<br /> +A firework still smouldering under<br /> + The feet of middle age.</p> +<p>For you could love and hate and tell us<br /> + Of almost everything,<br /> +You made our older poets jealous,<br /> + For you alone could sing.</p> +<p>In truth it was your splendid praises<br /> + Which made us wake<br /> +To glories hidden in the phrases<br /> + Of William Blake.</p> +<p>No boy who sows his metric salads<br /> + His tamer oats,<br /> +But always steals from Swinburne’s ballads<br /> + The stronger notes.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Do you play golf?’ said Mr. Swinburne, handing me two +little spheres such as are used in the royal game. And I heard +no more; for I received a blow—whether delivered by Mr. Swinburne +or the ungrateful Theodormon I do not know, but I found myself falling +down the gulf of oblivion, and suddenly, with a dull thud, I landed +on the remains of Howlglass. The softness of his head had really +preserved me from what might have <!-- page 102--><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>been +a severe shock, because the distance from Parnassus to Fleet Street, +as you know, is considerable, and the escalade might have been more +serious. I reached my rooms in Half Moon Street, however, having +seen only one star, with just a faint nostalgia for the realms into +which for one brief day I was privileged to peep.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 103--><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>A +MISLAID POET.</h2> +<p>In the closing years of my favourite last century, when poetry was +more discussed than it is now (at all events as a marketable commodity), +few verse-writers were overlooked. Bosola’s observation +about ‘the neglected poets of your time’ could not be quoted +with any propriety. Mr. John Lane would make long and laborious +journeys on the District Railway, armed <i>bag-à-pied</i>, in +order to discover the new and unpublished. Now he has shot over +all the remaining preserves; laurels and bays, so necessary for the +breed ‘of men and women over-wrought,’ have withered in +the London soot. There was one bright creature, however, who escaped +his rifle; she was brought down by another sportsman, and thus missed +some of the fame which might have attached to her had she been trussed +and hung in the Bodley Head. Poaching in the library at Thelema, +I came across her by accident. Her song is not without significance.</p> +<p>In 1878 Georgiana Farrer mentioned on <!-- page 104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>page +190 of her <i>Miscellaneous Poems</i>, ‘I am old by sin entangled;’ +but this was probably a pious exaggeration. Only some one young +and intellectually very vigorous could have penned her startling numbers. +I suggest that she retained more of her youth than, from religious motives, +she thought it proper to admit. In the ’eighties, when incense +was burned in drawing-rooms, and people were talking about ‘The +Blessed Damozel,’ she could write of Paradise:—</p> +<blockquote><p>A home where Jesus Christ is King,<br /> +A home where e’en Archangels sing,<br /> +Where common wealth is shared by all,<br /> +And God Himself lights up the Hall.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She was philosemite, and from the reference to Lord Beaconsfield +we can easily date the following:—</p> +<blockquote><p>You who doubt the truth of Scripture,<br /> +Pray tell me, then, who are the Jews?<br /> +Scattered in all lands and nations,<br /> +Pray why their evidence refuse?</p> +<p>It seems to me you must be blind;<br /> +Are they not daily gaining ground?<br /> +We find them now in every land,<br /> +And well-nigh ruling all around.</p> +<p><!-- page 105--><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>Their +music is most sweet to hear;<br /> +Jews were Rossini and Mozart,<br /> +Mendelssohn, too, and Meyerbeer;<br /> +Grisi in song could charm the heart.</p> +<p>The funds their princes hold in hand;<br /> +Their merchants trade both near and far;<br /> +Ill-used and robbed they long have been,<br /> +Yet wealthy now they surely are.</p> +<p>In Germany who has great sway?<br /> +Prince Bismarck, most will answer me;<br /> +Our own Prime Minister retains<br /> +A name that shows his pedigree.</p> +<p>Who after this will dare to say<br /> +They nought in these strange people see;<br /> +Do they not prove the Scripture true,<br /> +And throw a light on history?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The twenty-five years that have elapsed since the poem was written +must have convinced those innocent persons who ‘saw nought’ +in our Israelitish compatriots. I never heard before that Prince +Bismarck or Mozart was of Jewish extraction!</p> +<p>Mrs. Farrer was, of course, an evangelical, somewhat old-fashioned +for so late a date; and fairly early in her volume she warns us of what +we may expect. She is anxious to <!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>damp +any undue optimism as to the lightness of her muse. When worldly, +foolish people like Whistler and Pater were talking ‘art for art’s +sake,’ she could strike a decisive didactic blow:—</p> +<blockquote><p>My voice like thunder may appear,<br /> +Yet oft-times I have shed a tear<br /> +Behind the peal, like rain in storm,<br /> +To moisten those I would reform.</p> +<p>Then pardon if my stormy mood,<br /> +Instead of blighting, does some good.<br /> +Sooner a thunder-clap, think me,<br /> +Than sunstroke sent in wrath on thee.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>With a splendid Calvinism, too rare at that time, she would not argue +beyond a <i>certain</i> limit; there was an edge, she realised, to every +platform; an ounce of assertion is worth pounds of proof. Religious +discussion after a time becomes barren:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Then hundredfolds to sinners<br /> + Must be repaid in Hell.<br /> +If you think such men winners,<br /> + We disagree. Farewell.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But to the person who <i>is</i> right (and Mrs. Farrer was never +in a moment’s doubt, though her prosody is influenced sometimes +by the <!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>sceptical +Matthew Arnold) there is no mean reward:—</p> +<blockquote><p>I sparkle resplendent,<br /> + A star in His crown,<br /> +And glitter for ever,<br /> + A gem of renown.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>From internal evidence we can gauge her social position, while her +views of caste appear in these radical days a trifle <i>demodé</i>. +Her metaphors of sin are all derived from the life of paupers:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Paupers through their sinful folly<br /> +Are workers of iniquity,<br /> +Living on Jehovah’s bounty,<br /> +Wasting in abject poverty.</p> +<p>A pauper’s funeral their end,<br /> +No angels waft their souls on high;<br /> +Rich they were thought on earth, perhaps,<br /> +Yet far from wealth accursed they lie.</p> +<p>Who are the rich? God’s Word declares,<br /> +The men whose treasure is above—<br /> +Those humble working <i>gentlefolk</i><br /> +Whose life flows on in deeds of love.</p> +<p>Despised in life I may remain,<br /> +Misunderstood by rich and poor;<br /> +An entrance yet I hope to gain<br /> +To wealthy plains on endless shore.</p> +<p><!-- page 108--><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>No +paupers in that heavenly land,<br /> +The sons of God are rich indeed;<br /> +His daughters all His treasures share;<br /> +It will their highest hopes exceed.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Those paupers who are ‘saved’ are rewarded by material +comforts such as graced the earthly home of Georgiana herself, one of +the ‘humble working <i>gentlefolk</i>.’ She enjoys +her own fireside with an almost Pecksniffian relish, and she profoundly +observes, as she sits beside her hearth:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Like forest trees men rise and grow:<br /> +Good timber some will prove,<br /> +Others decayed as fuel piled,<br /> +Prepared are for that stove</p> +<p>That burns for ever, Tophet called,<br /> +Heated by jealous heat,<br /> +Adapted to destroy all chaff,<br /> +And leaves unscorched the wheat.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Excellent Georgiana! She could not stand very much chaff of +any kind, I suspect.</p> +<p>The alarming progress of ritualism in the ’eighties disturbed +her considerably, though it inspired some of her more weighty verses. +<!-- page 109--><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>They +should be favourites with Dr. Clifford and Canon Hensley Henson:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Some men in our days cover over<br /> + A body deformed with their sin:<br /> +A cross worked in various colours,<br /> + Forgetting that God looks within.</p> +<p>Alas! in our churches at present<br /> + Simplicity seems quite despised;<br /> +To represent things far above us<br /> + Are heathenish customs revived.</p> +<p>This evil is spreading among us,<br /> + And where will it end, can you tell?<br /> +Join not with the misled around us,<br /> + Take warning, my readers . . .</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The veneration of the Blessed Virgin goaded her into composition +of stanzas unparalleled in the whole literature of Protestantism:—</p> +<blockquote><p>My readers, can you nowhere see<br /> + A parallel to Israel’s sin?<br /> +The House of God, at home, abroad:<br /> + <i>Idols are there</i>—that house within.</p> +<p>Who incense burns? are strange cakes made?<br /> + What woman’s chapel, decked with gold,<br /> +Stands full of unchecked worshippers<br /> + Like those idolaters of old?</p> +<p><!-- page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>The +Blessed Virgin—blest she is<br /> + That does not make her Heaven’s Queen!<br /> +Yet some are taught to worship her;<br /> + What else does all this teaching mean?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What she denied to the Mother of God she accorded (rather daringly, +I opine) to one Harriet, whose death and future are recorded in the +following lines:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Declining like the setting sun<br /> +After a course divinely run,<br /> +I saw a maiden passing fair<br /> +Reposing on an easy chair.</p> +<p>A Bridegroom of celestial mien<br /> +Came forth and claimed her for His Queen;<br /> +One with His Father on His throne<br /> +She lives entirely His own.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Harrietolatry, I thought, was confined to the members of the defunct +Shelley Society. But every reader will feel the poignant truth +of Mrs. Farrer’s view of the Church of England—truer to-day +than it could have been in the ’eighties:—</p> +<blockquote><p>The Church of England—grand old ship—<br /> + Toss’d is on a troubled sea!<br /> +Her sails are rent, her decks are foul’d,<br /> + Mutiny on board must be.</p> +<p><!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>The +winds of discord howl around,<br /> + Wild disputers throw up foam,<br /> +From high to low she’s beat about;<br /> + Frighten’d some who love her roam.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I do not know if the last word is intended for a pun, but I scarcely +think it is likely.</p> +<p>I would like to reconstruct Mrs. Farrer’s home, with its stiff +Victorian chairs, its threaded antimacassars, its pictorial paper-weights, +its wax flowers under glass shades, and the charming household porcelain +from the Derby and Worcester furnaces. There must have been a +sabbatic air of comfort about the dining-room which was soothing. +I can see the engravings after Landseer: ‘The Stag at Bay,’ +‘Dignity and Impudence’; or those after Martin: ‘The +Plains of Heaven,’ and ‘The Great Day of His Wrath’; +and ‘Blucher meeting Wellington,’ after Maclise. I +can see on each side of the mirror examples of the art of Daguerre, +which have already begun to produce in us the same sentiment that we +get from the early Tuscans; and on the mantelpiece a photograph of Harriet +in a plush frame, the one touch of modernity in a room which was otherwise +severely 1845. Then, on a bookshelf which <!-- page 112--><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>hung +above the old tea-caddy and cut-glass sugar-bowl, Georgiana’s +library—‘Line upon Line,’ ‘Precept upon Precept,’ +‘Jane the Cottager,’ ‘Pinnock’s Scripture History,’ +and a few costly works bound in the style of the Albert Memorial. +The drawing-room, just a trifle damp, must have contained Mr. Hunt’s +‘Light of the World,’ which Mrs. Farrer never quite learned +to love, though it was a present from a missionary, and rendered fire +and artificial light unnecessary during the winter months. Would +that Mrs. Farrer’s home-life had come under the magic lens of +Mr. Edmund Gosse, for it would now be classic, like the household of +Sir Thomas More.</p> +<p>Whatever its attractions, Mrs. Farrer was at times induced to go +abroad, visiting, I imagine, only the Protestant cantons of Switzerland. +She stayed, however, in Paris, which she apostrophises with Sibyllic +candour:—</p> +<blockquote><p>O city of pleasure, what did I see<br /> +When passing through or staying in thee.<br /> +Bright shone the sun above, blue was the sky,<br /> +Everywhere music heard, none seemed to sigh.<br /> +Beautiful carriages in Champs Elysée<br /> +Filled with fair maidens on cushions easy.<br /> +<!-- page 113--><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>Such +was the outer side; what was within?<br /> +Most I was often told revelled in sin.<br /> +Sad its fate since I left, sadder ’twill be<br /> +If they go on in sin as seen by me.<br /> +Let us hope, ere too late, warned by the past,<br /> +They may seek pleasures more likely to last,<br /> +Or, like to Babylon, it must decline,<br /> +And o’er its ruins its lovers repine.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But London hardly fares much better, in spite of Mrs. Farrer’s +own residence, at Campden Hill, if I may hazard the locality:—</p> +<blockquote><p>To the tomb they must go,<br /> +Rich and poor all in woe,<br /> +Strange motley throng.<br /> +Wealth in its splendour weeps,<br /> +Poverty silence keeps;<br /> +None last here long. . . .<br /> +So much for thee, London.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Except in a spiritual sense, her existence was not an eventful one. +It was, I think, the loss of some neighbour’s child which suggested:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Nellarina, forced exotic,<br /> +Born to bloom in region fair,<br /> +Thou wert to me a narcotic,<br /> +Hope I did thy lot to share.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 114--><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>Any +near personal sorrow she does not seem to have experienced, I am glad +to say, else she might have regarded it as a grievance the consequences +of which one dares not contemplate; you feel that <i>Some One</i> would +have heard of it in no measured terms. Certainty and content are, +indeed, the dominating notes of her poetry rather than mere commonplace +hope:—</p> +<blockquote><p>I am bound for the land of Beulah,<br /> +There all the guests sing Hallelujah.<br /> +No longer time here let us squander,<br /> +But on the good things promised ponder.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It would be futile to discuss the exact position on Parnassus of +a lady whose throne was secured on a more celestial mountain, even more +difficult of access. But I think we may claim for her an honourable +place in that new Oxford school of poetry of which Professor Mackail +officially knows little, and of which Dr. Warren (the President of Magdalen) +is the distinguished living protagonist. With all her acrid Evangelicalism +she was a good soul, for she was fond of animals and children, and kind +to them both in her own way; so I am sure some of <!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>her +dreams have been realised, even if there has reached her nostrils just +a whiff of those tolerating purgatorial fires which, spelt differently, +she believed to be <i>permanently</i> prepared for the vast majority +of her contemporaries.</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Carew</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>GOING +UP TOP.</h2> +<p>During the closing years of the last century certain critics contracted +a rather depressing habit of numbering men of letters, especially poets, +as though they were overcoats in a cloak-room, or boys competing in +an examination set by themselves. ‘It requires very little +discernment,’ wrote the late Churton Collins, <span class="smcap">a.d.</span> +1891, ‘to foresee that among the English poets of the present +century the first place will <i>ultimately</i> be assigned to Wordsworth, +the second to Byron, and the third to Shelley.’ Matthew +Arnold, I fear, was the first to make these unsafe Zadkielian prognostications. +He, if I remember correctly, gave Byron the first place and Wordsworth +the second; but Swinburne, with his usual discernment, observed that +English taste in that eventuality would be in the same state as it was +at the end of the seventeenth century, which firmly believed <!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>that +Fletcher and Jonson were the best of its poets.</p> +<p>But when is Ultimately? Obviously not the present moment. +Byron does not hold the rank awarded him by the distinguished critic +in 1891. The cruel test of the auctioneer’s hammer has recently +shown that Keats and Shelley are regarded as far more important by those +unprejudiced judges, the book-dealers. Wordsworth, of course, +is still one of the poets’ poets, and the <i>Spectator</i>, that +Mrs. Micawber of literature, will, of course, never desert him; but +I doubt very much whether he has yet reached the harbour of Ultimately. +His repellent personality has blinded a good many of us to his exquisite +qualities; on the Greek Kalends of criticism, however, may I be there +to see. I shall certainly vote for him if I am one of the examiners—or +one of the cloak-room attendants.</p> +<p>It was against such kind of criticism that Whistler hurled his impatient +epigram about pigeon-holes. And if it is absurd in regard to painting, +how much more absurd is it in regard to the more various and less friable +substances of literature. By the old ten-o’clock <!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>rule +(I do not refer to Whistler’s lecture), once observed in Board +schools, no scripture could be taught after that hour. Once a +teacher asked his class who was the wisest man. ‘Solomon,’ +said a little boy. ‘Right; go up top,’ said the teacher. +But there was a small pedant who, while never paying much attention +to the lessons, and being usually at the bottom of the form in consequence, +knew the regulations by heart. He interrupted with a shrill voice +(for the clock had passed the hour), ‘No, sir, please, sir; past +ten o’clock, sir . . . Solon.’ Thus it is, I fear, +with critics of every generation, though they try very hard to make +the time pass as slowly as possible.</p> +<p>But if invidious distinctions between great men are inexact and tiresome, +I opine that it is ungenerous and ignoble to declare that when a great +man has just died, we really cannot judge of him or his work because +we have been his contemporaries. The caution of obituary notices +seems to me cowardly, and the reviews of books are cowardly too. +We have become Laodiceans. We are even fearful of exposing imposture +in current <!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>literature +lest we get into hot water with a publisher.</p> +<p>During a New Year week I was invited by Lord and Lady Lyonesse to +a very diverting house-party. This peer, it will be remembered, +is the well-known radical philanthropist who owed his title to a lifelong +interest in the submerged tenth. Their house, Ivanhoe, is an exquisite +gothic structure not unjustly regarded as the masterpiece of the late +Sir Gilbert Scott: it overlooks the Ouse. Including our hosts +we numbered forty persons, and the personnel, including valets, chauffeurs, +and ladies’-maids brought by the guests, numbered sixty. +In all, we were a hundred souls, assuming immortality for the chauffeurs +and the five Scotch gardeners. On January 2nd somebody produced +after dinner a copy of the <i>Petit Parisien</i> relating the plebiscite +for the greatest Frenchman of the nineteenth century; another guest +capped him with the <i>Evening News</i> list. The famous <i>Pall +Mall Gazette</i> Academy of Forty was recalled with indifferent accuracy. +Conversation was flagging; our hostess looked relieved; very soon we +were all playing a <!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>variation +of that most charming game, <i>suck-pencil</i>.</p> +<p>At first we decided to ignore the nineteenth century. The ten +greatest living Englishmen were to be named by our votes. Bridge +and billiard players were dragged to the polling-station in the green +drawing-room. Lord Lyonesse and myself were the tellers. +I shivered with excitement. One of the Ultimatelies of Churton +Collins seemed to have arrived: it was Götterdämmerung—the +Twilight of the Idols. And here is the result of the ballot, which +I think every one will admit possesses extraordinary interest:</p> +<p>Hall Caine.</p> +<p>Marie Corelli.</p> +<p>Rudyard Kipling.</p> +<p>Lord Northcliffe.</p> +<p>Sir Thomas Lipton.</p> +<p>Hichens.</p> +<p>Chamberlain.</p> +<p>Barrie.</p> +<p>George Alexander.</p> +<p>Beerbohm Tree.</p> +<p>I ought to add, of course, that the guests were unusually intellectual. +There were our host and hostess, their three sons—one is a scholar +of King’s College, Cambridge, another is at Balliol, and a third +is a stockbroker; there were five M.P.’s with their wives <!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>(two +Liberal Imperialists, two Liberal Unionists, and one real Radical), +a Scotch peer with his wife and an Irish peer without one; a publisher +and his wife; three Academicians; four journalists; an Irish poet, a +horse-dealer, a picture-dealer, another stockbroker, an artist, two +lady novelists, a baronet and his wife, three musicians; and Myself. +I think the only point on which the sincerity of the voting might be +doubted, is the ominous absence of any soldier’s name on the list. +Lord Lyonesse, however, is a firm upholder of the Hague Conference: +like myself, he is a pro-Boer, but he will not allow any reference to +military affairs, and I suspect that it was out of deference to his +wishes that the guests all abstained from writing down some names of +our gallant generals. Lord Kitchener, however, obtained nine votes, +and I myself included Christian De Wet; but on discovery of documents +he was ruled out, in spite of my pleading for him on imperialistic grounds. +I thought it rather insular, too, I must confess, that Mr. Henry James +and Mr. Sargent were denied to me because they are American subjects. +My own final list, as pasted in the <!-- page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>Album +at Ivanhoe, along with others, was as follows:</p> +<p>H. G. Wells.</p> +<p>C. H. Shannon.</p> +<p>Bernard Shaw.</p> +<p>Thomas Hardy.</p> +<p>Lord Northcliffe.</p> +<p>Edmund Gosse.</p> +<p>Andrew Lang.</p> +<p>Oliver Lodge.</p> +<p>Dom Gasquet.</p> +<p>Reginald Turner.</p> +<p>Mine, of course, is the choice of a recluse: a scholar without scholarship, +one who lives remote from politics, newspapers, society, and the merry-go-round +of modern life. Its two chief interests lie in showing, first +how far off I was from getting the prize (a vellum copy of poems, by +our hostess), and secondly, that one name only, that of Lord Northcliffe, +should have touched both the popular and the private imagination! +I regret to say that none of the guests knew the names of Dom Gasquet +or Sir Oliver Lodge. Every one, except the artist, thought C. +H. Shannon was J. J. Shannon, and some of the voters were hardly convinced +that Mr. Lang was still an ornament to contemporary literature. +The prize was awarded to a lady whose list most nearly corresponded +to the result of the general plebiscite. I need not say she <!-- page 123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>was +the wife of the publisher. After some suitable expressions from +Lord Lyonesse, it was suggested that we should poll the servants’ +hall. Pencils and paper were provided and the butler was sent +for. An hour was given for the election, and at half-past eleven +the ballot papers were brought in on a massive silver tray discreetly +covered with a red silk pocket-handkerchief, and here is the result:</p> +<p>Frank Richardson.</p> +<p>Marie Corelli.</p> +<p>John Roberts.</p> +<p>C. B. Fry.</p> +<p>Eustace Miles.</p> +<p>Robert Hichens.</p> +<p>T. P. O’Connor.</p> +<p>Lord Lyonesse.</p> +<p>Dr. Williams (Pink Pills for Pale People).</p> +<p>Hall Caine.</p> +<p>The prize (and this is another odd coincidence) was won by the butler +himself, to whom, very generously, the publisher’s wife resigned +the vellum copy of our hostess’s poems. From a literary +point of view, it is interesting to note that Mr. Frank Richardson is +the only master of <i>belles lettres</i> who is appreciated in the servants’ +hall! The other names we associate, rightly or wrongly, with something +other than literature.</p> +<p>The following evening I suggested choosing <!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>the +greatest English names in the nineteenth century (twentieth-century +life being strictly excluded). Every one by this time had caught +the <i>suck-pencil</i> fever. By general consent the suffrage +was extended to the domestics: the electorate being thus one hundred. +And what, you will ask, came of it all? I suggest that readers +should guess. Any one interested should fill up, cut out, and +send this coupon to my own publisher on April the first.</p> +<p><i>I think the Ten Greatest Englishmen of the Nineteenth Century +were</i>:</p> +<p>1 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>2 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>3 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>4 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>5 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>6 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>7 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>8 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>9 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>10 . . . . . . . . . .</p> +<p>A prize, consisting of a copy of <i>Books of To-Day and Books of +To-Morrow</i>, will be awarded for the best shot.</p> +<h2><!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>MR. +BENSON’S ‘PATER.’</h2> +<p>In no other country has mediocrity such a chance as in England. +The second-rate writer, the second-rate painter meets with an almost +universal and immediate recognition. When good mediocrities die, +if they do not go straight to heaven (from a country where the existence +of Purgatory is denied by Act of Parliament), at least they run a very +fair chance of burial in Westminster Abbey. ‘De mortuis +nil nisi <i>bonus</i>,’ in the shape of royalties, is the real +test by which we estimate the authors who have just passed away. +A few of our great writers—Ruskin and Tennyson, for example—have +enjoyed the applause accorded to senility by a people usually timid +of brilliancy and strength, when it is contemporary. The ruins +of mental faculties touch our imagination, owing, perhaps, to that tenderness +for antiquity which has preserved for us the remains of Tintern Abbey. +Seldom, however, does a great writer live to <!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>find +himself, in the prime of his literary existence, a component part of +English literature. Yet there are happy exceptions, and not the +least of these was Walter Pater.</p> +<p>His inclusion in the <i>English Men of Letters</i> series, so soon +after his death, somewhat dazzled the reviewers. Mr. Benson was +complimented on a daring which, if grudgingly endorsed, is treated as +just the sort of innovation you would expect from the brother of the +author of <i>Dodo</i>. ‘To a small soul the age which has +borne it can appear only an age of small souls,’ says Swinburne, +and the presence of Pater, which rose so strangely beside our waters, +seemed to many of his contemporaries only the last sob of a literature +which they sincerely believed came to an end with Lord Macaulay.</p> +<p>It was a fortunate chance by which Mr. A. C. Benson, one of our more +discerning critics, himself master of no mean style, should have been +chosen as commentator of Pater. Among the plutarchracy of the +present day a not very pretty habit prevails of holding a sort of inquest +on deceased writers—a reaction against misplaced eulogy—tearing +them <!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>and +their works to pieces, and leaving nothing for reviewers or posterity +to dissipate. From the author of the <i>Upton Letters</i> we expect +sympathy and critical acumen. It is needless to say we are never +disappointed. His book is not merely about a literary man: it +is a work of literature itself. So it is charming to disagree +with Mr. Benson sometimes, and a triumph to find him tripping. +You experience the pleasure of the University Extension lecturer pointing +out the mistakes in Shakespeare’s geography, the joy of the schoolboy +when the master has made a false quantity. In marking the modern +discoveries which have shattered, not the value of Pater’s criticisms, +but the authenticity of pictures round which he wove his aureoles of +prose, Mr. Benson says: ‘In the essay on Botticelli he is on firmer +ground.’ But among the first masterpieces winged by the +sportsmen of the new criticism was the Hamilton Palace ‘Assumption +of the Virgin’ (now proved to be by Botticini), to which Pater +makes one of his elusive and delightful allusions. While the ‘<i>School +of Giorgione</i>,’ which Mr. Benson thinks a little <i>passé</i> +in the light of modern <!-- page 128--><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>research +is now in the movement. The latest bulletins of Giorgione, Pater +would have been delighted to hear, are highly satisfactory. Pictures +once torn from the altars of authenticity are being reinstated under +the acolytage of Mr. Herbert Cook. A curious and perhaps wilful +error, too, has escaped Mr. Benson’s notice. Referring to +the tomb of Cardinal Jacopo at San Miniato, Pater says, ‘insignis +forma fui—his epitaph dares to say;’ the inscription reads +<i>fuit</i>. But perhaps the <i>t</i> was added by the Italian +Government out of Reference to the English residents in Florence, and +the word read <i>fui</i> in 1871. <i>Troja fuit</i> might be written +all over Florence.</p> +<p>Then some of the architecture at Vezelay ‘typical of Cluniac +sculpture’ is pure Viollet-le-Duc, I am assured by a competent +authority. A more serious error of Pater’s, for it is adjectival, +not a fact, occurs in <i>Apollo in Picardy</i>—‘<i>rebellious</i> +masses of black hair.’ This is the only instance in the +<i>parfait prosateur</i>, as Bourget called him, of a cliché +worthy of the ‘Spectator.’ Then it is possible to +differ from Mr. Benson in his criticism of the <i>Imaginary Portraits</i> +(the four fair ovals <!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>in +one volume), surely Pater’s most exquisite achievement after the +<i>Renaissance</i>. <i>Gaston</i> is the failure Pater thought +it was, and <i>Emerald Uthwart</i> is frankly very silly, though Mr. +Benson has a curious tenderness for it. One sentence he abandons +as absolute folly. The grave psychological error in the story +occurs where the surgeon expresses compunction at making the autopsy +on Uthwart because of his perfect anatomy. Surely this would have +been a source of technical pleasure and interest to a surgeon, much +as a butterfly-collector is pleased when he has murdered an unusually +fine species of lepidoptera. Speaking myself as a vivisector of +some experience, I can confidently affirm that a well-bred golden collie +is far more interesting to operate upon than a mongrel sheep-dog. +Nor can I comprehend Mr. Benson’s blame of <i>Denys l’Auxerrois</i> +as too extravagant and even unwholesome, when the last quality, so obvious +in <i>Uthwart</i>, he seems to condone.</p> +<p>Again, <i>Marius the Epicurean</i> is a failure by Pater’s +own high standard: you would have imagined it seemed so to Mr. Benson.</p> +<p><!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>Dulness +is by no means its least fault. In scheme it is not unlike <i>John +Inglesant</i>; but how lifeless are the characters compared with those +of Shorthouse. Both books deal with philosophic ideas and sensations; +the incidents are merely illustrative and there is hardly a pretence +of sequence. In the historical panorama which moves behind <i>Inglesant</i>, +there are at least ‘tactile’ values, and seventeenth-century +England is conjured up in a wonderful way; how accurately I do not know. +In <i>Marius</i> the background is merely a backcloth for mental <i>poses +plastiques</i>. You wonder, not how still the performers are, +but why they move at all. Marcus Aurelius, the delightful Lucian, +even Flavian, and the rest, are busts from the Capitoline and Naples +museums. Their bodies are make-believe, or straw from the loft +at ‘White Nights.’ Cornelius, Mr. Benson sorrowfully +admits, is a Christian prig, but Marius is only a pagan chip from the +same block. John Inglesant is a prig too, but there is blood in +his veins, and you get, at all events, a Vandyck, not a plaster cast. +The magnificent passages of prose which vest this image make it resemble +<!-- page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>the +<i>ex voto</i> Madonnas of continental churches—a shrine in literature +but not a lighthouse.</p> +<p>I sometimes wonder what Pater would have become had he been a Cambridge +man, and if the more strenuous University might have <i>forced</i> him +into greater sympathy with modernity; or if he had been born in America, +as he nearly was, and Harvard acted as the benign stepmother of his +days. Such speculations are not beyond all conjecture, as Sir +Thomas Browne said. I think he would have been exactly the same.</p> +<p>On the occasion of Pater’s lecture on Prosper Merimée, +his friends gathered round the platform to congratulate him; he expressed +a hope that the audience was able to hear what he said. ‘We +overheard you,’ said Oscar Wilde. ‘Ah, you have a +phrase for everything,’ replied the lecturer, the only contemporary +who ever influenced himself, Wilde declared. How admirable both +of the criticisms! Pater is an aside in literature, and that is +why he was sometimes overlooked, and may be so again in ages to come. +Though he is the greatest master of style the century produced, he <!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>can +never be regarded as part of the structure of English prose. He +is, rather, one of the ornaments, which often last, long after a structure +has perished. His place will be shifted, as fashions change. +Like some exquisite piece of eighteenth-century furniture perchance +he may be forgotten in the attics of literature awhile, only to be rediscovered. +And as Fuseli said of Blake, ‘he is damned good to steal from.’ +If he uses words as though they were pigments, and sentences like vestments +at the Mass, it is not merely the ritualistic cadence of his harmonies +which makes his works imperishable, but the ideas which they symbolise +and evoke. Pater thinks beautifully always, about things which +some people do not think altogether beautiful, perhaps; and sometimes +he thinks aloud. We overhear him, and feel almost the shame of +the eavesdropper.</p> +<p>Mr. Benson has approached Walter Pater, the man, with almost sacerdotal +deference. He suggests ingeniously where you can find the self-revelation +in <i>Gaston</i> and <i>The Child in the House</i>. This is far +more illuminating than the recollections of personal friends <!-- page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>whose +reminiscences are modelled on those of Captain Sumph. Mr. Humphry +Ward remembers Pater only once being angry—it was in the Common +Room—it was with X, an elderly man! The subject of the difference +was ‘modern lectures.’ ‘Relations between them +were afterwards strained.’ Mr. Arthur Symons remembers that +he intended to bring out a new volume of <i>Imaginary Portraits</i>. +Fancy that! Really, when friends begin to tell stories of that +kind, I begin to suspect they are trying to conceal something. +Perhaps we have no right to know everything or anything about the amazing +personalities of literature; but Henleys and Purcells lurk and leak +out even at Oxford; and that is not the way to silence them. Just +when the aureole is ready to be fitted on, some horrid graduate (Litteræ +<i>in</i>humaniores) inks the statue. Anticipating something of +the kind, Mr. Benson is careful to insist on the divergence between +Rossetti and Pater, and on page eighty-six says something which is ludicrously +untrue. If self-revelation can be traced in <i>Gaston</i>, it +can be found elsewhere. There are sentences in <i>Hippolytus Veiled</i>, +the <i>Age of the Athletic</i> <!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span><i>Prizemen</i>, +and <i>Apollo in Picardy</i>, which not only explode Mr. Benson’s +suggestions, but illustrate the objections he urges against <i>Denys +l’Auxerrois</i>. They are passages where Pater thinks aloud. +If Rossetti wore his heart on the sleeve, Pater’s was just above +the cuff, like a bangle; though it slips down occasionally in spite +of the alb which drapes the hieratic writer not always discreetly.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>SIMEON +SOLOMON.</h2> +<p>A good many years ago, before the Rhodes scholars invaded Oxford, +there lingered in that home of lost causes and unpopular names, the +afterglow of the æsthetic sunset. It was not a very brilliant +period. Professor Mackail and Mr. Bowyer Nichols had left Balliol. +Nothing was expected of either the late Sir Clinton Dawkins or Canon +Beeching; and the authorities of Merton could form no idea where Mr. +Beerbohm would complete his education. Names are more suggestive +than dates and give less pain. Then, as now, there were ‘cultured’ +undergraduates, and those who were very cultured indeed, read Shelley +and burned incense, would always have a few photographs after Simeon +Solomon on their walls—little notes of illicit sentiment to vary +the monotony of Burne-Jones and Botticelli. When uncles and aunts +came up for Gaudys and Commem., while ‘Temperantia’ and +the ‘Primavera’ <!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>were +left in their places, ‘Love dying from the breath of Lust,’ +‘Antinous,’ and other drawings by Solomon with titles from +the Latin Vulgate, were taken down for the occasion. Views of +the sister University, Cambridge took their places, being more appropriate +to Uncle Parker’s and Aunt Jane’s tastes. More advanced +undergraduates, who ‘knew what things were,’ possessed even +originals. Now the unfortunate artist is dead his career can be +mentioned without prejudice.</p> +<p>Simeon Solomon was born in 1841. He was the third son of Michael +Solomon, a manufacturer of Leghorn hats, and the first Jew ever admitted +to the Freedom of London. The elder brother, Abraham, became a +successful painter of popular subjects (‘Waiting for the Verdict’ +and ‘First and Third Class’), and died on the day of his +election to the Academy! Rebecca a sister who was also a painter, +copied with success some of Millais’s pictures. At the age +of sixteen Simeon exhibited at the Academy, though beyond a short training +at Leigh’s Art School in Newman Street he was almost self-taught. +<!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>He +was an early and intimate friend of the Pre-Raphaelites, with whose +art he had much in common, though it is only for convenience that he +is included in the school. Like Whistler, he was profoundly affected +by the genius of Rossetti. Racial and other causes removed him +from any real affinity to the archaistic moralatarianism of Mr. Holman +Hunt. For obvious reasons the Pre-Raphaelite memoirs are silent +about him, but Burne-Jones was said to have maintained, in after years, +‘that he was the greatest artist of us all.’ Throughout +the sixties Solomon was one of those black-and-white draughtsmen whose +contributions to the magazines have made the period famous in English +art. He found ready purchasers for his pictures and drawings, +not only among the well-to-do Hebrew community, such as Dr. Ernest Hart, +his brother’s brother-in-law, but with well-known Christian collectors +like Mr. Leathart. He was on intimate terms with Walter Pater, +of whom he executed one of the only two known portraits; and in the +<i>Greek Studies</i> will be found a graceful reference to the ‘young +Hebrew painter’ whose ‘Bacchus’ at <!-- page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>the +Academy obviously contributed to the ‘gem-like’ flame of +which we have heard so much.</p> +<p>In a short-lived magazine, the <i>Dark Blue</i>, of July 1871, may +be found a characteristic review by Swinburne of Solomon’s strange +rhapsody, <i>A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep</i>, his only literary +work, now a great rarity. This is the longest, and with one exception +the most interesting, tribute to Solomon ever published. ‘Since +the first years of his early and brilliant celebrity as a young artist +of high imagination, power, and promise,’ Swinburne says, ‘he +has been at work long enough to enable us to define at least certain +salient and dominant points of his genius . . . I have heard him likened +to Heine as a kindred Hellenist of the Hebrews; Grecian form and beauty +divide the allegiance of his spirit with Hebrew shadow and majesty.’ +It would be difficult to add anything further, in praise of the unfortunate +artist, to the poet’s eloquent eulogy of his friend’s talents. +An interesting piece of autobiography is afforded in the same article, +where Swinburne tells us that his <!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>own +poem of ‘Erotion,’ in the first series of <i>Poems and Ballads</i>, +was written for a drawing by Simeon Solomon; and in another number of +the same magazine there appeared ‘The End of the Month,’ +to accompany a new design of Solomon’s, the poem appearing later +in the second series of <i>Poems and Ballads</i>. Very few English +artists—not even Millais—began life with fairer prospects. +Thackeray wrote in one of the ‘Roundabout Papers’ for 1860: +‘For example, one of the pictures I admired most at the Royal +Academy is by a gentleman on whom I never, to my knowledge, set eyes. +The picture is (346) “Moses,” by S. Solomon. I thought +it finely drawn and composed. It nobly represented to my mind +the dark children of the Egyptian bondage. . . . My newspaper says: +“Two ludicrously ugly women, looking at a dingy baby, do not form +a pleasing object,” and so good-bye, Mr. S. S.’ This +beautiful picture, painted when the artist was only nineteen, is now +in the collection of Mr. W. G. Rawlinson, and was seen quite recently +at the Franco-British Exhibition, where those familiar with his work +considered it one of Solomon’s masterpieces. <!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>Very +few students of Thackeray realised, however, that the painter thus singled +out for praise formed the subject of a sordid inquest reported in the +<i>Times</i> of August 18th, 1905.</p> +<p>That Solomon’s pictures were at first better known to the public +than those of his now more famous associates is shown by Robert Buchanan +confessing that he had scarcely seen any of their works except those +of Solomon, which he proceeded to attack in the famous <i>The Fleshly +School of Poetry</i>. As a sort of justification of the criticism, +in the early seventies, the extraordinary artist had become a pariah. +He was imprisoned for a short while, and on his release was placed in +a private asylum by his friends. Scandal having subsided, since +he showed no further signs of eccentricity, he was, by arrangement, +sent out to post a letter in order that he might have a chance of quietly +escaping and returning to the practice of his art. He returned +to the asylum in half an hour!—a proceeding which was almost an +evidence of insanity. He was subsequently officially dismissed, +and from this time went steadily downhill, adding to <!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>his +other vices that of intemperance. Every effort was made by friends +and relatives to reclaim him. Studios were taken for him, commissions +were given him, clothes were bought for him. He spent his week-ends +in the lock-up. Several picture-dealers tried giving him an allowance, +but he turned up intoxicated to demand advances, and the police had +to be called in. He was found selling matches in the Mile End +Road and tried his hand at pavement decoration without much success. +The companion of Walter Pater and Swinburne became the associate of +thieves and blackmailers. A story is told that one afternoon he +called for assistance at the house of a well-known artist, a former +friend, from whom he received a generous dole. Observing that +the remote neighbourhood of the place lent itself favourably to burgling +operations, Solomon visited his benefactor the same evening in company +with a housebreaker. They were studying the dining-room silver +when they were disturbed; both were in liquor, and the noise they made +roused the sleepers above. The unwilling host good-naturedly dismissed +them!</p> +<p><!-- page 142--><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>Though +a very delightful book might be made of his life by some one who would +not shirk the difficulties of the subject, it is unnecessary here to +dwell further on a career which belongs to the history of morbid psychology +rather than of painting. After drifting from the stream of social +existence into a Bohemian backwater, he found himself in the main sewer. +This he thoroughly enjoyed in his own particular way, and rejected fiercely +all attempts at rescue or reform. To his other old friends, such +as Burne-Jones and Sir Edward Poynter, there must have been something +very tragic in the contemplation of his wasted talents, for few young +painters were more successful. Any one curious enough to study +his pictures will regret that he was lost to art by allowing an ill-regulated +life to prey upon his genius. He had not sufficient strength to +keep the two things separate, as Shakespeare, Verlaine, and Leonardo +succeeded in doing. At the same time, it is a consolation to think +that he enjoyed himself in his own sordid way. When I had the +pleasure of seeing him last, so lately as 1893, he was extremely cheerful +and not aggressively alcoholic. <!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>Unlike +most spoilt wastrels with the artistic temperament, he seemed to have +no grievances, and had no bitter stories or complaints about former +friends, no scandalous tales about contemporaries who had remained reputable; +no indignant feeling towards those who assisted him. This was +an amiable, inartistic trait in his character, though it may be a trifle +negative; and for a positive virtue, as I say, he enjoyed his drink, +his overpowering dirt, and his vicious life. He was full of delightful +and racy stories about poets and painters, policemen and prisons, of +which he had wide experience. He might have written a far more +diverting book of memoirs than the average Pre-Raphaelite volume to +which we look forward every year, though it is usually silent about +poor Simeon Solomon. Physically he was a small, red man, with +keen, laughing eyes.</p> +<p>By 1887 he entirely ceased to produce work of any value. He +poured out a quantity of pastels at a guinea apiece. They are +repulsive and ill-drawn, with the added horror of being the shadows +of once splendid achievements. Long after his name could be ever +<!-- page 144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>mentioned +except in whispers, Mr. Hollyer issued a series of photographs of some +of the fine early sanguine, Indian ink, and pencil drawings. The +originals are unique of their kind. It is very easy to detect +the unwholesome element which has inspired many of them, even the titles +being indicative: ‘Sappho,’ ‘Antinous,’ ‘Amor +Sacramentum.’ One of the finest, ‘Love dying from +the breath of Lust,’ of which also he painted a picture, became +quite popular in reproduction owing to the moral which was screwed out +of it. Another, of ‘Dante meeting Beatrice at a Child’s +Party,’ is particularly fascinating. To the present generation +his work is perhaps too ‘literary,’ and his technique is +by no means faultless; but the slightest drawing is informed by an idea, +nearly always a beautiful one, however exotic. The faceless head +and the headless body of shivering models dear to modern art students +were absent from Solomon’s designs. His pigments, both in +water-colour and oils, are always harmonious, pure in tone, and rich +without being garish. We need not try to frighten ourselves by +searching too curiously for hidden meanings. His whole art is, +of <!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>course, +unwholesome and morbid, to employ two very favourite adjectives. +His work has always appealed to musicians and men of letters rather +than collectors—to those who ask that a drawing or a picture should +suggest an idea rather than the art of the artist. Subject with +him triumphs over drawing. He is sometimes hopelessly crude; but +during the sixties, when, as some one said, ‘every one was a great +artist,’ he showed considerable promise of draughtsmanship. +His pictures are less fantastic than the drawings, and aim at probability, +even when they are allegorical, or, as is too often the case, <i>odd</i> +in sentiment. He is apparently never concerned with what are called +‘problems,’ the articulation of forms, or any fidelity to +nature beyond the human frame. Unlike many of the Pre-Raphaelites, +he showed a feeling for the medium of oil. His friends and contemporaries, +with the exception of Millais, and Rossetti occasionally, were always +more at ease with water-colour or gouache, and you feel that most of +their pictures ought to have been painted in <i>tempera</i>, the technique +of which was not then understood. Since Millais was of French +extraction, <!-- page 146--><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>Rossetti +of Italian, and Solomon of Hebrew, I fear this does not get us very +much further away from the old French criticism that the English had +forgotten or never learnt how to paint in oil. It must be remembered +that Whistler, who in the sixties achieved some of his masterpieces, +was an American.</p> +<p>It is strange that Solomon did not allow a sordid existence to alter +the trend of his subjects, for these are always derived from poetry +and the Bible, or from Catholic, Jewish, or Greek Orthodox ritual—a +strange contrast to the respectable, impeccable painter, M. Degas, the +doyen of European art, nationalist and anti-Semite, who finds beauty +only in brasseries, in the vulgar circus, and in the ghastly wings of +the opera. How far removed from his surroundings are the inspirations +of the artist! I believe J. F. Millet would have painted peasants +if he had been born and spent his days in the centre of New York. +With the life-long friend of M. Degas—Gustave Moreau—Solomon +had much in common, but the colour of the English Hebrew is much finer, +and his themes are less monotonous. I can imagine many people +being repelled by <!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>this +troubled introspective art, especially at the present day. There +is hardly room for an inverted Watts. At the same time, even those +who from age and training cannot take a sentimental interest in faded +rose-leaves, whose perfume is a little overpowering, may care to explore +an interesting byway of art. For poor Solomon there was no place +in life. Casting reality aside, he stepped back into the riotous +pages of Petronius. Perhaps on the Paris boulevards, with Verlaine +and Bibi la Purée, he might have enjoyed a distinct artistic +individuality. Expeditions conducted by Mr. Arthur Symons might +have been organized in order to view him at some popular café. +Mr. George Moore might have written about him. But in respectable +London he was quite impossible. In the temple of Art, which is +less Calvinistic than artists would have us suppose, he will always +have his niche. To the future English Vasari he will be a real +gold-mine.</p> +<p>(1905.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>AUBREY +BEARDSLEY.</h2> +<p>Middle-aged, middle-class people, with a predilection for mediæval +art, still believe that subject is an important factor in a picture +or drawing. I am one of the number. The subject need not +be literary or historical. After you have discussed in the latest +studio jargon its carpentry, valued the tones and toned the values, +motive or theme must affect your appreciation of a picture, your desire, +or the contrary, to possess it. That the artist is able to endow +the unattractive, and woo you to surrender, I admit. Unless, however, +you are a pro-Boer in art matters, and hold that Rembrandt and the Boer +school (the greatest technicians who ever lived) are finer artists than +Titian, you will find yourself preferring Gainsborough to Degas, and +the unskilful Whistler to the more accomplished Edouard Manet. +Long ago French critics invented an æsthetic formula to conceal +that poverty of imagination <!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>which +sometimes stares from their perfectly executed pictures, and this was +eagerly accepted by certain Englishmen, both painters and writers. +Yet, when an artist frankly deals with forbidden subjects, the canons +regular of English art begin to thunder; the critics forget their French +accent; the old Robert Adam, which is in all of us, asserts himself; +we fly for the fig-leaves.</p> +<p>I am led to these reflections by the memory of Aubrey Beardsley, +and the reception which his work received, not from the British public, +but from the inner circle of advanced intellectuals. Too much +occupied with the obstetrics of art, his superfluity of naughtiness +has tarnished his niche in the temple of fame. ‘A wish to +<i>épater le bourgeois</i>,’ says Mr. Arthur Symons, ‘is +a natural one.’ I do not think so; at least, in an artist. +Now much of Beardsley’s work shows the <i>éblouissement</i> +of the burgess on arriving at Montmartre for the first time—a +weakness he shared with some of his contemporaries. This must +be conceded in praising a great artist for a line which he never drew, +after you have taken the immortal Zero’s advice and divested yourself +of the scruples.</p> +<p><!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>‘I +would rather be an Academician than an artist,’ said Aubrey Beardsley +to me one day. ‘It takes thirty-nine men to make an Academician, +and only one to make an artist.’ In that sneer lay all his +weakness and his strength. Grave friends (in those days it was +the fashion) talked to him of ‘Dame Nature.’ ‘<i>Damn +Nature</i>!’ retorted Aubrey Beardsley, and pulled down the blinds +and worked by gaslight on the finest days. But he was a real Englishman, +who from his glass-house peppered the English public. No Latin +could have contrived his arabesque. The grotesques of Jerome Bosch +are positively pleasant company beside many of Beardsley’s inventions. +Even in his odd little landscapes, with their twisted promontories sloping +seaward, he suggested mocking laughter; and the flowers of ‘Under +the Hill’ are cackling in the grass.</p> +<p>An essay, which Mr. Arthur Symons published in 1897, has always been +recognised as far the most sympathetic and introspective account of +this strange artist’s work. It has been reissued, with additional +illustrations, by Messrs. Dent. Those who welcome it as one of +the most inspiring criticisms from an always <!-- page 151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>inspired +critic, will regret that eight of the illustrations belong to the worst +period of Beardsley’s art. Kelmscott dyspepsia following +on a surfeit of Burne-Jones, belongs to the pathology of style; it is +a phase that should be produced by the prosecution, not by the eloquent +advocate for the defence. Moreover, I do not believe Mr. Arthur +Symons admires them any more than I do; he never mentions them in his +text. ‘Le Débris d’un Poète,’ +the ‘Coiffing,’ ‘Chopin’s Third Ballad,’ +and those for <i>Salome</i> would have sufficed. With these omissions +the monograph might have been smaller; but it would have been more truly +representative of Beardsley’s genius and Mr. Arthur Symons’s +taste.</p> +<p>At one time or another every one has been brilliant about Beardsley. +‘Born Puck, he died Pierrot,’ said Mr. MacColl in one of +the superb phrases with which he gibbets into posterity an art or an +artist he rather dislikes. ‘The Fra Angelico of Satanism,’ +wrote Mr. Roger Fry of an exhibition of the drawings. There seems +hardly anything left even for Mr. Arthur Symons to write. Long +<!-- page 152--><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>anterior +to these particular fireworks, however, his criticism is just as fresh +as it was twelve years ago. I believe it will always remain the +terminal essay.</p> +<p>The preface has been revised, and I could have wished for some further +revision. Why is the name of Leonard Smithers—here simply +called <i>a</i> publisher—omitted, when the other Capulets and +Montagus are faithfully recorded? When no one would publish Beardsley’s +work, Smithers stepped into the breach. I do not know that the +<i>Savoy</i> exactly healed the breach between Beardsley and the public, +but it gave the artist another opportunity; and Mr. Arthur Symons an +occasion for song. Leonard Smithers, too, was the most delightful +and irresponsible publisher I ever knew. Who remembers without +a kindly feeling the little shop in the Royal Arcade with its tempting +shelves; its limited editions of <i>5000</i> copies; the shy, infrequent +purchaser; the upstairs room where the roar of respectable Bond Street +came faintly through the tightly-closed windows; the genial proprietor? +In the closing years of the nineteenth century his silhouette reels +(my <!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>metaphor +is drawn from a Terpsichorean and Caledonian exercise) across an artistic +horizon of which the <i>Savoy</i> was the afterglow. Again, why +is Mr. Arthur Symons so precise about forgetting the date of Beardsley’s +expulsion from the <i>Yellow Book</i>? It was in April 1895, April +10th. A number of poets and writers blackmailed Mr. Lane by threatening +to withdraw their own publications unless the Beardsley Body was severed +from the Bodley Head. I am glad to have this opportunity, not +only of paying a tribute to the courage of my late friend Smithers, +but of defending my other good friend, Mr. John Lane, from the absurd +criticism of which he was too long the victim. He could hardly +be expected to wreck a valuable business in the cause of unpopular art. +Quite wrongly Beardsley’s designs had come to be regarded as the +pictorial and sympathetic expression of a decadent tendency in English +literature. But if there was any relation thereto, it was that +of Juvenal towards Roman Society. Never was mordant satire more +evident. If Beardsley is carried away in spite of himself by the +superb invention of <i>Salome</i>, he never forgets his <!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>hatred +of its author. It is characteristic that he hammered beauty from +the gold he would have battered into caricature. <i>Salome</i> +has survived other criticism and other caricature. And Mr. Lane +once informed an American interviewer that since that April Fool’s +Day poetry has ceased to sell altogether. The bards unconsciously +committed suicide; and the <i>Yellow Book</i> perished in the odour +of sanctity.</p> +<p>Recommending the perusal of some letters (written by Beardsley to +an unnamed friend) published some years ago, Mr. Arthur Symons says: +‘Here, too, we are in the presence of the real thing.’ +I venture to doubt this. I do not doubt Beardsley’s sincerity +in the religion he embraced, but his expression of it in the letters. +At least, I hope it was insincere. The letters left on some of +us a disagreeable impression, at least of the recipient. You wonder +if this pietistic friend received a copy of the <i>Lysistrata</i> along +with the eulogy of St. Alfonso Liguori and Aphra Behn. A fescennine +temperament is too often allied with religiosity. It certainly +was in Beardsley’s case, but I think the other <!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>and +stronger side of his character should, in justice to his genius, be +insisted upon, as Mr. Arthur Symons insisted upon it. If we knew +that the ill-advised and unnamed friend was the author of certain pseudo-scientific +and pornographic works issued in Paris, we should be better able to +gauge the unimportance of these letters. Far more interesting +would have been those written to Mr. Joseph Pennell, one of the saner +influences; or those to Aubrey Beardsley’s mother and sister.</p> +<p>‘It was at Arques,’ says Mr. Arthur Symons . . . ‘that +I had the only serious, almost solemn conversation I ever had with Beardsley.’ +You can scarcely believe that any of the conversations between the two +were other than serious and solemn, because he approaches Beardsley +as he would John Bunyan or Aquinas. Art, literature and life, +are all to this engaging writer a scholiast’s pilgrim’s +progress. Beside him, Walter Pater, from whom he derives, seems +almost flippant—and to have dallied too long in the streets of +Vanity Fair.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>ENGLISH +ÆSTHETICS.</h2> +<p>The law reports in newspapers contain perhaps the only real history +of England that has any relation to truth. Here, too, may be found +indications of current thought, more pregnant than the observations +of historians. They still afford material for the future short +or longer history of the English people by the John Richard Greens of +posterity. This was brought home to me by perusing two cases reported +in the <i>Morning Post</i>, that of Mrs. Rita Marsh and the disputed +will of Miss Browne. I yield to no one in my ignorance of English +law, but I have seldom read judgments which seemed so conspicuously +unfair, so characteristic of the precise minimum of æsthetic perception +in the English people.</p> +<p>The hostelries of Great Britain are famous for their high charges, +their badly-kept rooms, and loathsome cooking; let me add, their warm +welcome. In the reign of Edward III. there <!-- page 157--><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>was +legislation on the subject. The colder and cheaper hospitality +of the Continent strikes a chill, I am sometimes told by those familiar +with both. The hotel selected by a certain Mrs. Rita Marsh was +no exception to the ordinary English caravanserai. It was ‘replete +with every comfort.’ The garden contained an <i>oubliette</i>, +down which Mrs. Marsh, while walking in the evening, inadvertently fell. +On the Continent the <i>oubliettes</i> are inside the house, and you +are ostentatiously warned of their immediate neighbourhood. These +things are managed better in France, if I may say so without offending +Tariff Reformers.</p> +<p>The accident disfigured Mrs. Marsh for life; and for the loss of +unusual personal attractions an English jury awarded her only 500<i>l</i>. +The judge made a joke about it. Mr. Gill was very playful about +her photograph, and every one, except, I imagine, Mrs. Marsh, seems +to have been satisfied that ample justice was done. The hotel +proprietors did not press their counter-claim for a bill of 191<i>l</i>.! +Chivalrous fellows! Still, I can safely say that in France Mrs. +Marsh would have been awarded at least four times that amount; though +if she had <!-- page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>been +murdered the proprietors would have only been fined forty francs. +But beauty to its fortunate possessors is more valuable than life itself, +and the story is to me one of the most pathetic I have ever heard. +To the English mind there is something irresistibly comic when any one +falls, morally or physically. It is the basis of English Farce. +Jokes made about those who have never fallen, ‘too great to appease, +too high to appal,’ are voted bad taste. Caricaturists of +the mildest order are considered irreligious and vulgar if they burlesque, +say, the Archbishop of Canterbury for example; or unpatriotic if they +hint that Lord Roberts did not really finish the Boer War when he professed +to have done so. After Parnell came to grief I remember the Drury +Lane pantomime was full of fire-escapes, and every allusion to the <i>cause +célèbre</i> produced roars of laughter. Mr. Justice +Bigham was only a thorough Englishman when he gently rallied the jury +for awarding, as he obviously thought, excessive damages. So little +is beauty esteemed in England.</p> +<p>The case of Miss Browne was also singular. She left a trust +fund ‘for the erection of an <!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>ornamental +structure of Gothic design, such as a market cross, tall clock, street +lamp-stand, or all combined, in a central part of London, the plan whereof +shall be offered for open competition, and ultimately decided upon by +the Royal Institute of British Architects.’ The President +of the Probate Division said <i>he was satisfied that Miss Browne was +not of sound mind, and pronounced against the will</i>, with costs out +of the estate. I wonder what the Royal Institute thinks of this +legal testimonial. It seems almost a pity that some one did not +dispute Sir Francis Chantrey’s will years ago on similar grounds. +I suggest to Mr. MacColl that it might still be upset. That would +settle once and for all the question whether the administration of the +bequest has evinced evidence of insanity or not. A recent Royal +Commission left the matter undecided. I do not, however, wish +to criticise trustees, but to defend the memory of Miss Browne (who +may have been eccentric in private life) from such a charge, because +her testamentary dispositions were a trifle æsthetic. The +will was un-English in one respect: ‘<i>no inscription of my name +shall <!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>be +placed on such erection</i>.’ Was that the clause which +proved her hopelessly mad? The erection was to be Gothic. +I know Gothic is out of fashion just now. Ruskin is quite over; +the Seven Lamps exploded long ago; but Miss Browne seems to have attended +before her death Mr. MacColl’s lectures, knew all about ‘masses’ +and ‘tones’ in architecture, and wished particular stress +to be laid on ‘the general outline as seen from a good distance.’ +This is greeted by some of the papers as particularly side-splitting +and eccentric. Looking at the unlovely streets of London, never +one of the more beautiful cities of Europe, where each new building +seems contrived to go one better in sheer <i>uglitude</i> (especially +since builders of Tube stations have ventured into the Vitruvian arena), +you can easily suppose that poor Miss Browne, with her views about ‘general +outlines seen from a good distance,’ must have appeared hopelessly +insane. The decision of the court is not likely to encourage any +further public bequests of this kind. I have cut the British Museum +and the National Gallery out of my own will already. And I understand +why Mr. MacColl, <!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>with +his passionate pleading for a living national architecture, for official +recognition of past and present English art, is thought by many good +people quite odd. How he managed to attract the notice of any +but the Lunacy Commissioners I cannot conceive. Valued critic, +admired artist, model keeper, I only hope he will attract no further +attention.</p> +<p>Since it is clear that the law assists in blackening reputations +even in the grave, I claim that other Miss Brownes who take advantage +of life, and time by the forelock to put up monuments in the sufficiently +hideous thoroughfares should be pronounced <i>non compos mentis</i>. +The perpetrators of the erection in High Street, Kensington, hard by +St. Mary Abbots, may serve as an example. Inconvenient, vulgar, +inapposite, this should debar even the subscribers from obtaining probate +for their wills. I invoke posthumous revenge, and claim that at +least 500<i>l</i>. damages should be paid as compensation to the nearest +hospital for the <i>indignant</i> blind, as my friend Mr. Vincent O’Sullivan +calls them in one of his delightful stories.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>NON +ANGELI SED ANGLI.</h2> +<p>I wish that the Rokeby Velasquez now firmly secured for the British +nation could have been allowed to remain in Bond Street for a short +while; not to tantalise the foreign countries who so eagerly competed +for its acquisition, nor to emphasise the patriotism of its former owners, +but as a contrast to ‘Some Examples of the Independent Art of +To-day,’ held at Messrs. Agnew’s. Perhaps not as a +contrast even, but as a complement. I do not mean to place all +the examples on the same level with the ‘Venus,’ though +with some I should have preferred to live; yet the juxtaposition would +have asserted the tradition of the younger painters and the modernity +of the older master. ‘We are all going to—Agnew’s, +and Velasquez will be of the company,’ or something like Gainsborough’s +dying words would have occurred sooner or later. I am persuaded +that we look at the ancient pictures with frosted magnifying-glasses, +<!-- page 163--><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>and +stare at the younger men from the wrong end of the binoculars. +It was ever thus; it always will be so. Most of us suspect our +contemporaries or juniors. And they—<i>les jeunes féroces</i>—are +impatient of their immediate predecessors. <i>Nos pères +out toujours tort</i>. Though grandpapa is sometimes quite picturesque; +his waistcoat and old buttons suit us very well. ‘Your Raphael +is not even divine,’ said Velasquez when he left Rome and that +wonderful <i>p.p.c</i>. card on the Doria. ‘Your Academicians +are not even academic,’ some of the younger painters and their +champions are saying to-day.</p> +<p>I found, moreover, the epithet ‘independent,’ to qualify +an entertaining and significant exhibition, misleading. For many +of the items could only be so classified in the sense that they were +independent of Messrs. Agnew and the Royal Academy. Mr. Tonks +and Professor Brown are official instructors at the Slade School in +London; Mr. C. J. Holmes is Keeper of the National Portrait Gallery. +Mr. Gerard Chowne was a professor at Liverpool. Mr. Fry is now +an official at New York; and the majority of the painters belonged to +two <!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>distinctive +and <i>dependent</i> groups—the Glasgow School and the New English +Art Club. Intense individualism is not incompatible with militant +collectivism. The only independent artists, if you except Mr. +Nicholson, were Mr. C. H. Shannon and Mr. Charles Ricketts, who have +always stood apart, being neither for the Royal Academy nor its enemies; +their choice is in their pictures.</p> +<p>I feel it difficult to write of painters for some of whom I acted +showman so long at the Carfax Gallery. I confess that when I heard +they were going to Bond Street my pangs were akin to those of the owner +of a small country circus on learning that his troupe of performing +dogs had been engaged by Mr. Imre Kiralfy or the Hippodrome. A +quondam dealer in ultramontanes, I became an Othello of the trade. +And in their grander quarters (I grieve to say) they looked better than +ever, though I would have chosen another background, something less +expensive and more severe. Yes, they all went through their hoops +gracefully. With one exception, I never saw finer Wilson Steers; +the ‘Sunset’ might well be hung beside the new Turners, +when <!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>the +gulf between ancient and modern art would be almost imperceptible. +The ‘Aliens’ of Mr. Rothenstein in the cosmopolitan society +of a public picture gallery would hardly appear foreigners, because +they belong to a country where the inhabitants are racy of every one +else’s soil. When time has given an added dignity (if that +were possible) to this work, I can realise how our descendants will +laugh at our lachrymose observations on the decadence of art. +The background against which the stately Hebrew figures are silhouetted +is in itself a liberal education for the aged and those who ask their +friends what these modern fellows mean.</p> +<p>When the inhabitants of the unceltiferous portion of these islands +employ the adjective <i>un-English</i> you may be sure there is something +serious on the carpet. It is valedictory, expressive of sorrow +and contempt rather than anger. All the other old favourites of +vituperative must have missed fire before this almost sacred, disqualifying +Podsnappianism is applied to the objectionable person, picture, book, +behaviour, or movement. And when the epithet is brought into action, +in nine cases <!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>out +of ten it is aimed at some characteristic essentially, often blatantly, +Anglo-Saxon. Throughout the nineteenth century all exponents of +art and literature not conforming to Fleet Street ideals were voted +un-English; Byron, Shelley, Keats, Swinburne, the Pre-Raphaelites, and, +in course of good time, those artists who formed the New English Art +Club. There was some ground for suspicion of foreign intrigue. +They regarded Mr. Whistler, an American, who flirted with French impressionism, +as a pioneer. Some of their names suggest the magic Orient or +the romantic scenery of the Rhine. But it is not extravagant to +assert that if Mr. Rothenstein had chosen to be born in France or Germany, +instead of in Bradford, his art would have come to us in another form. +In his strength and his weakness he is more English than the English. +Art may have cosmopolitan relations (it is usually a hybrid), but it +must take on the features of the country and people where it grows; +or it may change them, or change the vision of the people of its adoption. +Yet Ruth must not look too foreign in the alien corn, or her values +will get wrong. <!-- page 167--><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>When +an English artist airs his foreign accent and his smattering of French +pigment his work has no permanent significance. Even Professor +Legros unconsciously assimilated British subjectivity: his Latin rein +has been slackened; his experiments are often literary.</p> +<p>It is an error however to regard the exhibitions of the New English +Art Club as a homogeneous movement, such as that of Barbizon and the +Pre-Raphaelite—inspired by a single idea or similar group of ideas. +The members have not even the cohesion of Glasgow or defunct Newlyn. +The only thing they have in common, in common originally with Glasgow, +was a distaste for the tenets and ideals of Burlington House. +The serpent (or was it the animated rod?) of the Academy soon swallowed +the sentimentalities of Newlyn, just as the International boa-constrictor +made short work of Glasgow. And the forbidden fruit of an official +Eden has tempted many members of the Club. Others have resigned +from time to time, but with no ill result—to the Club. Now, +the reason for this is that the members have no dependence on each other, +except for the executive organization <!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>of +Mr. Francis Bate. It may be doubted if in their heart of hearts +they admire each other’s works. They are intense individualists +(personal friends, maybe, in private life) artistically speaking, on +terms of cutting acquaintance at the Slade.</p> +<p>The mannerism of Professor Legros is still, of course, a common denominator +for the older men, and the younger artists evince a familiarity with +drawing unusual in England, due to the admirable training of Professor +Brown and Mr. Henry Tonks. The Spartan Mr. Tonks may not be able +to make geniuses, but he has the faculty of turning out efficient workmen. +Whether they become members of the Club or drift into the haven of Burlington +House, at all events they <i>can</i> fly and wear their aureoles with +propriety. A society, however, which contains such distinctive +and assertive personalities as Mr. Wilson Steer, Mr. Henry Tonks, Mr. +Augustus John, Mr. William Orpen, Mr. Von Glehn, Mr. MacColl, and Professor +Holmes, cannot possess even such unity of purpose as inspired Mr. Holman +Hunt and his associates of the ’fifties. The New English +Art Club is <!-- page 169--><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>simply +an admirably administered association whose members have rather less +in common than is shared by the members of an ordinary political club. +The exhibitions are for this reason intensely interesting. They +cannot be waved aside like mobs, and no comprehensive epigram can do +them even an injustice.</p> +<p>I never knew any painter worthy of the name who paid the smallest +attention to what a critic says, even in conversation. He will +retort; but he will not change his style or regulate his motives to +suit a critic’s palate. So may I now mention their faults? +What painter is without fault? Their faults are shared by <i>nearly</i> +all of them; their virtues are their own. I see among them an +absence of any <i>desire</i> for beauty—for physical beauty. +If the artists have fulfilled a mission in abolishing ‘the sweetly +pretty Christmas supplement kind of work,’ I think they dwell +too long on the trivial and the ignoble. They put a not very interesting +domesticity into their frames. Rossetti, of course, wheeled about +the marriage couch, but his was itself an interesting object of <i>virtu</i>. +Modern art ceased to express the better aspirations and thoughts of +the day <!-- page 170--><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>when +modern artists refused to become the servants of the commune, but asserted +themselves as a component part of an intellectual republic. That +is why people only commission portraits, and prefer to buy old masters +who anticipate those better aspirations. Burne-Jones, however, +expressed in paint that longing to be out of the nineteenth century +which was so widespread. Now we are well out of it, the rising +generation does not esteem his works with the same enthusiasm as the +elders. It reads Mr. Wells on the future, and looks into the convex +mirror of Mr. Bernard Shaw; but it does not buy Dubedats to the extent +that it ought to do. The members of the New English Art Club could, +I think, preserve their æsthetic conscience and yet paint beautiful +things and beautiful people. Mr. Steer has now given them a lead. +I wonder what Mr. Winter’s opinion would be? He is the best +salesman in London.</p> +<p>Among dealers, the ancient firm of Messrs. P. & D. Colnaghi, +of which Thackeray writes, is the <i>doyen</i>. That of Messrs. +Agnew is the <i>douane</i>. Here it is that the official seal +must be set before modern paintings can pass onwards <!-- page 171--><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>to +the Midlands and the middle classes. Well, I felicitate the august +officials on removing a tariff of prejudice; I felicitate the young +artists who, released from the bondage of the Egyptian Hall, can now +enjoy the lighter air, the larger day, the pasturage and patronage of +Palestine. I compliment the fearless collectors, such as Mr. C. +K. Butler, Mr. Herbert Trench, Mr. Daniel, His Honour Judge Evans, the +Leylands and the Leathearts of a latter day, for ignoring contemporary +ridicule and anticipating the verdict, not of passing fashion but of +posterity. As the servant spoke well of his master while wearing +his clothes which were far too big for him, let me congratulate the +Chrysostom of critics, the Origen who has scourged our heresies, Mr. +D. S. MacColl; because the Greeks have entered Troy or the barbarians +the senate-house. <i>Dissolve frigus ligna super foco large reponens</i>, +and let us mix our metaphors. What was Mr. MacColl’s Waterloo +was a Canossa for Messrs. Agnew.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>MR. +HOLMAN HUNT AT THE LEICESTER GALLERIES.</h2> +<p>An enterprising American syndicate was once formed for manufacturing +Stilton cheeses on a large scale; like the pirated Cheddars from similar +sources, enjoyed by members of most London clubs. Various farms +celebrated for their Stiltons were visited, sums of money being offered +for old family recipes. The simple peasants of the district willingly +parted with copies of their heirlooms, for a consideration, to the different +American agents, who, filled with joy, repaired to their London offices +in order to compare notes, and fully persuaded that England was a greener +country than ever Constable painted it. What was their mortification +on discovering that all the recipes were entirely different; they could +not be reconciled even by machinery. So it is with Pre-Raphaelitism; +every critic believes that he knows the great secret, and can always +quote from one of the brotherhood something <!-- page 173--><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>in +support of his view. At the beginning the brothers meekly accepted +Ruskin’s explanation of their existence; his, indeed, was a very +convenient, though not entirely accurate, exposition of their collective +view, if they can be said to have possessed one. How far Ruskin +was out of sympathy with them, indiscreet memoirs have revealed. +An artistic idea, or a group of ideas, must always be broken gently +to the English people, because the acceptance of them necessitates the +swallowing of words. When the golden ladders are let down from +heaven by poets, artists, or critics even; or new spirits are hovering +in the intellectual empyrean, the patriarch public snoring on its stone +pillow wakes up; but he will not wrestle with the angel. He mistakes +the ladders for scaffolding, or some temporary embarrassment in the +street traffic; he orders their instant removal; he writes angry letters +to the papers and invokes the police. After some time Ruskin’s +definition of Pre-Raphaelitism was generally accepted, and then the +death of Rossetti produced other recipes for the Stilton cheese, Mr. +Hall Caine being among the grocers. Whatever the correct definition +may <!-- page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>be, +ungracious and ungrateful though it is to praise the dead at the expense +of the living, it has to be recognised that among the remarkable group +of painters in which even the minor men were little masters, the greatest +artist of them all was Dante Gabriel Rossetti. ‘By critic +I mean finding fault,’ says Sir William Richmond; so let us follow +his advice, and avoid technical discussion along with the popular jargon +of art criticism. ‘After staying two or three hours in the +always-delightful Leicester Galleries, let us walk home and think a +little of what we have seen.’ For the essence of beauty +there is nothing of Mr. Holman Hunt’s to compare with Rossetti’s +‘Beloved’ or the ‘Blue Bower;’ and you could +name twenty of the poet’s water-colours which, for design, invention, +devious symbolism, and religious impulse, surpass the finest of Mr. +Hunt’s most elaborate works. Even in the painter’s +own special field—the symbolised illustration of Holy Writ—he +is overwhelmed by Millais with the superb ‘Carpenter’s Shop.’ +In Millais, it was well said by Mr. Charles Whibley, ‘we were +cheated out of a Rubens.’ Millais <!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>was +the strong man, the great oil-painter of the group, as Rossetti was +the supreme artist. In Mr. Holman Hunt we lost another Archdeacon +Farrar. Then, in the sublimation of uglitude, Madox-Brown, step-father +of the Pre-Raphaelites (my information is derived from a P.R.B. aunt), +was an infinitely greater conjurer. Look at the radiant painting +of ‘Washing of the Feet’ in the Tate Gallery; is there anything +to equal that masterpiece from the brush of Mr. Holman Hunt? The +‘Hireling Shepherd’ comes nearest, but the preacher, following +his own sheep, has strayed into alien corn, and on cliffs from which +is ebbing a tide of nonconformist conscience. Like his own hireling +shepherd, too, he has mistaken a phenomenon of nature for a sermon.</p> +<p>One of the great little pictures, ‘Claudio and Isabella,’ +proves, however, that <i>once</i> he determined to be a painter. +In the ‘Lady of Shalott’ he showed himself a designer with +unusual powers akin to those of William Blake. Still, examined +at a distance or close at hand, among his canvases do we find a single +piece of decoration or a picture in the <!-- page 176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>ordinary +sense of the word? My definition of a religious picture is a painted +object in two dimensions destined or suitable for the decoration of +an altar or other site in a church, or room devoted to religious purposes; +if it fails to satisfy the required conditions, it fails as a work of +art. Where is the work of this so-called religious painter which +would satisfy the not exacting conditions of a nonconformist or Anglican +place of worship? You are not surprised to learn that Keble College +mistook the ‘Light of the World’ for a patent fuel, or that +the background of the ‘Innocents’ was painted in ‘the +Philistine plain.’ Who could live even in cold weather with +the ‘Miracle of the Sacred Fire?’ Give me rather the +‘Derby Day’ of Mr. Frith—admirable and underrated +master. What are they if we cannot place them in the category +of pictures? They are pietistic ejaculations—tickled-up +maxims in pigment of extraordinary durability—counsels of perfection +in colour and conduct. Of all the Pre-Raphaelites, Mr. Hunt will +remain the most popular. He is artistically the scapegoat of that +great movement which gave a new impulse <!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>to +English art, a scapegoat sent out to wander by the dead seas of popularity. +I once knew a learned German who regretted that none of his countrymen +could paint ‘Alpine scenery’ as Mr. Hunt has done in the +‘Scapegoat’! Yes, he has a message for every one, +for my German friend, for Sir William Richmond, and myself. He +is a missing link between art and popularity. He symbolises the +evangelical attitude of those who would go to German Reed’s and +the Egyptian Hall, but would not attend a theatre. After all, +it was a gracious attitude, because it is that of mothers who aged more +beautifully, I think, than the ladies of a later generation which admired +Whistler or Burne-Jones and regularly attended the Lyceum. When +modern art, the brilliant art of the ’sixties, was strictly excluded +from English homes except in black and white magazines, engravings from +the ‘Finding of Christ in the Temple’ and the ‘Light +of the World’ were allowed to grace the parlour along with ‘Bolton +Abbey,’ the ‘Stag at Bay,’ and ‘Blücher +meeting Wellington.’ You see them now only in Pimlico and +St. John’s Wood. A friend of mine said <!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>he +could never look at the picture of ‘Blücher meeting Wellington’ +without blushing. . . . Like a good knight and true, Sir William Richmond, +another Bedivere, has brandished Excalibur in the form of a catalogue +for Mr. Hunt’s pictures. He offers the jewels for our inspection; +they make a brave show; they are genuine; they are intrinsic, but you +remember others of finer water, Bronzino-like portraits of Mr. Andrew +Lang and Bismarck and many others. Now, you should never recollect +anything during the enjoyment of a complete work of art.</p> +<p>Every one knows the view from Richmond, I should say <i>of</i> Richmond; +it is almost my own . . . Far off Sir Bedivere sees Lyonesse submerged; +Camelot-at-Sea has capitulated after a second siege to stronger forces. +The new Moonet is high in the heaven and a dim Turner-like haze has +begun to obscure the landscape and soften the outlines. Under +cover of the mist the hosts of Mordred MacColl, <i>en-Taté</i> +with victory, are hunting the steer in the New English Forest. +Far off the enchanter Burne-Jones is sleeping quietly in Broceliande +(I cannot bear to call it Rottingdean). <!-- page 179--><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>Hark, +the hunt, (not the Holman Hunt) is up in Caledon (Glasgow); they have +started the shy wilson steer: they have wound the hornel; the lords +of the International, who love not Mordred overmuch, are galloping nearer +and nearer. Sir Bedivere can see their insolent pencils waving +black and white flags: and the game-keepers and beaters (critics) chant +in low vulgar tones:</p> +<blockquote><p>When we came out of Glasgow town<br /> +There was really nothing at all to see<br /> +Except Legros and Professor Brown,<br /> +But <i>now</i> there is Guthrie and Lavery.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Undaunted Sir Bedivere drags his burden to a hermitage near Coniston; +but he finds it ruined; he bars the door in order to administer refreshment +to the wounded Pre-Raphaelite; there is a knocking at the wicket-gate; +is it the younger generation? No, he can hear the tread of the +royal sargent-at-arms; his spurs and sword are clanking on the pavement. +Sir Bedivere feels his palette parched; his tongue cleaves to the roof +of St. Paul’s; but he is undaunted. ‘We are surely +betrayed if that is really Sargent,’ he says. Through the +broken tracery of the Italian Gothic window <!-- page 180--><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>a +breeze or draught comes softly and fans his strong academic arms; he +feels a twinge. Some Merlin told him he would suffer from ricketts +with shannon complications. Seizing Excalibur, he opens the door +cautiously. ‘Draw, caitiffs,’ he cries; ‘draw.’ +‘Perhaps they cannot draw; perhaps they are impressionists,’ +said a raven on the hill; and he flew away.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<p><i>To</i><span class="smcap"> Sir William Blake Richmond, R.A., K.C.B.</span></p> +<h2><!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>THE +ECLECTIC AT LARGE.</h2> +<p>In <i>The Education of an Artist</i>, Mr. Lewis Hind invented a new +kind of art criticism—a pleasing blend of the Morelli narrative +(minus the scientific method) and <i>Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour</i>. +He contrives a young man, ignorant like the Russian, Lermoliev, who +receives certain artistic impressions, faithfully recorded by Mr. Hind +and visualised for the reader in a series of engaging half-tone illustrations. +The hero’s name is itself suggestive—Claude Williamson Shaw. +By the end of the book he is nearly as learned as Mr. Claude Phillips: +he might edit a series of art-books with all the skill of Dr. Williamson, +and his power of racy criticism rivals that of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. +You can hardly escape the belief that these three immortals came from +the north and south, gathered as unto strife, breathed upon his mouth +and filled his body—with ideas: Mr. Hind supplying the life. +<!-- page 182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>But +this is not so: the ideas are all Mr. Hind’s and the godfathers +only supplied the name. What a name it is to be sure! It +recalls one of Ibsen’s plays: ‘Claude Williamson Shaw was +a miner’s son—a Cornish miner’s son, as you know; +or perhaps you didn’t know. He was always wanting <i>plein-air</i>.’ +Some one ought to say that in the book, but I must say it instead. +At all events, Mr. Hind nearly always refers to him by his three names, +and every one must think of him in the same way, otherwise side issues +will intrude themselves—thoughts of other things and people. +‘O Captain Shaw, type of true love kept under,’ is not inapposite, +because Claude Williamson Shaw fell in love with a lady who in a tantalising +manner became a religious in one of the strictest Orders, the rules +of which were duly set forth in old three-volume novels; that is the +only conventional incident in the book. C. W. S., although he +trains for painting, is admitted by Mr. Hind to be quite a bad artist. +Apart, therefore, from the admirable criticism which is the main feature +of the book, it shows great courage on the part of the inventor, great +sacrifice, to admit <!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>that +C. W. S. <i>was</i> a failure as an artist. Bad artists, however, +are always nice people. I do not say that the reverse is true; +indeed, I know many good and even great artists who are charming; but +I never met a thoroughly inferior painter (without any promise of either +a future or a past) who was not irresistible socially. This accounts +for some of the elections at the Royal Academy, I believe, and for the +pictures on the walls of your friends whose taste you know to be impeccable. +There is more hearty recognition of bad art in England than the Tate +Gallery gives us any idea of.</p> +<p>I know that the Chantrey Trustees were deprived of the only possible +excuse for their purchases by the finding of Lord Lytton’s Commission; +but I, for one, shall always think of them as kindly men with a fellow-feeling +for incompetence, who would have bought a work by Claude Williamson +Shaw if the opportunity presented itself. I have sometimes tried +to imagine what the pictures of <i>invented</i> artists in fiction or +drama were really like—I fear they were all dreadful performances. +I used to imagine that Oswald <!-- page 184--><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>Avling +was a sort of Segantini, but something he says in the play convinced +me that he was merely another Verboekhoven. Then Thackeray’s +Ridley must have been a terrible Philistine—a sort of Sir John +Gilbert. Poor Basil Hallward’s death was no great loss to +art, I surmise: his portrait of ‘Dorian Grey, Esq.’, from +all accounts, resembled the miraculous picture exhibited in Bond Street +a short while ago. I am not surprised that its owner, whose taste +improved, I suspect, with advancing years, destroyed it in the ordinary +course after reading something by Mr. D. S. MacColl. It is distinctly +stated that Dorian read the <i>Saturday Review</i>! Frenhofer, +Hippolite Schimier, and Leon de Lora were probably chocolate-box painters +of the regular second-empire type. Theobald, we know from Mr. +Henry James, was a man of ideas who could not carry out his intentions. +It must have been an exquisite memory of Theobald’s failures which +made Pater, when he wished to contrive an imaginary artistic personality, +take Watteau as being some one in whose achievements you can believe. +No literary artist can persuade us into admiring <!-- page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>pictures +which never existed; though an artist can reconstruct from literature +a picture which has perished we know, from the ‘Calumny of Apelles’ +by Botticelli. It was, therefore, wise to make Claude Williamson +Shaw a failure as a painter. In accordance with my rule he was +an excellent fellow, nearly as charming as his author, and better company +in a picture-gallery it would be difficult to find—and you cannot +visit picture-galleries with every friend: you require a sympathetic +personality. It is the Claude—the Claude Phillips in him +which I like best: the Dr. Williamson I rather suspect. I mean +that when he was at Messrs. Chepstow, the publishers, he must have mugged +up some of the real Dr. Williamson’s art publications. Whether +in the Louvre, or National Gallery, or in Italian towns, he always goes +for the right thing; sometimes you wish he would make a mistake. +Bad artists, of course, are often excellent judges of old pictures and +make excellent dealers, and I am not denying the instinct of C. W. S.; +but I cannot think it all came so naturally as Mr. Hind would indicate.</p> +<p><!-- page 186--><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>The +reason why Claude Williamson Shaw discovered ‘that he would not +find a true expression of his temperament’ in painting readers +of this ingenious book will discover for themselves. Assuming +that he had any innate talent, I do not think he went about the right +way to cultivate it. His friend Lund gave him the very worst advice; +though we are the gainers. It is quite unnecessary to go out of +England and gaze at a lot of pictures of entirely different schools +in order to become a painter. Gainsborough and our great Norwich +artists evolved themselves without any foreign study. There was +no National Gallery in their days. A second-rate Wynants and a +doubtful Hobbema seem to have been enough to give them hints. +It would be tedious to mention other examples. The fortunate meeting +of Zuccarelli and Wilson at Venice is the only instance I know in which +foreign travel benefited any English landscape painter. Foreign +travel is all very well when the artist has grown up. Paris has +been the tomb of many English art students. M. Bordeaux, who gave +Mr. Hind’s hero tips in the atelier, seems to have been as ‘convincing’ +as <!-- page 187--><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>the +famous barrel of the same name. Far better will the English student +be under Mr. Tonks at the Slade; or even at the Royal Academy, where, +owing to the doctrine of contraries, out of sheer rebellion he may become +an artist. In Paris you learn perfect carpentry, but not art, +unless you are a born artist; but in that case you will be one in spite +of Paris, not because of it. But if C. W. Shaw had been a real +painter he would have seen at Venice certain Tiepolos which seem to +have escaped him, and in other parts of Italy certain Caravaggios. +Yes, and Correggios and Guido Renis, too hastily passed by. He +was doomed to be a connoisseur.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>EGO +ET MAX MEUS.</h2> +<p>‘How very delightful Max’s drawings are. For all +their mad perspective and crude colour, they have, indeed, the sentiment +of style, and they reveal with rarer delicacy than does any other record +the spirit of Lloyd-George’s day.’ This sentence is +not quite original: it is adapted from an eminent author because the +words sum up so completely the inexpressible satisfaction following +an inspection of Mr. Beerbohm’s caricatures. To-day essentially +belongs to the Minister who once presided at the Board of Trade. +Several attempts indeed have been made to describe the literature, art +and drama of the present as ‘Edwardian,’ from a very proper +and loyal spirit, to which I should be the last to object. We +were even promised a few years ago a new style of furniture to inaugurate +the reign—something to supplant that Louis Dix-neuvième +<i>décor</i> which is merely a compromise <!-- page 189--><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>with +the past. But somehow the whole thing has fallen through; in this +democratic æon the adjective ‘Edwardian’ trips on +the tongue; our real dramatists are all Socialists or Radicals; our +poets and writers Anarchists. Our artists are the only conservatives +of intellect. Our foreign policy alone can be called ‘Edwardian,’ +so personal is it to the King. Everything else is a compromise; +so our time must therefore be known—at least ten years of it—as +the Lloyd-Georgian period. I can imagine collectors of the future +struggling for an <i>alleged</i> genuine work of art belonging to this +brief renaissance, and the disappointment of the dealer on finding that +it dated a year before the Budget, thereby reducing its value by some +thousands.</p> +<p>Just as we go to Kneller and Lely for speaking portraits of the men +who made their age, so I believe our descendants will turn to Max for +listening likenesses of the present generation. Of all modern +artists, he alone follows Hamlet’s advice. If the mirror +is a convex one, that is merely the accident of genius, and reflects +the malady of the century. <!-- page 190--><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>Other +artists have too much eye on the Uffizi and the National Gallery (the +more modest of them only painting up to the Tate). In Max we have +one who never harks forward to the future, and is therefore more characteristic, +more Lloyd-Georgian than any of his peers. Set for one moment +beside some Rubens’ goddess a portrait by Mr. Sargent, and how +would she be troubled by its beauty? Not in the slightest degree; +because they are both similar but differing expressions of the same +genius of painting. The centuries which separate them are historical +conventions; and in Art, history does not count; æsthetically, +time is of no consequence. But in the more objective art of caricature, +history is of some import, and (as Mr. Beerbohm himself admitted about +photographs) the man limned is of paramount importance. Actual +resemblance, truthfulness of presentation, criticism of the model become +legitimate subjects for consideration. Generally speaking, artists +long since wisely resigned all attempts at catching a likeness, leaving +to photography an inglorious victory. Mr. Beerbohm, realising +this fact, seized caricature <!-- page 191--><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>as +a substitute—the consolation, it may be, for a lost or neglected +talent. It is as though Watts (painter of the soul’s prism, +if ever there was one) had pushed away Ward and Downey from the camera, +to insert a subtler lens, a more sensitive negative.</p> +<p>* * * *</p> +<p>If, reader, you have ever been to a West-end picture shop, you will +have suffered some annoyance on looking too attentively at any item +in the exhibition, by the approach of an officious attendant, who presses +you to purchase it. He begins by flattery; he felicitates you +on your choice of the <i>best</i> picture in the room—the one +that has been ‘universally admired by critics and collectors.’</p> +<p>The fact of its not being sold is due (he naïvely confesses) +to its rather high price; several offers have been submitted, and if +not sold at the catalogued amount the artist has promised to consider +them; but it is very unlikely that the drawing will remain long without +a red ticket, ‘<i>as people come back to town to-morrow</i>.’ +There is the stab, the stab in the back while you were drinking honey; +the tragedy of <!-- page 192--><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Corfe +Castle repeated. <i>People with</i> a capital <i>P</i> in picture-dealing +circles does not mean what they call the <i>Hoypolloy</i>; it means +the great ones of the earth, the <i>monde</i>, the Capulets and Montagues +with wealth or rank. You have been measured by the revolting attendant. +He does not count you with them, or you would not be in town to-day; +something has escaped you in the <i>Morning Post</i>, some function +to which you were not invited, or of which you knew nothing. If +you happen to be a Capulet you feel mildly amused, and in order to correct +the wrong impression and let the underling know your name and address +you purchase the drawing; for the greatest have their weak side. +But, if not, and you have simply risen from the ‘purple of commerce,’ +you are determined not to lag behind stuck-up Society; you will revenge +yourself for the thousand injuries of Fortunatus; you will deprive him +of his prerogative to buy the <i>best</i>. The purchase is concluded. +You go home with your nerves slightly shaken from the gloved contest—you +go home to face your wife and children, wearing a look of wistful inquiry +on their irregular upturned faces, as <!-- page 193--><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>when +snow lies upon the ground, they scent Christmas, and you look up with +surprise at the whiteness of the ceiling. Though in private life +a contributor to the press, in public I used to be one of those importunate +salesmen.</p> +<p>It was my duty, my pleasurable duty, so to act for Mr. Beerbohm’s +caricatures when exhibited at a fashionable West-end gallery where among +the visitors I recognised many of his models. I observe that when +Mr. Beerbohm is a friend of his victim he is generally at his best; +that he is always excellent and often superb if he is in sympathy with +the personality of that victim, however brutally he may render it. +His failures are due to lack of sympathy, and they are often, oddly +enough, the mildest as caricatures. Fortunately, Mr. Beerbohm +selects chiefly celebrities who are either personal friends or those +for whom he must have great admiration and sympathy. By a divine +palmistry he estimates them with exquisite perception. I noted +that those who were annoyed with their own caricature either did not +know Mr. Beerbohm or disliked his incomparable writings; and, curiously +enough, <!-- page 194--><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>he +misses the likeness in people he either does not know personally or +whom you suspect he dislikes. I am glad now of the opportunity +of being sincere, because it was part of my function as salesman to +agree with what every one said, whether in praise or in blame.</p> +<p>And let me reproduce a conversation with one of the visitors. +It is illustrative:—</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Scene</span>: <i>The Carfax Gallery; rather +empty; early morning: Caricatures by Max Beerbohm; entrance one shilling. +Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Distinguished Client</span>, <i>takes +catalogue, but does not consult it. No celebrity ever consults +a catalogue in a modern picture-gallery. This does not apply to +ladies, however distinguished, who conscientiously begin at number one +and read out from the catalogue the title of each picture</i>. +<span class="smcap">Shopman</span> <i>in attendance</i>.]</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>glancing round</i>). Yes; how very clever they are.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span>. Yes; they are very amusing.</p> +<p>D. C. I suppose you have had heaps of People. What a +pity Max cannot draw!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span>. Yes; it <i>is</i> a great +pity.</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>examines drawing; after a pause</i>). But he <i>can</i> +draw. Look at that one of Althorp.</p> +<p><!-- page 195--><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span><span class="smcap">Shopman</span> +(<i>trying to look intelligent</i>): Yes; that certainly is well drawn.</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>pointing to photograph of Paris inserted in Mr. Claude +Lowther’s caricature</i>). And how extraordinary that is. +It is like one of Muirhead Bone’s street scenes. He does +street scenes, doesn’t he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span>. Yes; or one of Mr. Joseph +Pennell’s.</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>after a pause</i>). What a pity he never gets the +likeness. That’s very bad of Arthur Balfour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span>. Yes; it is a great pity. +No; that’s not at all a good one of Mr. Balfour.</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>pointing to Mr. Shaw’s photograph inserted in caricature</i>). +But he <i>has</i> got the likeness there. By Jove! it’s +nearly as good as a photograph.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span> (<i>examining photograph as if +he had never seen it; enthusiastically</i>). It’s <i>almost</i> +as good as a photograph.</p> +<p>D. C. (<i>pointing with umbrella to Lord Weardale</i>). Of +course, that’s Rosebery?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span> (<i>nervously</i>): Y-e-s. +(<i>Brightly changing subject</i>.) What do you think of Mr. Sargent’s?</p> +<p><!-- page 196--><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>D. +C. (<i>now worked up</i>). Oh! that’s very good. Yes; +that’s the best of all. I see it’s sold. I should +have bought that one if it hadn’t been sold. I wish Max +would do a caricature of (<i>describes a possible caricature</i>). +Tell him I suggested it; he knows me quite well (<i>glancing round</i>). +He really is tremendous. Are they going to be published?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shopman</span>. Yes; by Methuen & Co. +(<i>Hastily going over to new-comer</i>.) Yes, madam, that is +Mr. Arthur Balfour; it’s considered the <i>best</i> caricature +in the exhibition—the likeness is so particularly striking; and +as a pure piece of draughtsmanship it is certainly the finest drawing +in the room. No; that’s not so good of Lord Althorp, though +it <i>was</i> the first to sell. (<i>Turning to another client</i>.) +Yes, sir; he is Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s half-brother.</p> +<p>(1907.)</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Beerbohm</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 197--><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>THE +ETHICS OF REVIEWING.</h2> +<p>The ‘Acropolis,’ a review of literature, science, art, +politics, society, and the drama, is, as every one knows, our leading +literary weekly. Its original promoters decided on its rather +eccentric title with a symbolism now outmoded. The ‘Acropolis’ +was to be impregnable to outside contributors, and the editor was always +to be invisible. All the vile and secret arts of réclame +and puffery were to find no place in its immaculate pages. One +afternoon some time ago a number of gentlemen, more or less responsible +for the production of the ‘Acropolis,’ were seated round +the fire in the smoking-room of a certain club. For the last hour +they had been discussing with some warmth the merits of signed or unsigned +articles and the reviewing of books. A tall, good-looking man, +who pretended to be unpopular, was advocating the anonymous. ‘There +is something so cowardly about a signed article,’ he was saying. +‘It is nearly <!-- page 198--><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>as +bad as insulting a man in public, when there is no redress except to +call for the police. And that is ridiculous. If I am slated +by an anonymous writer, it is always in my power to pay no attention, +whereas if the slate is signed, I am obliged to take notice of some +kind. I must either deny the statements, often at a great sacrifice +of truth, or if I assault the writer there is always the risk of his +being physically stronger than I am. No; anonymous attack is the +only weapon for gentlemen.’</p> +<p>‘To leave for a moment the subject of anonymity,’ said +an eminent novelist, ‘I think the great curse of all criticism +is that of slating any book at all. Think of the unfortunate young +man or woman first entering the paths of literature, and the great pain +it causes them. You should encourage them, and not damp their +enthusiasm.’</p> +<p>‘My dear fellow,’ said North, ‘I encourage no one, +and writers should never have any feelings at all. They can’t +have any, or they would not bore the public by writing.’</p> +<p>The discussion was getting heated when the editor, Rivers, interfered.</p> +<p><!-- page 199--><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>‘My +dear North,’ he began, addressing the first speaker, ‘your +eloquent advocacy of the anonymous reminds me of a curious incident +that occurred many years ago when I was assistant-editor of the “Acropolis.” +The facts were never known to the public, and my old chief, Curtis, +met with much misplaced abuse in consequence. There were reasons +for which he could never break silence; but it happened so long ago +that I cannot be betraying any confidence. All of you have heard +of, and some of you have seen, Quentin Burrage, whose articles practically +made the “Acropolis” what it now is. His opinion on +all subjects was looked forward to by the public each week. Young +poetasters would tremble when their time should come to be pulverised +by the scathing epigrams which fell from his anonymous pen. Essayists, +novelists, statesmen were pale for weeks until a review appeared that +would make or mar their fame. In the various literary coteries +of London no one knew that Quentin Burrage was the slater who thrilled, +irritated, or amused them, though he was of course recognised as an +occasional contributor. The secret was well kept. He <!-- page 200--><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>was +practically critical censor of London for ten years. A whole school +of novelists ceased to exist after three of his notices in the “Acropolis.” +The names of painters famous before his time you will not find in the +largest dictionaries now. Four journalists committed suicide after +he had burlesqued their syntax, and two statesmen resigned office owing +to his masterly examination of their policy. We were all much +shocked when a popular actor set fire to his theatre on a first night +because Curtis and his dramatic critic refused to take champagne and +chicken between the acts. This may give you some idea of Burrage’s +power in London for a decade of the last century.</p> +<p>‘One day a curious change came over him. It was Monday +when he and I were in the office receiving our instructions. Curtis, +after going over some books, handed to Quentin a vellum-covered volume +of poems, saying with a grim smile: “There are some more laurels +for you to hash.”</p> +<p>‘An expression of pain spread over Quentin’s serene features.</p> +<p>‘“I’ll see what I can do,” he said wearily. +But his curious manner struck both Curtis and <!-- page 201--><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>myself. +The book was a collection of very indifferent verse which already enjoyed +a wide popularity. I cannot tell you the title, for that is a +secret not my own. It was early work of one of our most esteemed +poets who for some time was regarded by <i>his friends</i> as the natural +successor to Mr. Alfred Austin. The “Acropolis” had +not spoken. We were sometimes behindhand in our reviews. +The public waited to learn if the new poet was really worth anything. +You may imagine the general surprise when a week afterwards there appeared +a flamingly favourable review of the poems. It made a perfect +sensation and was quoted largely. The public became quite conceited +with its foresight. The reputation of the poet was assured. +“Snarley-ow must be dead,” some one remarked in my hearing +at the club, and members tried to pump me. One day a telegram +came from Curtis asking me to go down to his house at once. A +request from him was a command. I found him in a state of some +excitement, his manner a little artificial. “My dear Rivers, +I suppose you think me mad. The geese have got into the Capitol +at last.” Without correcting his <!-- page 202--><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>classical +allusion, I said: “Where is Burrage?” “He is +coming here presently. Of course, I glanced at the thing in proof, +and thought it a splendid joke, but reading it this morning, I have +come to the conclusion that something is wrong with Burrage. You +remember his agitated manner the other day?” I was about +to reply, when Burrage was announced. His haggard and pale appearance +startled both of us. “My dear Burrage, what <i>is</i> the +matter with you?” we exclaimed simultaneously. He gave a +sickly nervous smile. “Of course you have sent to ask me +about that review. Well, I have changed my opinions, I have altered. +I think we should praise everything or ignore everything. To slate +a book, good or bad, is taking the bread out of a fellow’s mouth. +I have been the chief sinner in this way, and I am going to be the first +reformer.” “Not in my paper,” said Curtis, angrily.</p> +<p>‘Then we all fell to discussing that old question with all +the warmth that North and the rest of you were doing just now. +We lost our tempers and Curtis ended the matter by saying: “I +tell you what it is, Burrage, if you <!-- page 203--><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>ever +bring out a book yourself I’ll send it to you to review. +You can praise it as much as you like. But don’t let this +occur again, with any one else’s work.” Burrage turned +quite white, I thought, and Curtis, noticing the effect of his words, +went up and taking him by the hand, added more kindly, “My poor +Burrage, are you quite well? I never saw you in so morbid a state +before. All this is mere sentimentality—so different from +your usual manly spirit. Go away for a change, to Brighton or +Eastbourne, and you must come back with that wholesome contempt for +your contemporaries that characterises most of your writings. +I’ll look over the matter this time, and we’ll say no more +about it.” And here Curtis was so overcome that he dashed +a tear from his eye. A few hours later I saw Burrage off to the +sea. He was very strange in his manner. “I’ll +never be quite the same again. If I only dared to tell you,” +he said. And the train rolled out of the station.</p> +<p>‘Some weeks later I was again in the editorial room and Curtis +showed me a curiously bound book, printed on hand-made paper, entitled +<i>Prejudices</i>. I had already <!-- page 204--><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>seen +it. “That book,” Curtis remarked, “ought to +have been noticed long ago. I was keeping it for Burrage when +he gets better. Shall I send it to him?”</p> +<p>‘<i>Prejudices</i> for some weeks had been the talk of London. +It was a series of very ineffectual essays on different subjects. +Sight, Colour, Sound, Art, Letters, and Religion were all dealt with +in that highly glowing and original manner now termed <i>Style</i>. +It was delightfully unwholesome and extraordinarily silly. Young +persons had already begun to get foolish over it, and leaving the more +stimulating pages of Mr. Pater they hailed the work as an earnest of +the English Renaissance. Instead of stroking <i>Marius the Epicurean</i> +they fondled a copy of <i>Prejudices</i>. I prophesied that Burrage +would vindicate himself over it and that the public would hear very +little of <i>Prejudices</i> in a year’s time. The book was +sent; and the first part of my prophecy was fulfilled, Burrage spared +neither the author nor his admirers. The pedantry, the affected +style, the cheap hedonism were all pitilessly exposed. London, +rocked with laughter. Some of the admirers, with the <!-- page 205--><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>generosity +of youth, nobly came to the rescue. They made a paper war and +talked of “The cruelty and cowardice of the attack,” “The +stab in the dark,” “Journalistic marauding,” “Disappointed +author turned critic.” The slate was one that I am bound +to say was <i>killing</i> in both senses of the word. A book less +worthless could never have lived under it. It was one of those +decisive reviews of all ages. <i>Prejudices</i> was withdrawn +by the publisher fearful of damaging his prestige. Yet it was +never looked on as a rarity, and fell at book auctions for a shilling, +for some time after, amidst general tittering. The daily papers +meanwhile devoted columns to the discussion. I telegraphed to +Burrage in cipher and congratulated him, knowing that secrets leak out +sometimes through the post office. I was surprised to get no reply +for some weeks, but Curtis said he was lying low while the excitement +lasted. One day I got a letter simply saying, “For God’s +sake come. I am very ill.” I went at once. How +shall I describe to you the pitiful condition I found him in? +The doctor told me he was suffering from incipient tuberculosis due +to cerebral excitement and <!-- page 206--><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>mental +trouble. When I went in to see him he was lying in bed, pale and +emaciated as a corpse, surrounded by friends and relations. He +asked every one to go out of the room; he had something of importance +to say to me. I then learned what you have divined already. +The anonymous author of <i>Prejudices</i> was no other than Quentin +Burrage himself. Or rather not himself, but the other self of +which neither I nor Curtis knew anything. He had been living a +double existence. As a writer of trashy essays and verse, an incomplete +sentimentalist surrounded by an admiring band of young ladies and gentlemen, +he was not recognised as the able critic and the anonymous slater of +the “Acropolis.”</p> +<p>‘When he first received his own book for review he recalled +the words of Curtis. He must be honest, impartial, and just. +No one knew better the faults of <i>Prejudices</i>. As he began +to write, the old spirit of the slater came over him. His better +self conquered. He forgot for the moment that he was the author. +He hardly realised the sting of his own sarcasms even when he saw them +in proof. <!-- page 207--><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>It +was not until it appeared, and the papers were full of the controversy, +that the <i>cruelty</i> and <i>unfairness</i> of the attack dawned on +him. I was much shocked at the confession, and the extraordinary +duplicity of Burrage, who had been living a lie for the last ten years. +His denunciation of poor Curtis pained me. I would have upbraided +him, but his tortured face and hacking cough made me relent. I +need not prolong the painful story. Burrage never recovered. +He sank into galloping consumption, only aggravated by a broken heart. +I saw him on his deathbed at Rome. He was attended by Strange, +and died in his arms. His last words to me were, “Rivers, +tell Curtis I forgive him.”</p> +<p>‘We buried in the Protestant cemetery near Keats and Shelley +one whose name was written in hot water. His sad death provoked +a good deal of comment, as you may suppose. Strange has often +promised to write his life. But he could never get through <i>Prejudices</i>, +and I pointed out to him that you can hardly write an author’s +life without reading one of his works, even though he did die in your +arms. That is the worst of literary <!-- page 208--><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>martyrs +with a few brilliant exceptions: their works are generally dull.’</p> +<p>‘Is that all?’ asked North.</p> +<p>‘That is all, and I hope you understand the moral.’</p> +<p>‘Perfectly; but your reminiscences have too much construction, +my dear Rivers.’</p> +<p>‘The story is perfectly true for all that,’ remarked +the Editor, drily.</p> +<h2><!-- page 209--><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>A +LITTLE DOCTORED FAUST. A Prologue.</h2> +<p>‘The version of <i>Faust</i> which Mr. Stephen Phillips is +contemplating will, it is interesting to learn from the author, be a +“compact drama,” of which the spectacular embellishment +will form no part. In Mr. Phillips’s view the story is in +itself so strong and so rich in all the elements that make for dramatic +effectiveness that to treat the subject as one for elaborate scenic +display would be to diminish the direct appeal of a great tragedy. +“First let me say,” said Mr. Stephen Phillips, “how +gladly I approach a task which will bring me again into association +with Mr. George Alexander, whose admirable treatment of <i>Paolo and +Francesco</i>, you will no doubt remember. In the version of <i>Faust</i> +which I am going to prepare there will be nothing spectacular, nothing +to overshadow or intrude upon an immortal theme. As to how I shall +treat the story, and as to the form in which it will be written, I am +not yet sure—it may be a play in blank verse, or in prose with +lyrics . . .” Mr. Phillips added that he had also in view +a play on the subject of <i>Harold</i>.”—<i>The Tribune</i>.</p> +<p><i>Scene: The British Museum</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sidney Colvin</span>. Ah! my dear Stephen, +when they told me Phillips<br /> +Was waiting in my study, I imagined<br /> +<!-- page 210--><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>That +it was Claude, whom I have been expecting.<br /> +I have arranged that you shall have this room<br /> +All to yourself and friends. Now I must leave you.<br /> +I have to go and speak to Campbell Dodgson<br /> +About some prints we’ve recently acquired.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Stephen Phillips</span>. How can I ever +thank you? Love to Binyon!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">[Colvin</span> <i>goes out</i>.</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> Mr. <span class="smcap">George Alexander, Goethe, Marlowe, +Gounod</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alexander</span> (<i>from force of habit</i>). +I always told you he was reasonable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goethe</span>. Well, I consent. Mein +Gott! how colossal<br /> +You English are! ’Tis nigh impossible<br /> +For poets to refuse you anything,<br /> +And German thought beneath some English shade—<br /> +<i>Unter den Linden</i>, as we say at home—<br /> +Sounds really quite as well on British soil.<br /> +Our good friend Marlowe hardly seems so pleased.</p> +<p><!-- page 211--><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span><span class="smcap">Marlowe</span>. +Oh, Goethe! cease these frivolous remarks.<br /> +Think you that I, who knew Elizabeth,<br /> +And tasted all the joys of literature<br /> +And played the dawn to Shakespeare’s larger day,<br /> +And heralded a mighty line of verse<br /> +With half-a-dozen mighty lines my own,<br /> +Am feeling well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gounod</span> (<i>brightening</i>). Ah! +Monsieur Wells,<br /> +Auteur d’une histoire fine et romanesque<br /> +Traduit par Davray; il a des idées<br /> +C’est une chose rare là-bas . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Stephen Phillips</span>. He does not speak +of Huysmans; ’tis myself.<br /> +I thank you, gentlemen, with all my heart;<br /> +I thank you, gentlemen, with all my soul;<br /> +I thank you, sirs, with all my soul and strength.<br /> +So for your leave much thanks. You know my weakness:<br /> +I love to be at peace with all the past.<br /> +The present and the future I can manage;<br /> +The stirrup of posterity may dangle<br /> +Against the heaving flanks of Pegasus.<br /> +<!-- page 212--><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>I +feel my spurs against the saucy mare<br /> +And Alexander turned Bucephalus.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marlowe</span>. Neigh! Neigh! though +you have told us what you are,<br /> +And we have witnessed Nero several times,<br /> +You do not tell us of this wretched Faustus,<br /> +Who must be damned in any case, I fear.</p> +<p>S. P. Of course, I treat you as material<br /> +On which to work; but then I simplify<br /> +And purify the story for our stage.<br /> +The English stage is nothing if not pure.<br /> +For instance, we will not allow <i>Salomé</i>.<br /> +So in Act II. of <i>Faust</i> I represent<br /> +The marriage feast of beauteous Margaret;<br /> +Act I. I get from Goethe, III. from Marlowe,<br /> +And Gounod’s music fills the gaps in mine.<br /> +Margaret, of course, will never come to grief.<br /> +She only gets a separation order.<br /> +By the advice of Plowden magistrate,<br /> +She undertakes to wean Euphorion,<br /> +Who in his bounding habit symbolises<br /> +The future glories of the English empire.<br /> +As the production must not cost too much,<br /> +Harker, Hawes Craven, Hann are relegated<br /> +To a back place. It is a compact drama,<br /> +Of which spectacular embellishment<br /> +<!-- page 213--><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>Will +form no part. The story is so strong,<br /> +So rich in all the elements that make<br /> +A drama suitable for Alexander,<br /> +That scenery, if necessary to Tree,<br /> +Shall not intrude on this immortal theme.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goethe</span>. Pyramidal! My friend, +but you are splendid.<br /> +Now, have you shown the manuscript to Colvin?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marlowe</span>. He is a scholar, and a +ripe and good one,<br /> +And far too tolerant of modern poets.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Alexander</span>. One of your lines strike +my familiar spirit.<br /> +Surely, that does not come from Stephen Phillips.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marlowe</span>. No matter; I may quote +from whom I will.<br /> +Shakespeare himself was not immaculate,<br /> +And borrowed freely from a barren past.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goethe</span>. What thinks Herr Sidney +Colvin of your work?</p> +<p>S. P. That he will tell you when he sees it played.</p> +<h3><!-- page 214--><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>Act +I.</h3> +<p><i>Scene: Faust’s Studio</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span>. Well, if you have no further +use for me,<br /> +I will go make our preparation.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. If anybody calls, say I am +out;<br /> +I must have time to see how I will act.<br /> +As to the form in which I shall be written,<br /> +I must decide whether in prose or verse.<br /> +My thoughts I’ll bend. Give me at once the <i>Times</i>:<br /> +Walkley I always find inspiriting—<br /> +And really I learn much about the drama<br /> +(Even the German drama) from his pen,<br /> +More curious than that of Paracelsus.<br /> +(<i>Reads</i>) ‘Sic vos non vobis, Bernard Shaw might say,<br /> +Dieu et mon droit. Ich dien. Et taceat<br /> +Femina in ecclesia. Ellen Terry,<br /> +La plus belle femme de toutes les femmes<br /> +Du monde.’ Archer, I have observed,<br /> +Writes no more for the World, but for himself.<br /> +Then I forgot; he’s writing for the <i>Leader</i>,<br /> +That highly independent Liberal paper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">[Faust</span> <i>muses</i>. <i>Bell heard</i>.</p> +<p><!-- page 215--><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>The +Elixir of Life, is it a play<br /> +Which runs a thousand nights? Is it a dream<br /> +Precipitated into some alembic<br /> +Or glass retort by Ex-ray Lankester?</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Servant</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span>. A gentleman has called.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Say I am out.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span>. He will take no denial.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Show him in.<br /> +Most probably ’tis Herbert Beerbohm Tree,<br /> +Who long has planned a play of Doctor Faustus.</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mephistopheles</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mephistopheles</span>. Ah! my dear Doctor, +here we are again!<br /> +Micawber-like, I never will desert you.<br /> +How do you feel? Your house I see myself<br /> +In perfect order. Ah! how much has past<br /> +Since those Lyceum days when you and I<br /> +Climbed up the Brocken on Walpurgis night.<br /> +That times have changed I realise myself;<br /> +No longer through the chimney I descend;<br /> +I enter like a super from the side.<br /> +Widowers’ Houses dramas have become;<br /> +Morals and sentiment and Clement Scott<br /> +<!-- page 216--><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>No +more seem adjuncts of the English stage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Oh, Mephistopheles, you come +in time<br /> +To save the English drama from a deadlock!<br /> +Like Mahmud’s coffin hung ’twixt Heaven and Earth,<br /> +It falters up to verse and down to prose.<br /> +Tell us, then, how to act, how consummate<br /> +The aspirations of our Stephen Phillips!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mephisto</span>. Ah, Alexander Faustus! +young as ever,<br /> +Still unabashed by Paolo and Francesca,<br /> +You long for plays with literary motives,<br /> +Plots oft attempted both in prose and rhyme.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. As ever, you are timid and +old-fashioned.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mephisto</span>. Hark you! One thing +I know above all others,<br /> +The English drama of the century past.<br /> +Though English critics have consigned to me<br /> +The plays of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, and Shaw,<br /> +And Wilde’s <i>Salomé</i>, none has ever reached me.<br /> +Back to their native land they must have gone,<br /> +Or else you have them here in Germany.<br /> +Only to me come down real British plays,<br /> +The mid-Victorian twaddle, the false gems<br /> +<!-- page 217--><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>Which +on the stretched forefinger of oblivion<br /> +Glitter a moment, and then perish paste.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span> (<i>drily</i>). Well, if I +learn of any critic’s death<br /> +Leaving a vacant place upon the Press,<br /> +You’ll hear from me; meanwhile, Mephisto mine,<br /> +As we must needs play out our little play,<br /> +Whom would you cast for Margaret, <i>alias</i> Gretchen?<br /> +Kindly sketch out an inexpensive <i>Faust</i>,<br /> +Modelled on the Vedrenne and Barker style<br /> +Once much in favour at the English Court.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mephisto</span>. The stage is now an auditorium,<br /> +And all the audiences are amateurs,<br /> +First-nighters at the bottom of their heart.<br /> +What do they care for drama in the least?<br /> +All that they need are complimentary stalls,<br /> +To know the leading actor, to be round<br /> +At dress rehearsals, or behind the scenes,<br /> +To hear the row the actor-manager<br /> +Had with the author or the leading lady,<br /> +Then to recount the story at the Garrick,<br /> +Where, lingering lovingly on kippered lies,<br /> +They babble over chestnuts and their punch<br /> +And stale round-table jests of years ago.</p> +<p><!-- page 218--><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. +So Mephistopheles is growing old!<br /> +Kindly omit your stage philosophy,<br /> +And tell me all your plans about the play.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mephisto</span>. First we must make you +young and fresh as paint,<br /> +Philters and elixirs are out of date.<br /> +A week in London—that is what you want;<br /> +London Society is our objective.<br /> +There you will find a not unlikely Gretchen,<br /> +For actresses are all the rage just now;<br /> +Countesses quarrel over Edna May,<br /> +And Mrs. Patrick Campbell is received<br /> +In the best houses. I shall introduce you<br /> +As a philosopher from Tübingen.<br /> +A sort of Nordau, no? Then Doctor Reich—<br /> +Advocates polyandry, children suffrage—<br /> +One man, one pianola; the usual thing<br /> +That will secure success: here is a card<br /> +For Thursday next—Lady Walpurge ‘At Home’<br /> +From nine till twelve—a really charming hostess.<br /> +Her ladyship is intellectual,<br /> +The husband rich, dishonest, a collector<br /> +Of <i>objets d’art</i>, especially old masters.<br /> +He got his title for his promises<br /> +<!-- page 219--><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>To +England in the war; financed the raid,<br /> +A patriot millionaire within whose veins<br /> +Imperial pints of German-Jewish blood<br /> +Must make the English think imperially,<br /> +And rather bear with all the ills they have<br /> +Than fly to others that they know not of.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Excellent plan! Except +at Covent Garden,<br /> +I’ve hardly been in England since the ’eighties.</p> +<h3>Act II.</h3> +<p><i>Scene: Brocken House, Park Lane</i>.</p> +<p><i>The top of the Grand Staircase</i>. <span class="smcap">Lord</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lady Walpurge</span> <i>receiving their +guests. The greatest taste is shown in the decorations, which +are lent for the occasion of the play free of charge, owing to the deserved +popularity of Mr. George Alexander. Furniture supplied by Waring, +selected by Mr. Percy Macquoid; Old Masters by Agnew & Son, P. & +D. Colnaghi, Dowdeswell & Dowdeswell; Wigs by Clarkson. A +large, full-length Reynolds, seen above the well of staircase</i>; <span class="smcap">r</span>. +<i>a Gainsborough</i>, <span class="smcap">l.</span> <i>a Hoppner. +The party is not very smart, rather intellectual and plutocratic; well-known +musicians and artists in group</i> <span class="smcap">r</span>., <i>and +second-rate literary people</i> <span class="smcap">l</span>. +<i>An</i> <!-- page 220--><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span><i>Irish +peer and a member of the White Rose League are the only ‘Society’ +present. There are no actors or actresses</i>. <span class="smcap">Faust</span>, +<i>who has aged considerably since the Prologue, is an obvious failure, +and is seen talking to a lady journalist</i>. <span class="smcap">Mephistopheles</span>, +<i>disguised as a Protectionist Member of Parliament, is in earnest +conversation with</i> <span class="smcap">Lord Walpurge</span>. +<span class="smcap">Footman</span> <i>announcing the guests: The Bishop +of Hereford, Mr. Maldonado, Mr. Andrew Undershaft, Mr. Harold Hodge, +Mrs. Gorringe, Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey Tanqueray, &c</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Walpurge</span> (<i>archly</i>). Ah, +Mr. Tanqueray, you never forwarded me my photographs; it is nearly three +weeks ago since I sent you a cheque for them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tanqueray</span>. Labby has been poisoning +your mind against me. You shall have a proof to-morrow!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Footman</span>. Mr. Gillow Waring.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Walpurge</span>. I was so afraid you +were not coming. My husband thought you would give us the slip.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Waring</span>. How charming your decorations +are! You must give me some ideas for my new yacht, you have such +perfect taste.</p> +<p><!-- page 221--><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span><span class="smcap">Maldonado</span>. +Walpurge! what will you take for that Reynolds? Or will you swap +it for my Velasquez?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Walpurge</span>. My dear Maldo, I always +do my deals through—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Footman</span>. Mr. Walter Dowdeswell.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Walpurge</span>. Through Dowdeswell and +Dowdeswell; and you, my dear Maldo, if you want to get rid of your Velasquez, +ought to join the National Art Collections Fund, or go and see—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Footman</span>. Mr. Lockett Agnew. +’Er ’Ighness the Princess Swami.</p> +<p><i>Enter the</i> <span class="smcap">Princess Salomé</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Journalist</span>. Fancy having that +woman here. She is not recognised in any decent society, she is +nothing but an adventuress; talks such bad French, too. Have you +ever seen her, Doctor Faustus?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Yes, I have met her very +often in Germany. Though the Emperor would not receive her at +first, she is much admired in Europe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Journalist</span> (<i>hedging</i>). +I wonder <!-- page 222--><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>where +she gets her frocks? They must be worth a good deal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. From Ricketts and Shannon, +if you want to know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Journalist</span>. Dear Doctor, you +know everything! Let me see: Ricketts and Shannon is that new +place in Regent Street, rather like Lewis and Allenby’s, I suppose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Yes, only different.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Irish Peer</span> (<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Faust</span>). +Do you think Lady Walpurge will ever get into Society?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span>. Not if she gives her guests +such wretched coffee.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Journalist</span>. It’s nothing +to her tea. I’ve never had such bad tea. Besides, +she cannot get actors or actresses to come to her house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lady Walpurge</span> (<i>overhearing</i>). +I expect <i>Sir Herbert and Lady Beerbohm Tree</i> here to-night, and +perhaps <span class="smcap">Viola</span>. (<i>Sensation</i>.)</p> +<p>[<i>Enter, hurriedly</i>, <span class="smcap">Mr. C. T. H. Helmsley</span>.] +Mr. Alexander, a moment with you! A most important telegram has +just arrived.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Faust</span> (<i>reading</i>). ‘Handed +in at Greba Castle, 10.15. Reply paid. Do not close with +Stephen Phillips until you have seen my <!-- page 223--><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>play +of <i>Gretchen</i>, same subject, five acts and twelve tableaux.—<span class="smcap">Hall +Caine</span>.’ Where is Mr. Stephen Phillips? [<span class="smcap">Stephen +Phillips</span> <i>advances</i>.] My dear Phillips, I think we +will put up <i>Harold Hodge</i> instead. ‘The Last of the +Anglo-Saxon Editors,’ by the last Anglo-Saxon poet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curtain</span>.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<p><i>To</i> W. <span class="smcap">Barclay Squire</span>, <span class="smcap">Esq</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 224--><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 224</span>SHAVIANS +FROM SUPERMAN.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Donna Ana</span> <i>has vanished to sup her man +at the Savoy; the</i> <span class="smcap">Devil</span> <i>and the</i> +<span class="smcap">Statue</span> <i>are descending through trap, when +a voice is heard crying, ‘Stop, stop’; the mechanism is +arrested and there appears in the empyrean</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. +Charles Hazelwood Shannon</span>, <i>the artist, with halo</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span> (<i>while Shannon regains his +breath</i>). Really, Mr. Shannon, this is a great pleasure and +<i>quite</i> unexpected. I am truly honoured. No quarrel +I hope with the International? Pennell quite well? How is +the Whistler memorial getting on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. So-so. To be quite +frank I had no time to prepare for Heaven, and earth has become intolerable +for me. (<i>Seeing the Statue</i>.) Is that a Rodin you +have there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Oh! I forgot, let me +introduce you. Commander! Mr. C. H. Shannon, a most distinguished +painter, the English Velasquez, the Irish Titian, the Scotch Giorgione, +all in one. Mr. Shannon, his Excellency the Commander.</p> +<p><!-- page 225--><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. +Delighted, I am sure. The real reason for my coming here is that +I could stand Ricketts no longer. Ricketts the artist I adore. +Ricketts the causeur is delightful. Ricketts the enemy, entrancing. +Ricketts the friend, one of the best. But Ricketts, when designing +dresses for the Court, Trench, and other productions, is not very amiable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span> (<i>sighing</i>). Ah! +yes, I know Ricketts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span> (<i>sighing</i>). We all +know Ricketts. Never mind, he shall not come here. I shall +give special orders to Charon. Come on to the trap and we can +start for the palace.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. Ah! yes. I heard +you were moving to the Savoy. Think it will be a success?</p> +<p>[<i>They descend and no reply is heard. Whisk! Mr. Frank +Richardson on this occasion does not appear; void and emptiness; the +fireproof curtain may be lowered here in accordance with the County +Council regulations; moving portraits of deceased, and living dramatic +critics can be thrown without risk of ignition on the curtain by magic +lantern</i>. <!-- page 226--><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span><i>The +point of this travesty will be entirely lost to those who have not read +‘Man and Superman.’ It is the first masterpiece in +the English literature of the twentieth century. It is also necessary +to have read the dramatic criticisms in the daily press, and to have +some acquaintance with the Court management, the Stage Society, and +certain unlicensed plays; and to know that Mr. Ricketts designs scenery. +This being thoroughly explained, the Curtain may rise; discovering a +large Gothic Hall, decorated in the 1880 taste. Allegories by +Watts on the wall</i>—‘<i>Time cutting the corns of Eternity,’ +‘Love whistling down the ear of Life,’ ‘Youth catching +Crabs,’ &c. Windows by Burne-Jones and Morris. +A Peacock Blue Hungarian Band playing music on Dolmetsch instruments +by Purcell, Byrde, Bull, Bear, Palestrina, and Wagner, &c. +Various well-known people crowd the Stage. Among the</i> <span class="smcap">living</span> +<i>may be mentioned Mr. George Street; Mr. Max Beerbohm and his brother; +Mr. Albert Rothenstein and his brother, &c. The company is +intellectual and artistic; not in any way smart. The Savile and +Athenæum Clubs are well represented, but not the Garrick, the +Gardenia, nor any of the establishments in the vicinity of Leicester +Square. The Princess Salomé is greeting</i> <!-- page 227--><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span><i>some +of the arrivals</i>—<i>The Warden of Keble, The President of Magdalen +Coll., Oxford, and others—who stare at her in a bewildered fashion</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Silence, please, ladies +and gentlemen, for his Excellency the Commander. (<i>A yellowish +pallor moves over the audience; effect by Gordon Craig</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span>. It was my intention +this evening to make a few observations on flogging in the Navy, Vaccination, +the Censor, Vivisection, the Fabian Society, the Royal Academy, Compound +Chinese Labour, Style, Simple Prohibition, Vulgar Fractions, and other +kindred subjects. But as I opened the paper this morning, my eye +caught these headlines: ‘Future of the House of Lords,’ +‘Mr. Edmund Gosse at home,’ ‘The Nerves of Lord Northcliffe,’ +‘Interview with Mr. Winston Churchill,’ ‘Reported +Indisposition of Miss Edna May.’ A problem was thus presented +to me. Will I, shall I, ought I to speak to my friends <i>here</i>—ahem!—and +elsewhere, on the subject about which they came to hear me speak. +(<i>Applause</i>.) No. I said; the bounders must be disappointed; +otherwise <!-- page 228--><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>they +will know what to expect. You must always surprise your audience. +When it has been advertised (sufficiently) that I am going to speak +about the truth, for example, the audience comes here expecting me to +speak about fiction. The only way to surprise them is to speak +the truth and that I always do. Nothing surprises English people +more than truth; they don’t like it; they don’t pay any +attention to those (such as my friend Mr. H. G. Wells and myself) who +<i>trade</i> in truth; but they listen and go away saying, ‘How +very whimsical and paradoxical it all is,’ and ‘What a clever +adventurer the fellow is, to be sure.’ ‘That was a +good joke about duty and beauty being the same thing’—that +was a joke I did <i>not</i> make. It is not my kind of joke—but +when people begin ascribing to you the jokes of other people, you become +a living—I was going to say statue—but I mean a living classic.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. I thought you disliked +anything classic?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span>. Ahem! only <i>dead</i> +classics—especially when they are employed to protect romanticism. +Dead classics are the protective <!-- page 229--><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>tariffs +put on all realism and truth by bloated idealism. In a country +of plutocrats, idealism keeps out truth: idealism is more expensive, +and therefore more in demand. In America, there are more plutocrats, +and therefore more idealists . . . as Mr. Pember Reeves has pointed +out in New Zealand . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. But I say, is this drama?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span>. Certainly not. +It is a discussion taking place at a theatre. It is no more drama +than a music-hall entertainment, or a comic opera, or a cinematograph, +or a hospital operation, all of which things take place in theatres. +But surely it is more entertaining to come to a discussion charmingly +mounted by Ricketts—discussion too, in which every one knows what +he is going to say—than to flaccid plays in which the audience +always knows what the actors <i>are</i> going to say better often than +the actors. The sort of balderdash which Mr. --- serves up to +us for plays.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span> (<i>peevish and old-fashioned</i>). +I wish you would define drama.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hankin</span> (<i>advancing</i>). Won’t +you have tea, Commander? It’s not bad tea.</p> +<p><!-- page 230--><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span><span class="smcap">The +Statue</span>. I was afraid you were going to talk idealism.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hankin</span> (<i>aside</i>). Excuse my +interrupting, but I want you to be particularly nice to the Princess +Salomé. You know she was jilted by the Censor. She +has brought her music.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. You might introduce her +to Mrs. Warren. But I am afraid the Princess has taken rather +too much upon herself this evening.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span>. Yes, she has taken too +much; I am sure she has taken too much.</p> +<p>A <span class="smcap">Journalist</span>. Is that the Princess +Salomé who has Mexican opals in her teeth, and red eyebrows and +green hair, and curious rock-crystal breasts?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Yes, that is the Princess +Salomé.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. I know the Princess quite +well. Ricketts makes her frocks. Shall I ask her to dance?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Yes, anything to distract +her attention from the guests. These artistic English people are +so easily shocked. They don’t understand Strauss, nor indeed +anything <!-- page 231--><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 231</span>until +it is quite out of date. I want to make Hell at least as attractive +as it is painted; a <i>place</i> as well as a <i>condition</i> within +the meaning of the Act. Full of wit, beauty, pleasure, freedom—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Statue</span>. Ugh—ugh.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. Will you dance for us, +Princess?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. Anything for you, +dear Mr. Shannon, only my ankles are a little sore to-night. How +is dear Ricketts? I want new dresses so badly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Shannon</span>. I suppose by this time +he is in Heaven. But won’t you dance just to make things +go? And then the Commander will lecture on super-maniacs later +on!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. Señor Diavolo, +what will you give me if I dance to-night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Anything you like, Salomé. +I swear by the dramatic critics.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hankin</span> (<i>correcting</i>). You +mean the Styx.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Same thing. Dance +without any further nonsense, Salomé. Forget that you are +in England. This is an unlicensed house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">[Salomé</span> <i>dances the dance of +the Seven Censors</i>.</p> +<p><!-- page 232--><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span><span class="smcap">The +Devil</span> (<i>applauding</i>). She is charming. She is +quite charming. Salomé, what shall I do for you? +You who are like a purple patch in some one else’s prose. +You who are like a black patch on some one else’s face. +You are like an Imperialist in a Radical Cabinet. You are like +a Tariff Reformer in a Liberal-Unionist Administration. You are +like the Rokeby Velasquez in St. Paul’s Cathedral. What +can I do for you who are fairer than—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. This sort of thing +has been tried on me before. Let us come to business. I +want Mr. Redford’s head on a four-wheel cab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. No, not that. You +must not ask that. I will give you Walkley’s head. +He has one of the best heads. He is not ignorant. He really +knows what he is talking about.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. I want Mr. Redford’s +head on a four-wheel cab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Salomé, listen +to me. Be reasonable. Do not interrupt me. I will +give you William Archer’s head. He is charming—a cultivated, +liberal-minded critic. He is <!-- page 233--><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>too +liberal. He admires Stephen Phillips. I will give you his +dear head if you release me from my oath.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. I want Mr. Redford’s +head on the top of a four-wheel cab. Remember your oath!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. I remember I swore <i>at</i>—I +mean <i>by</i>—the dramatic critics. Well, I am offering +them to you. Exquisite and darling Salomé, I will give +you the head of Max Beerbohm. It is unusually large, but it is +full of good things. What a charming ornament for your mantelpiece! +You will be in the movement. How every one will envy you! +People will call upon you who never used to call. Others will +send you invitations. You will at last get into English society.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. I want Mr. Redford’s +head on the top of a four-wheel cab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Salomé, come hither. +Have you ever looked at the <i>Daily Mirror</i>? Only in the <i>Daily +Mirror</i> should one look. For it tells the truth sometimes. +Well, I will give you the head of Hamilton Fyfe. He is my best +friend. No critic is so fond of the drama as Hamilton Fyfe. +(<i>Huskily</i>.) Salomé, I <!-- page 234--><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>will +give you W. L. Courtney’s head. I will give you all their +heads.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. I have the scalps +of most critics. I want Mr. Redford’s head on a four-wheel +cab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Salomé! +You do not know what you ask. Mr. Redford is a kind of religion. +He represents the Lord Chamberlain. You know the dear Lord Chamberlain. +You would not harm one of his servants, especially when they are not +insured. It would be cruel. It would be irreligious. +It would be in bad taste. It would not be respectable. Listen +to me; I will give you all Herod’s Stores . . . Salomé. +Shannon was right. You <span class="smcap">have</span> taken too +much, or you would not ask this thing. See, I will give you Mr. +Redford’s body, but not his head. Not that, not that, my +child.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salomé</span>. I want Mr. Redford’s +head on a four-wheel cab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Devil</span>. Salomé, I must +tell you a secret. It is terrible for me to have to tell the truth. +The Commander said that I would have to tell the truth. <span class="smcap">Mr. +Redford has no head</span>!</p> +<p>[<i>The audience long before this have begun to put on their cloaks, +and the dramatic</i> <!-- page 235--><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span><i>critics +have gone away to describe the cold reception with which the play has +been greeted. All the people on the stage cover their heads except +the</i> <span class="smcap">statue</span>, <i>who has become during +the action of the piece more and more like Mr. Bernard Shaw. Curtain +descends slowly</i>.</p> +<p>(1907.)</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Arthur Clifton, Esq</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 236--><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>SOME +DOCTORED DILEMMA.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">A New Epilogue for the Last Performance of Mr. +Shaw’s Play</span>.</p> +<p>Though Mr. Bernard Shaw has set the fashion in prologues for modern +plays, his admirers were not altogether satisfied with the epilogue +to <i>The Doctor’s Dilemma</i>. It is far too short; and +leaves us in the dark as to whom ‘Jennifer Dubedat’ married. +Epilogues, as students of English drama remember, were often composed +by other authors. The following experiment ought to have come +from the hand of Mr. St. John Hankin, that master of Dramatic Sequels, +but his work on the ‘Cassilis Engagement’ deprived Mr. Shaw +of the only possible collaborator.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Scene</span>: <i>A Bury Street Picture Gallery</i>—<span class="smcap">Messrs. +Gersaint & Co</span>. <i>The clock strikes ten, and</i> <span class="smcap">Sir +Colenso Ridgeon</span> <i>is seen going out rather crestfallen by centre +door</i>. <span class="smcap">Mr. Gersaint</span>, <i>the manager, +is nailing up a notice</i> <!-- page 237--><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>(‘<i>All +works of art, for art’s sake or sale; prices on application. +Catalogue</i> 1<i>s</i>.). <span class="smcap">Mr. Jack Stepney</span>, +<i>the secretary, is receiving the private view cards from the visitors +who are trooping in; some sneak catalogues as they enter, and on being +asked for payment protest and produce visiting cards and press vouchers +instead of shillings. Artists, Royal Academicians</i>, <span class="smcap">Mr. +Edmund Gosse</span>, <i>and other members of the House of Lords discovered; +men of letters, art critics, connoisseurs, journalists, collectors, +dealers, private viewers, impostors, dramatic critics, poets, pickpockets, +politicians crowd the stage. From time to time</i> <span class="smcap">Jack +Stepney</span> <i>places a red star on the picture frames in the course +of the action</i>.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">J. Stepney</span>. I thought all the pictures +had been bought by Dr. Schutzmacher.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. So they were, my boy, +but he has wired saying they are all to be put up for sale at double +the price; capital business, you see we shall get two commissions.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">J. Stepney</span>. Yes, sir. It is +fortunate Mrs. Dubedat did not have the prices marked in the Catalogue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. You mean Mrs. Schutzmacher. +(<i>Drives in last nail</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">J. Stepney</span>. Yes, sir.</p> +<p><!-- page 238--><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span><i>Enter +a striking-looking-man, not unlike a Holbein drawing, at a distance: +but on nearer inspection, as he comes within range of the footlights, +he is more like an Isaac Oliver or Nicholas Lucidel. He examines +the notice and sniffs</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">s.l.m.n.u.h.d</span>. Which are the works +of Art?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. Can you tell me who +that is? He is one of the few people I don’t know by sight. +A celebrity of course; and do point out any obscurities. Every +one is so distinguished. It is rather confusing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. That is the Holland Park +Wonder, so-called because he lives at the top of a tower in Holland +Park—the greatest Art Connoisseur in England. Mr. Charles +Ricketts, the greatest—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. Thank you; thank you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Frederick Wedmore</span> (<i>interrupting</i>). +Can you tell me whether the frames are included in the prices of the +pictures?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">J. Stepney</span>. No, sir. They +are stock frames, the property of the Gallery, and are only lent for +the occasion.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Frederick Wedmore</span>. Then I fear +I <!-- page 239--><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>cannot +buy; a naked picture without a frame is useless to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles Ricketts</span>. Do you think I +could buy a frame without a picture?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joseph Pennell</span>. I say Ricketts, +it seems a beastly shame we didn’t get this show for the International. +It would have been good ‘ad.’ What’s the use +of Backers? I see they’re selling well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles Ricketts</span>. But, my dear Pennell, +you’re doing the <i>Life</i>, aren’t you?—the real +Dubedat?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Joseph Pennell</span>. Oh, yes, but the +family have injuncted Heinemann from publishing the letters: Mr. Justice +Kekewich will probably change his opinion when the weather gets warmer. +It is only an interim injunction.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles Ricketts</span>. A sort of Clapham +Injunction.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir William Richmond, K.C.B., R.A</span>. +If I had known what a stupendous genius Dubedat was, I should have given +him part of the ‘New Bailey’ to decorate.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">D. S. MacColl</span>. Let us be thankful +he’s as dead as Bill Bailey.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Charles Holroyd</span> (<i>smoothing things</i> +<!-- page 240--><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span><i>over</i>). +I think we ought to have an example for the Tate. (<span class="smcap">MacColl</span> +<i>winces</i>.) The Chantrey Bequest—(<span class="smcap">MacColl</span> +<i>winces again</i>)—might do something; and I must write to Lord +Balcarres. The National Arts Collections Fund may have something +over from the subscriptions to the Rokeby Velasquez; but I want to see +what Colvin is going to choose for the British Museum.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sidney Colvin</span>. I think we might +have this drawing; it stands on its legs. A most interesting fellow +Dubedat. He reminds me of Con—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George Moore</span>. Not Stevenson, though +<i>he</i> had no talent whatever. My dear Mr. Colvin, have you +ever read ‘Vailima Letters’? I have read parts of +them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sidney Colvin</span> (<i>coldly</i>). Ah, +really! Did you suffer very much?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh P. Lane</span>. Do you think, +Mr. Gersaint, the artist’s widow would give me one of the pictures +for the Dublin Gallery? We have no money at all. <i>I have +no money</i>, but all the artists are giving pictures: Sargent, Shannon, +Lavery, Frank Dicksee; and Rodin is giving a plaster cast.</p> +<p><!-- page 241--><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. +How charming and insinuating you are, Sir Hugh. We can make special +reductions for the Dublin Gallery, but you can hardly expect charitable +bequests from picture dealers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh P. Lane</span>. Oh! but Dowdeswell, +Agnew, Sulley, Wertheimer, P. and D. Colnaghi, and Humphry Ward are +all giving me pictures. Now, look here, I’ll buy these five +drawings, and you can give me these two. I’ll give you a +Gainsborough drawing in exchange for them. It has a very good +history. First it belonged to Ricketts, then to Rothenstein, then +Wilson Steer, and then to the Carfax Gallery, and . . . then it came +into my possession, and all that in three months. (<i>Bargain +concluded</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Pffungst</span> (<i>aside</i>). But +is there any evidence that it belonged to Gainsborough?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh P. Lane</span> (<i>turning to a titled +lady</i>). Oh, do come to tea next Saturday. I want to show +you my new Titian which I <i>have just bought for</i> 2100<i>l</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Titled Lady</span>. Sir Hugh, <i>can</i> +you tell me who Mrs. Dubedat is now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh P. Lane</span>. Oh, yes. +She married <!-- page 242--><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>Dr. +Schutzmacher, the specialist on bigamy only this morning.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Titled Lady</span>. How interesting. +I should like to meet her. Dresses divinely, I’m told.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh P. Lane</span>. She’s coming +to tea next Saturday; such good tea, too!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Titled Lady</span>. That will be delightful.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">St. John hankin</span> (<i>loftily</i>). +Can you tell me whether this charmian artist is pronounced Dubédat +or Dubèdat?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">W. P. Ker</span> (<i>in deep Scotch</i>). +Non Dubitat. (<i>He does not speak again</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">P. G. Konody</span>. Oh, Mr. Phillips, +do tell me <i>exactly</i> what <i>you</i> think of this artist!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Claude Phillips</span>. I think he wanted +a good smacking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">P. G. Konody</span>. Ah, yes, his art <i>has</i> +a smack about it. (<i>Aside</i>.) Good heading for the <i>Daily +Mail</i>, ‘Art with a smack.’ (<i>Writes in catalogue</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Will Rothenstein</span>. When I see pictures +of this kind, my dear Gersaint, they seem to me to explain your existence. +An artist without a conscience . . . (<i>Sees</i> <span class="smcap">Roger +Fry</span>.) My dear Fry, what are <i>you</i> doing here? +Buying for New York? (<i>Laughs meaningly</i>.)</p> +<p><!-- page 243--><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span><span class="smcap">Roger +Fry</span>. Oh, no; but I hear Gersaint has a very fine picture +by the Maîtresse of the Moulin Rouge. Weale says it is School +of Gheel (<i>pronounced Kail</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Will Rothenstein</span>. Kail Yard I should +think; do look at these things.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Roger Fry</span> (<i>vaguely</i>). Who +are they by? Oh, yes, Dubedat, of course.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Fry</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Rothenstein</span> +<i>regard picture with disdain</i>; <i>it withers under their glance</i>. +<i>Stage illusion by</i> <span class="smcap">Maskelyne</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Theodore Cook</span>. <span class="smcap">Stepney</span> +<i>places a red star on it</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. Well, Mr. Bowyer Nichols, +I hope we shall have a good long notice in the <i>Westminster Gazette</i>. +Now if there is any drawing . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bowyer Nichols</span> (<i>very stiffly</i>). +No, there isn’t. I don’t think the Exhibition sufficiently +important; everything seems to me cribbed: most of the pictures look +like reproductions of John, Orpen or Neville Lytton.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gersaint</span>. Ah, no doubt, influenced +by Neville Lytton. That portrait of Mr. Cutler Walpole has a Neville +Lytton feeling. Neville Lytton in his earlier manner.</p> +<p><!-- page 244--><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span><i>Enter</i> +<span class="smcap">Sir Patrick Cullen</span>, <span class="smcap">Sir +Ralph Bloomfield Bonnington</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Sir +Colenso Ridgeon</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir C. Ridgeon</span>. Ah, Sir Patrick, +I have just heard that the pictures are for sale; now I am going to +plunge a little. I think they will rise in value; and by the way +I want to ask your opinion as a scientific man. If I treat four +artists with <i>virus obscænum</i> for three weeks, what will +be the condition of the remaining artists in the fourth week?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir P. Cullen</span>. Colenso, Colenso, +you ought to have been a senior wrangler and then abolished.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir C. Ridgeon</span>. What a cynic you +are. All the same I’ve had great successes, though Dubedat +<i>was</i> one of our failures. A rather anæmic member of +the New English Art Club come to me for treatment, and in less than +a year he was an Associate of the Royal Academy; what do you say to +that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir P. Cullen</span>. Out of Phagocyte, +out of mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir R. B. B</span>. My dear Sir Patrick, +how prejudiced you are. Take MacColl’s case: a typical instance +of <i>morbus ferox ars nova</i> <!-- page 245--><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span><i>anglicana</i>: +under dear Colenso he became an official at the Tate.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir C. Ridgeon</span>. Then there’s +Sir Charles Holroyd, you remember his high tempera?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir P. Cullen</span>. There has been a +relapse I hear from the catalogue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir R. B. B</span>. How grossly unfair; +that is a false bulletin issued by the former nurse: ‘the evil +that men do lives after them.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir P. Cullen</span>. My dear B. B., this +is not Dubedat’s funeral. Do you think Bernard Shaw will +like the new epilogue?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bernard Shaw</span>. He will; I’m +shaw.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">L. C. C. Inspector</span>. Excuse me, is +Mr. Vedrenne here? Ah, yes! There is Mr. Vedrenne. +Will you kindly answer some of my questions? Is that door on the +left a real door? In case of fire I cannot allow property doors; +the actors might be seized with stage fright, and they must have, as +Sir B. B. would say, ‘their exits and their entrances.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vedrenne</span>. Everything at the Court +Theatre, my dear sir, is real. Ask Mr. Franks, he will tell you +the door is not even a jar. The art, the acting, the plays, even +the audience is real, except a few dramatic critics I <!-- page 246--><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>cannot +exclude. I admit the audience looks improbable at matinées; +<i>out of Court</i> is a truth in art of which we are only dimly beginning +to understand the significance. [<i>Noise outside</i>.</p> +<p><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Jennifer</span>, <i>dressed in deep +mourning</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jennifer</span> (<i>with a bright smile</i>). +Mr. Vedrenne, I have just had a telegram saying that my husband, Leo, +was killed in his motor after leaving me at the Synagogue. His +last words were: ‘Jennifer, promise me that you will wear mourning +if I die, merely to mark the difference between Dubedat and myself.’ +This afternoon I am going to marry Blenkinsop. How are the sales +going?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vedrenne</span>. Well, I think we might +have the catechism or the churching of heroines. What is your +name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jennifer</span>. Jennifer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Vedrenne</span>. Where did you get that +name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jennifer</span>. From Bernard Shaw in my +baptism.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Redford</span> (<i>Licenser of Plays</i>). +Mr. Shaw, I really must point out that this passage comes from the Anglican +Prayer-book. Are you aware of that? I have a suggestion +of my own for ending the play.</p> +<p><!-- page 247--><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span><span class="smcap">Bernard +Shaw</span>. Oh, shut up! Let us have my ten commandments.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Granville Barker</span>. My dear Shaw, +you sent them to Wells for revision and he lost them in the Tube. +I can remember the first one, ‘Maude spake these words and said: +“Thou shalt have none other Shaws but me.”’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bernard Shaw</span>. How careless of Wells. +I remember the second: ‘Do not indulge in craven imitation.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">W. L. Courtney</span>. The third commandment +runs: ‘Thou shalt not covet George Alexander.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Granville Barker</span>. One of them runs: +‘Do not commit yourself to Beerbohm Tree, though his is His Majesty’s +. . . ’ But we shall never get them right. We must +offer a reward for their recovery. I vote that Walkley now says +the <i>credo</i>. That, I think, expresses every one’s sentiment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">A. B. Walkley</span> (<i>reluctantly</i>). +I believe in Bernard Shaw, in Granville Barker, and (<i>heartily</i>) +in <i>The Times</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William Archer</span>. Plaudite, missa +est.</p> +<p>(1907.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curtain</span>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 248--><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>THE +JADED INTELLECTUALS. A Dialogue.</h2> +<p><i>Scene: The Smoking-room of the Elivas Club</i>.</p> +<p><i>Characters</i>: <span class="smcap">Laudator Temporeys</span>, +<i>ætat. 54, a distinguished literary critic, and</i> <span class="smcap">Luke +Cullus</span>, <i>a rich connoisseur of art and life. They are +not smoking nor drinking spirits. One is sipping barley water, +the other Vichy</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Luke Cullus</span>. You are a dreadful +pessimist!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Laudator Temporeys</span>. Alas! there +is no such thing in these days. We are merely disappointed optimists. +When Walter Pater died I did not realise that English literature expired. +Yet the event excited hardly any interest in the Press. Our leading +weekly, the <i>Spectator</i>, merely mentioned that Brasenose College, +Oxford, had lost an excellent Dean.</p> +<p>L. C. I can hardly understand you. Painting, I admit, +is entirely a lost art, so far as England is concerned. The death +of Burne-Jones <!-- page 249--><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>brought +our tradition to an end. I see no future for any of the arts except +needlework, of which, I am told, there is a hopeful revival. But +in your fields of literature, what a number of great names! How +I envy you!</p> +<p>L. T. Who is there?</p> +<p>L. C. Well, to take the novelists first: you have the great +Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells, Henry James, Rudyard Kipling, Maurice Hewlett +. . . I can’t remember the names of any others just at present. +Then take the poets: Austin Dobson, my own special favourite; and among +the younger men, A. E. Housman, Laurence Housman, Yeats, Arthur Symons, +Laurence Binyon, William Watson—</p> +<p>L. T. (<i>interrupting</i>). Who always keeps one foot in Wordsworth’s +grave. But all the men you mention, my dear Cullus, belong to +the last century. They have done their best work. Hardy +has become mummy, and Henry James is sold in Balham. Except Hardy, +they have become unintelligible. The theory that ‘to be +intelligible is to be found out’ seems to have frightened them. +The <!-- page 250--><a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>books +they issue are a series of ‘not-at-home’ cards—sort +of P.P.C.’s on posterity. And the younger poets, too, belong +to the last century, or they stand in the same relation to their immediate +predecessors, to borrow one of your metaphors, as <i>l’art nouveau</i> +does to Chippendale. Oh, for the days of Byron, Keats, and Shelley!</p> +<p>L. C. All of whom died before they were matured. You +seem to resent development. In literature I am a mere <i>dilettante</i>. +A fastidious reader, but not an expert. I know what I don’t +like; but I never know what I shall like. At least twice a year +I come across a book which gives me much pleasure. As it comes +from the lending library it is never quite new. That is an added +charm. If it happens to have made a sensation, the sensation is +all over by the time it reaches me. The book has matured. +A quite new book is always a little crude. It suggests an evening +paper. There at least you will agree. But to come across +a work which Henry James published, say, last year, is, I assure you, +like finding a Hubert Van Eyck in the Brompton Road.</p> +<p><!-- page 251--><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>L. +T. I wish I could share your enthusiasm, or that I could change +places with you. Every year the personality of a new artist is +revealed to you. I know you only pretend not to admire the modern +school of painting. You find it a convenient pose. Your +flora and your fauna are always receiving additions; while my garden +is withered; my zoo is out of repair. The bars are broken; the +tanks have run dry. There is hardly a trace of life except in +the snake-house, and, as I mentioned, the last giraffe is dead.</p> +<p>L. C. Our friend, Dr. Chalmers Mitchell, is fortunately able +to give us a different account of the institution in Regent’s +Park. You are quite wrong about modern painting. None of +the younger men can paint at all. A few of them can draw, I admit. +It is all they can do. The death of Charles Furse blasted all +my hopes of English art. Whistler is dead; Sargent is an American.</p> +<p>L. T. Well, so is Henry James, if it comes to that. And +so <i>was</i> Whistler. But I have seen the works of several young +artists who I understand are carrying out the great traditions of painting. +Ricketts, Shannon, Wilson <!-- page 252--><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>Steer, +Rothenstein, Orpen, Nicholson, Augustus John are surely worthy successors +to Turner, Alfred Stevens, and the Pre-Raphaelites.</p> +<p>L. C. They are merely connoisseurs gifted with expressing their +appreciation of the past in paint. They appeal to you as a literary +man. You like to detect in every stroke of their brushes an echo +of the past. Their pictures have been <i>heard</i>, not <i>seen</i>. +All the younger artists are committing burglary on the old masters.</p> +<p>L. T. It is you who are a disappointed optimist.</p> +<p>L. C. Not about literature or the drama. I seem to hear, +with Ibsen’s ‘Master Builder,’ the younger generation +knocking at the door.</p> +<p>L. T. It comes in without knocking in my experience; and generally +has <i>fig</i>-leaves in its hair—a decided advance on the coiffure +of Hedda Gabler’s lover.</p> +<p>L. C. But look at Bernard Shaw.</p> +<p>L. T. Why should I look at Bernard Shaw? I read his plays +and am more than ever convinced that he has gone on the wrong lines. +His was the opportunity. He made <i>il gran</i> <!-- page 253--><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 253</span><i>refuto</i>. +Some one said that George Saintsbury never got over the first night +of <i>Hernani</i>. Shaw never recovered the <i>première</i> +of <i>Ghosts</i>. He roofed our Thespian temple with Irish slate. +His disciples found English drama solid brick and leave it plaster of +Paris. Yet Shaw might have been another Congreve.</p> +<p>L. C. <i>Troja fuit</i>. We do not want another. +I am sure you never went to the Court at all.</p> +<p>L. T. Oh, yes, I attended the last <i>levée</i>. +But the drama is too large a subject, or, in England, too small a subject +to discuss. We live, as Professor Mahaffy has reminded us, in +an Alexandrian age. We are wounded with archæology and exquisite +scholarship, and must drag our slow length along . . . We were talking +about literature. Where are the essayists, the Lambs, and the +Hazlitts? I know you are going to say Andrew Lang; I say it every +day; it is like an Amen in the Prayer-book; it occurs quite as frequently +in periodical literature. He <i>was</i> my favourite essayist, +during the <i>last</i> fifteen years of the <i>last</i> century. +What is he now? An historian, a folk-lorist, an archæologist, +a controversialist. <!-- page 254--><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>I +believe he is an expert on portraits of Mary Stuart. You were +going on to say G. K. Chesterton—</p> +<p>L. C. No. I was going to say Max Beerbohm. Some +of his essays I put beside Lamb’s, and above Hazlitt’s. +He has style; but then I am prejudiced because he is the only modern +artist I really admire. He is a superb draughtsman and our only +caricaturist. Then there is George Moore. I don’t +care for his novels, but his essays are delightful. George Moore +really counts. Few people know so little about art; yet how delightfully +he writes about it. Everything comes to him as a surprise. +He gives you the same sort of enjoyment as you would derive from hearing +a nun preach on the sins of smart society.</p> +<p>L. T. Moore is one of many literary Acteons who have mistaken +Diana for Aphrodite.</p> +<p>L. C. You mean he is great dear; but he gets hold of the right +end of the stick.</p> +<p>L. T. And he generally soils it. But you know nothing +about literature. The age requires blood and Kipling gave it Condy’s +Fluid (<i>drinks barley water</i>). The age requires <!-- page 255--><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>life, +and Moore gave us a gallantee show from Montmartre (<i>drinks barley +water</i>). Even I require life. To-morrow I am off to Aix.</p> +<p>L. C.—les Bains?</p> +<p>L. T. No, la-Chapelle!</p> +<p>L. C. Oh, then we shall probably meet. Thanks. +I can get on my own overcoat. I shall probably be there myself +in a few weeks.</p> +<h2><!-- page 256--><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>ABBEY +THOUGHTS.</h2> +<p>Shall some memorial of Herbert Spencer be erected in the Abbey, or +rather in what journalists love to call the ‘National Valhalla,’ +the ‘English Pantheon,’ or the ‘venerable edifice,’ +where, as Macaulay says, the dust of the illustrious accusers, <i>et +cetera</i>——? The question was once agitated in a +daily paper. It seems that the Dean, when approached on the subject, +acted like one of his predecessors in the case of Byron. The Dean +is in a very difficult position, because any decision of his must be +severely criticised from one quarter or another. The Abbey retains, +I understand, some of its pre-Reformation privileges, and is not under +the jurisdiction of Bishop or Archbishop. Yet no one who has ever +visited the Chapel of St. Edward the Confessor on October 13th, the +festival of his translation, can accuse the Abbey authorities of bigotry +or narrow-mindedness. Only a few years ago I fought my way, with +<!-- page 257--><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>other +Popish pilgrims, to the shrine of our patron Saint (as he <i>was</i>, +until superseded by Saint George in the thirteenth century), and there +I indulged in overt acts of superstition violating Article XXII. of +‘the Church of England by law established.’ A verger, +with some colonial tourists, arrived during our devotions, but his voice +was lowered out of regard for our feelings. Indeed, both he and +the tourists adopted towards us an attitude of respectful curiosity +(not altogether unpleasant), which was in striking contrast to the methods +of the continental <i>Suisse</i> routing out worshippers from a side +chapel of a Catholic church in order to show Baedeker-ridden sightseers +an altar-piece by Rotto Rotinelli.</p> +<p>Thoughts of Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley irresistibly mingled with +my devotions. What had the poor fellows burnt for, after all? +Here we were ostentatiously ignoring English history and the adjacent +Houses of Parliament; outraging the rubrics by ritual observations for +which poor curates in the East End are often suspended, and before now +have been imprisoned. I could not help thinking that the Archbishop +of Westminster would hardly <!-- page 258--><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>care +to return these hospitalities, by permitting, on August 24th, a memorial +service for Admiral Coligny in Westminster Cathedral. . . . I rose from +my knees a new Luther, with something like a Protestant feeling, and +scrutinised severely the tombs in Poets’ Corner. Even there +I found myself confronted with an almost irritating liberalism. +Here was Alexander Pope, who rejected all the overtures of Swift and +Atterbury to embrace the Protestant faith. And there was Dryden, +not, perhaps, a great ornament to my persuasion, but still a Catholic +at the last. Dean Panther had not grudged poet Hind his niche +in the National Valhalla (I knew I should be reduced to that periphrasis). +And here was the mighty Charles Darwin, about whose reception into the +English Pantheon (I have fallen again) I remember there was some trouble. +Well, if precedent embalms a principle, I venture to raise a thin small +voice, and plead for Herbert Spencer. ‘The English people,’ +said a friendly French critic, ‘do not admire their great men +because they were great, but because they reflect credit on themselves.’ +So on the score of national vanity <!-- page 259--><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 259</span>I +claim space for Herbert Spencer. Very few Englishmen have exercised +such extraordinary influence on continental opinion, which Beaconsfield +said was the verdict of posterity. On the news of his death, the +Italian Chamber passed a vote of condolence with the English people. +I suppose that does not seem a great honour to Englishmen, but to me, +an enemy of United Italy, it seemed a great honour, not only to the +dead but to the English people. Can you imagine the Swiss Federal +Council sending us a vote of condolence on the death of Mr. Hall Caine +or Mr. Robert Hichens?</p> +<p>Again, though it is ungrateful of me to mention the fact after my +experiences of October 13th, the Abbey was not built nor endowed by +people who anticipated the Anglican form of worship being celebrated +within its walls, though I admit it has been <i>restored</i> by the +adherents of that communion. The image of Milton, to take only +one instance, would have been quite as objectionable to Henry III. or +Abbot Islip as those of Darwin or Spencer. The emoluments bequeathed +by Henry VII. and others for requiem masses are now devoted to the education +<!-- page 260--><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>of +Deans’ daughters and Canons’ sons. Where incensed +altars used to stand, hideous monuments of the sixteenth, seventeenth, +and eighteenth centuries wound the Gothic air with their monstrous ornaments +and inapposite epitaphs. St. Paul’s may fairly be held sacred +to Anglicanism, and I do not think any one would claim sepulture within +its precincts for one who was avowedly hostile to Christian or Anglican +sentiment. But I think the Abbey has now passed into the category +of museums, and might well be declared a national monument under control +of the State. The choir, and possibly the nave, should, of course, +be severely preserved for whatever the State religion might be at the +time. Catholics need not mourn the secularisation of the transepts +and chapels, because Leo XIII. renounced officially all claims on the +ancient shrines of the Catholic faith, and High Churchmen might console +themselves by recalling the fact that Abbots were originally laymen.</p> +<p>My whole scheme would be a return to the practice of the Primitive +Church, when priests were only allowed on sufferance inside abbeys <!-- page 261--><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 261</span>at +all. The Low Church party need not be considered, because they +can have no sentiment about what they regard as relics of superstition +and Broad Churchmen could hardly complain at the logical development +of their own principle. The Nonconformists, the backbone of the +nation, could not be otherwise than grateful. The decision about +admitting busts, statues, or bodies into the national and sacred ‘musée +des morts’ (as the anti-clerical French might call it under the +new constitution) would rest with the Home Secretary. This would +be an added interest to the duties of a painstaking official, forming +pleasant interludes between considering the remission of sentences on +popular criminals: it would relieve the Dean and Chapter at all events +from grave responsibility. The Home Secretary would always be +called the Abbot of Westminster. How picturesque at the formation +of a new Cabinet—‘<i>Home Secretary and Abbot of Westminster</i>, +the Right Hon. Mr. So-and-So.’ The first duty of the Abbot +will be to appoint a Royal Commission to consider the removal of hideous +monuments which disfigure the edifice: nothing prior to 1700 coming +<!-- page 262--><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>under +its consideration. A small tablet would recall what has been taken +away. Herbert Spencer’s claim to a statue would be duly +considered, and, I hope, by a unanimous vote some of the other glaring +gaps would be filled up. If the Abbey is full of obscurities, +very dim religious lights, many of the illustrious names in our literature +have been omitted: Byron, Shelley, Keats—to mention only these. +There is no monument to Chatterton, one of the more powerful influences +in the romantic movement, nor to William Blake, whose boyish inspiration +was actually nourished amid that ‘Gothic supineness,’ as +Mr. MacColl has finely said of him. Of all our poets and painters +Blake surely deserves a monument in the grey church which became to +him what St. Mary Redcliffe was to Chatterton. A window adapted +from the book of Job (with the marvellous design of the Morning Stars) +was, I am told, actually offered to, and rejected by, the late Dean. +To Dante Gabriel Rossetti and the wonderful movement of which he was +the dynamic force there should also be a worthy memorial; to Water Pater, +the superb aside of English prose; to Cardinal Manning, <!-- page 263--><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span><i>the</i> +Ecclesiastic of the nineteenth century; and Professor Huxley, that master +of dialectics.</p> +<p>A young actor of my acquaintance, who bore the honoured name of Siddons, +was invited to take part in the funeral service of the late Sir Henry +Irving. His step-father was connected by marriage with the great +actress, and he was very proud of his physical resemblance to her portrait +by Reynolds. He had played with great success the part of Fortinbras +in the provinces, and Mr. Alexander has assured me that he was the ideal +impersonator of Rosencrantz. It was an open secret that he had +refused Mr. Arthur Bourchier’s offer of that <i>rôle</i> +in a proposed revival of <i>Hamlet</i> at the Garrick. Since the +burial of Sir Henry Irving in the Abbey, <i>he has never been seen</i>: +though I saw him myself in the funeral <i>cortége</i>. +All his friends remember the curious exaltation in his manner a few +days before the ceremony, and I cannot help thinking that in a moment +of enthusiasm, realising that this was his only chance of burial in +the Abbey, he took advantage of the bowed unobservant heads during the +prayer of Committal and crept beneath the pall into the great actor’s +tomb. What his <!-- page 264--><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>feelings +were at the time, or afterwards when the vault was bricked up, would +require the introspective pen of Mr. Henry James and the curious imagination +of Mr. H. G. Wells to describe. I have been assured by the vergers +that mysterious sounds were heard for some days after this historical +occasion. Distressed by the loss of my friend, I applied to the +Dean of Westminster and finally to Scotland Yard. I need not say +that I was met with sacerdotal indifference on the one hand and with +callous officialism on the other. I hope that under the Royal +Commission which I have appointed the mystery will be cleared up. +Not that I begrudge poor Siddons a niche with Garrick and Irving.</p> +<p>(1906.)</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Professor James Mayor</span>, <i>Toronto +University</i>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 265--><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>THE +ELETHIAN MUSE.</h2> +<p>After chaperoning into Fleet Street the eleventh Muse, the rather +Batavian lady who is not to be found in that Greek peerage, Lempriere’s +Dictionary, an obliging correspondent from Edinburgh (an eminent writer +to the Signet in our northern Thebes) inquired if there were any more +muses who had escaped the students of comparative mythology. It +is in response to his letter that I now present, as Mr. Charles Frohman +would say, the thirteenth, the Elethian Muse.</p> +<p>Yet I can fancy people asking, Where is the twelfth, and over what +art or science does she preside? According to Apollodorus (in +a recently recovered fragment from Oxyrynchus), Jupiter, suffering from +the chronic headaches consequent on his acrimonious conversations with +Athena, decided to consult Vulcan, Æsculapius having come to be +regarded as a quack. Mulciber (as we must now call him, <!-- page 266--><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>having +used the name Vulcan once), suggested an extraordinary remedy, one of +the earliest records of a homœopathic expedient. He prescribed +that the king of gods and men should keep his ambrosial tongue in the +side of his cheek for half an hour three times a day. The operation +produced violent retching in the Capitoline stomach. And on the +ninth day, from his mouth, quite unarmed, sprang the twelfth muse. +The other goddesses were very disgusted; and even the gods declined +to have any communication with the new arrival. Apollo, however, +was more tolerant, and offered her an asylum on the top shelf of the +celestial library. Ever afterwards Musagetes used to be heard +laughing immoderately, even for a librarian to the then House of Lords. +Jupiter, incensed at this irregularity, paid him a surprise visit one +day in order to discover the cause. He stayed, however, quite +a long time; and the other deities soon contracted the habit of taking +their nectar into the library. With the decline of manners, the +twelfth muse began to be invited to dessert, after Juno and the more +reputable goddesses had retired. To cut a long story short, when +<!-- page 267--><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 267</span>Pan +died, in the Olympian sense very shortly afterwards, all the gods, as +we know, took refuge on earth. Jupiter retired to Iceland, Aphrodite +to Germany, Apollo to Picardy, but the twelfth muse wandered all over +Europe, and found that she was really more appreciated than her sisters. +The castle, the abbey, the inn, the lone ale-house on the Berkshire +moors, all made her welcome. Finally she settled in Ireland, where, +according to a protestant libel, she took the black veil in a nunnery.</p> +<p>She is older than the chestnuts of Vallombrosa. Perhaps of +all the ancient goddesses time has chilled her least. Her unfathomable +smile wears a touch of something sinister in it, but she has a new meaning +for every generation. And yet for Aretino there was some further +magic of crimson on her lips and cheeks, lost for us. She is a +solecism for the convalescent, and has given consolation to the brave. +She has been a diver in rather deep seas and a climber in somewhat steep +places. Her censers are the smoking-rooms of clubs; and her presence-lamps +are schoolboys’ lanterns. Though held the friend of liars +and <!-- page 268--><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 268</span>brutes, +she has lived on the indelicacies of kings, and has made even pontiffs +laugh. Her mysteries are told in the night-time, and in low whispers +to the garish day. She lingers over the stable-yard (no doubt +called <i>mews</i> for that reason). Her costly breviaries, embellished +with strange illuminations, are prohibited under Lord Campbell’s +Act. Stars mark the places where she has been. Sometimes +a scholar’s fallacy, a sworn foe to Dr. Bowdler, she is Notre +Dame de Milet, our Lady of Limerick.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>But it is of her sister I would speak, the thirteenth sister, who +was created to keep the eleventh in countenance. She presides +over the absurdities of prose. She is responsible for the stylistic +flights of Pegasus when, owing to the persuasive eloquence of the Hon. +Stephen Coleridge, his bearing-rein has been abolished, and he kicks +over the traces.</p> +<p>It was the Elethian Muse who inspired that Oxford undergraduate’s +peroration to his essay on the Characteristics of St. John’s Gospel—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Furthermore, we may add that St. John’s +Gospel <!-- page 269--><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>is +characterised by a tone of fervent piety which is totally wanting in +those of the other Evangelists’—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and she hovered over the journalist who, writing for a paper which +we need not name, referred to Bacchus as</p> +<blockquote><p>‘that deity whose identity in Greek and Roman mythology +is inseparably connected with the over-indulgence of intoxicating liquors.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There are prose beauties, Elethian jewels, hidden away in Baedeker’s +mines of pregnant information and barren fact. I know it is fashionable +to sneer at Baedeker, especially when you are writing little rhapsodies +about remoter parts of Italy, where you have found his knowledge indispensable, +if exiguous. You must always kick away the ladder when you arrive +at literary distinction. I, who am still climbing and still clinging, +can afford to be more generous. Let me, therefore, crown Baedeker +with an essayist’s parsley, or an academic laurel, ere I too become +selfish, forgetful, egoistical, and famous.</p> +<p>In <i>Southern France</i>, 1891 edition, p. 137, you find—</p> +<blockquote><p>To the Pic de Nere, 3¾ hrs. from Luz, there and +back 6½ hrs.; a delightful excursion, which can be <!-- page 270--><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 270</span>made +on horseback part of the way: guide 12, horse 10 fr.; <i>adders abound</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>For synthetic prose you will have to go to Tacitus to find the equal +of that passage. No more is heard of the excursion. ‘We +leave Luz by the Barege road,’ the text goes on to say. +Reflections and picturesque word-painting are left for Mr. Maurice Hewlett, +Mr. Arthur Symons, and Murray.</p> +<p>In <i>Southern Italy</i>, Baedeker yields to softer and more Virgilian +influences. The purple patches are longer and more frequent. +On page 99 we learn not only how to get to Baiae, but that</p> +<blockquote><p>Luxury and profligacy, however, soon took up their abode +at Baiae, and the desolate ruins, which now alone encounter the eye, +point the usual moral!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And from the preface to the same guide we obtain this remarkable +advice:—</p> +<blockquote><p>The traveller should adopt the Neapolitan custom of rejecting +fish that are not quite fresh.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But it is certain educational works, popular in my childhood, that +have yielded the more exotic Elethian blossoms for my Anthology. +There are passages I would not willingly let die. In one of these +books general knowledge <!-- page 271--><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>was +imparted after the manner of Magnall: ‘What is the world? +The earth on which we live.’ ‘Who was Raphael?’ +‘How is rice made?’ After such desultory interrogatives, +without any warning, came Question 15: ‘Give the character of +Prince Potemki’:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Sordidly mean, ostentatiously prodigal, filthily intemperate +and affectedly refined. Disgustingly licentious and extravagantly +superstitious, a brute in appetite, vigorous though vacillating in action.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Until I went to the University, a great many years afterwards, I +never learnt who Potemki was. At the age of seven he stood to +me for what ‘Timberio’ still is for Capriote children. +My teacher obviously did not know. She always evaded my inquiries +by saying, ‘You will know when you are older, darling.’ +Suspecting her ignorance, I became pertinacious. ‘When I +am as old as you?’ was my ungallant rejoinder. I had to +write the character out a hundred times. Then one Christmas Day +I ventured to ask my father, who said I would find out about him in +Gibbon. But I knew he was not speaking the truth, because he laughed +in a nervous, peculiar way, and added that since I was so fond of <!-- page 272--><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 272</span>history +I must go to Oxford when I was older. I loathed history, and inwardly +resolved that Cambridge should be my University. My mother admitted +entire ignorance of Potemki’s identity; and on my sketching his +character (for I was proud of the knowledge), said he was obviously +a ‘horrid’ man. His personality shadowed my childhood +with a deadly fascination, which has not entirely worn away; producing +the same sort of effect on me as an imaginary portrait by Pater.</p> +<p>In a semi-geographical work called <i>Near Home; or, Europe Described</i>, +published by Hatchards in the fifties (though my friend, Mr. Arthur +Humphreys, denies all knowledge of it), I can recall many stereos of +dialectic cast in a Socratic mould:—</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Q</i>. What is the religion of the Italians? +<i>A</i>. They are Roman Catholics.</p> +<p><i>Q</i>. What do the Roman Catholics worship? <i>A</i>. +Idols and a piece of bread.</p> +<p><i>Q</i>. Would not God be very angry if He knew the Italians +worshipped idols and a piece of bread? <i>A</i>. God IS +very angry.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Augustine Birrell, if still interested in educational phenomena, +will not be surprised to learn that when I reached to man’s estate +I <!-- page 273--><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>‘embraced +the errors of Rome,’ as my historical manual would have phrased +it.</p> +<p>I pity the child who did not learn universal history from Collier. +How tame are the periods of Lord Acton, the Rev. William Hunt, Froude, +Freeman, Oman, Round, even Macaulay, and little Arthur, beside the rich +Elethian periods of William Francis Collier. Not Berenson, not +Byron, not Beerbohm, have given us such a picture of Venice as Collier +in describing the Council of Ten:—</p> +<blockquote><p>The ten were terrible; but still more terrible were the +three inquisitors—two black, one red—appointed in 1454. +Deep mystery hung over the three. They were elected by the ten; +none else knew their names. Their great work was to kill; and +no man—doge, councillor, or inquisitor—was beyond their +reach. Secretly they pronounced a doom; and ere long the stiletto +or the poison cup had done its work, or the dark waters of the lagoon +had closed over a life. The spy was everywhere. No man dared +to speak out, for his most intimate companions might be on the watch +to betray him. Bronze vases, shaped like a lion’s mouth, +gaped at the corner of every square to receive the names of suspected +persons. Gloom and suspicion haunted gondola and hearth!!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is owing to Collier that I know at least one fact about the Goths +who took Rome, <!-- page 274--><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>‘having +reduced the citizens to feed on mice and nettles, <span class="smcap">a.d.</span> +546,’ a diet to which many of the hotel proprietors in the imperial +city still treat their clients.</p> +<p>But let <i>Bellows’ Dictionary</i>, a friend and instructor +of riper years, close my list of great examples and my theme. +The criticism is apposite to myself, and its only oddity—its Elethian +quality, if I may say so—is its presence in that marvellous miniature +whose ingenious author you would never suspect could have found room +for such portentous observations in the small duodecimo to which he +confined himself:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Unaffected language is the inseparable accompaniment +of natural refinement; but that affectation which would make up for +paucity of thought by overstrained expression is a mark of vulgarity +from which no accident of social position can redeem those who are guilty +of it.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">More Adey, Esq.</span></p> +<h2><!-- page 275--><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>THERE +IS NO DECAY.</h2> +<p><i>A Lecture delivered in the Old Bluecoat School, Liverpool, on +February 12th, 1908</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘In every age there is some question raised as +to its wants and powers, its strength and weakness, its great or small +worth and work; and in every age that question is waste of time and +speech. To a small soul the age which has borne it can appear +only as an age of small souls; the pigmy brain and emasculate spirit +can perceive in its own time nothing but dwarfishness and emasculation. +Each century has seemed to some of its children an epoch of decadence +and decline in national life and spiritual, in moral or material glory; +each alike has heard the cry of degeneracy raised against it, the wave +of emulous impotence set up against the weakness of the age.’—<span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Before the invention of printing, or let me say before the cheapening +of printing, the lecturer was in a more fortunate position than he is +to-day; because, if a learned man, he was able to give his audience +certain pieces of information which he could be fairly sure <i>some</i> +of his listeners had never heard before. The arrival in town or +city of Abelard, Paracelsus, or Erasmus, to take the first instances +<!-- page 276--><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>occurring +to me, must have been a great event, the importance of which we can +scarcely appreciate at the present day. It must have excited our +forefathers, at least as much as the arrival of Sir Herbert Beerbohm +Tree in any large city, excites I imagine, all of us to-day. But +multiplication of books has really rendered lecturers, as instructors, +mere intellectual Othellos; their occupation is gone; the erudition +of the ages is now within reach of all; though educational books were +fairly expensive within living memory. You owe, therefore, a debt +of gratitude to the <i>Times</i> and the <i>Daily Mail</i> for bringing +Encyclopædias of all kinds into the range of the shallowest purse +and in contact with the shallowest heads in the community.</p> +<p>But in case your learned professors have not contributed all their +hidden lore and scholarship to the cheap Encyclopædias, and still +allow their learning to leak out at lectures, you may have come expecting +instruction from me on some neglected subject. If that is so, +I must confess myself at once an impostor. I have no information +to give you. I assume your erudition to compensate for <!-- page 277--><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 277</span>my +own lack of it. There are no facts which I might bring before +you that you cannot find stated more clearly in valuable manuals or +works of reference, if you have not mastered them already. There +is no scientific or philosophic theory which I might propound that you +could not hear with greater benefit from others.</p> +<p>Briefly, I have no orange up my sleeve.</p> +<p>Let there be no deception or disappointment. I want you to +play with an idea as children play at ball—not football—but +the old game of catch. And out of this discussion, for I trust +that you will all differ, if not with me, at least with each other, +trains of thought may be quickened; mental grassland ploughed up; hidden +perspectives unveiled. Above all, I would stimulate you to an +appreciation of your contemporaries and of contemporary literature, +contemporary drama, and contemporary art.</p> +<p>Every few years distinguished men lift their voices, and tell us +that all is over, <i>decay has begun</i>. The obscure and the +anonymous echo the sentiment in the London Press. With the fall +of any Government its supporters prophesy <!-- page 278--><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>the +rapid decomposition of the Empire; in the pulpit eloquent preachers +of every sect and communion, thundering against the vices of Society, +declare that Society is breaking up. Of course, not being in Society, +I am hardly in a position to judge; and the vices I know only at second-hand—from +the preachers. Yet I see no outward signs of decay in Society; +it dresses quite as well, in some ways better than, it did. Society +eats as much, judging from the size and number of new restaurants; its +patronises as usual the silliest plays in London, and buys in larger +quantities than ever the idiotic novels provided for it. Have +you ever been to a bazaar in aid of Our Dumb Friends’ League? +Well, you see Society <i>there</i>, I can tell you; it is not dumb. +And the conversation sounds no less vapid and no less brilliant than +we are told it was in the eighteenth century; the dresses and faces +are quite as pretty. But much as I should like to discuss the +decay of English Society and the English nation, I feel that such lofty +themes are beyond my reach. I am concerned only with the so-called +decay of humbler things, the abstract manifestations <!-- page 279--><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 279</span>of +the human intellect, the Arts and Sciences. And lest, weary at +the end of my discourse, you forget the argument or miss it, let me +state at once what I wish to suggest, nay, what I wish to assert, <i>there +is no such thing as decay</i>. Decay is an intellectual Mrs. Harris, +a highly useful entity wherewith the journalistic Gamps try to frighten +Betsy Prig. Of course an obvious objection to my assertion is +the truism that everything has a life; and that towards the end of that +natural life we are correct in speaking of approaching decay. +With physical phenomena, however, I am not dealing, though I may say, +by the way, that there are many examples of human intellect maturing +in middle life or extreme old age. William Blake’s masterpiece, +the illustrations to the Book of Job, were executed when he was sixty-eight, +a few years before his death. The late Lord Kelvin is an example +of an unimpaired intellect. Still, it must be admitted that while +nations may be destroyed by conquest, or by conquering too much and +becoming absorbed by the conquered, and that ancient buildings may be +pulled down or restored, so, too, conventions in literature and <!-- page 280--><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>schools +of art have been brought to an end by war, plague, or death—ostensibly +brought to an end. But it is an error to suppose that art or literature, +because their development was artificially arrested, were in a state +of decay.</p> +<p>The favourite object-lesson of our childhood was the Roman Empire. +‘Here’s richness,’ as Mr. Squeers said, here was decline, +and Gibbon wrote his prose epic from that point of view. I hardly +dare to differ with the greatest of English historians, but if we approach +his work in the scientific spirit with which we should always regard +history, we shall find that Gibbon draws false deductions from the undisputed +facts, the unchallenged assertions of his history. Commencing +with the Roman Empire almost in its cradle, he sees in every twist of +the infant limbs prognostications of premature decline in a dispensation +which by his own computation lasted over fourteen hundred years. +It is safe enough to prophesy about the past. Everything I admit +has a life, but I do not consider old age decay any more than I think +exuberant youth immature childhood; death may be <!-- page 281--><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>only +arrested development and life itself an exhausted convention. +Have you ever tried to count the number of reasons Gibbon gives (each +one is a principal reason) for the cause of Roman decline? His +philosophy reminds me of Flaubert’s hero, who observed that if +Napoleon had been content to remain a simple soldier in the barracks +at Marseilles, he might still be on the throne of France. If we +really accept Gibbon’s view of history, I am not surprised that +any one should be nervous about the British Empire. The great +intellectual idea of the Roman dominion, arrested indeed by barbarian +invasion, philosophically never decayed. Some of it was embalmed +in Byzantium—particularly its artistic and literary sides; its +religious forces were absorbed by the Roman Church, as Hobbes pointed +out in a very wonderful passage; its humanism and polity became the +common property of the European nations of to-day. Gibbon’s +work should have been called ‘The Rise and Progress of Greco-Roman +Civilisation.’ That is not such a good title, but it would +have been more accurate. And if you compare critically the history +of any manifestation of <!-- page 282--><a name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>the +human intellect, religion, literature, painting, architecture, or science, +you will find that the development of one expressive force has been +momentarily arrested while some other manifestation is asserting itself +synchronously with the supposed decay in a manifestation whose particular +history you are studying. Always regard the deductions of the +historian with the same scepticism that you regard the deductions of +fiscal politicians.</p> +<p>Every one knows the charming books by writers more learned than I +can pretend to be, where the history of Italian art is traced from Giotto +downwards; the story of Giotto and the little lamb, now, alas! entirely +exploded; of Cimabue’s Madonna being carried about in processions, +and now discovered to have been painted by some one else! Then +on to Massaccio through the delightful fifteenth century until you see +in the text-book in large print, like the flashes of harbour lights +after a bad Channel crossing, <span class="smcap">Raphael, Michael Angelo, +Da Vinci</span>. But when you come to the seventeenth century, +Guido Reni, the Carracci, and other painters (for the present moment +out of fashion), painters whose work <!-- page 283--><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 283</span>fetches +little at Christie’s, the art critic and historian begin to snivel +about decay; not only of Italian art, but of the Italian peninsula; +and their sobs will hardly ever allow them to get as far as Longhi, +Piazetta, and Tiepolo, those great masters of the eighteenth century.</p> +<p>But we know, painters certainly must know if they look at old masters +at all, that Tiepolo, if he was the last of the old masters, was also +the first of the moderns; it was his painting in Spain which influenced +Goya, and Goya is not only a deceased Spanish master, he is a European +master of to-day. You can trace his influence through all the +great French figure-painters of the nineteenth century down to those +of the New English Art Club, though they may not have actually known +they were under his influence. Painting commences with a childish +naturalism, such as you see on the walls of pre-historic caves; that +is why savages always prefer photographs to any work of art, and why +photographers are always so savage about works of art. Gradually +this childish naturalism develops into decoration; it becomes stylistic. +The decoration becomes perfected and sterile; then <!-- page 284--><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>there +arises a more sophisticated generation, longing for naturalism, for +pictorial <i>vraisemblance</i>, without the childishness of the cave +pictures. And their new art develops at the expense of decoration; +it becomes perfect and sterile. What is commonly called decay +is merely stylistic development. The exquisite art of Byzantium +was wrongly considered as the debasement of Greco-Roman art. It +was really the decorative expansion of it; the conventionalising of +exaggerated realism. The same might have happened in Europe after +the Baroque and Rococo fashions had their day; politics and commerce +interfered. The intensely artificial painting of France, to which +Diderot objected so much, had become perfect and sterile. Then +(happily or unhappily, in whichever direction your tastes lie) the French +Revolution, by a pathetic misunderstanding of classical ideals, paved +the way for the naturalism of the misnamed Romantic school. We +were told, a short time ago, that Sienese painting anticipated by a +few years the Florentine manifestations of Cimabue and Giotto, but Mr. +Berenson has pointed out that Sienese art is not the beginning but the +<!-- page 285--><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>end +of an exquisite convention, the quintessence of Byzantium. In +the Roscoe collection at Liverpool you have one of the most superb and +precious examples of this delicate, impeccable and decadent art: ‘Christ +found in the Temple,’ by Simone di Martini.</p> +<p>In Egyptian art, again, compare the pure naturalism of the wonderful +Egyptian scribe of the Louvre, belonging, I am told, to the fifth or +sixth dynasty, with the hieratic and conventional art of the twelfth +dynasty; while in the eighteenth dynasty you get a reversion to realism, +which critics have the audacity to call a ‘revival of art.’ +But you might just as well call it decayed, as indeed they do call some +of the most magnificent Ptolemæan remains, simply because they +happen to belong to a certain date which, by Egyptian reckoning, may +be regarded as very recent. Just now we very foolishly talk in +accents of scorn about the early Victorian art, of which I venture to +remind you Turner was not the least ornament. Of course commercial +and political events often interrupt the gestation of the arts, or break +our idols in pieces. Another generation picks up the fragments +and <!-- page 286--><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>puts +them together in the wrong way, and that is why it is so confusing and +interesting; but there is no reason to be depressed about it. +Only iconoclasm need annoy us. In histories of English literature +too often you find the same attitude when the writer comes to a period +which he dislikes. Restoration Comedy is often said to be a period +of debasement, and with Tennyson the young student is given to understand +that English literature ceased altogether. But perhaps there are +more modern text-books where the outlook is less gloomy. If, instead +of reading the history of literature, you read the literature itself, +you will find plenty of instances of writers at the most brilliant periods +complaining of decay.</p> +<p>George Putman, in the <i>Art of English Poesy</i>, published in 1589, +when English poetry was starting on a particularly glorious period, +says, ‘In these days all poets and poesy are despised, they are +subject to scorn and derision,’ and ‘this proceeds through +the barbarous ignorance of the time—in <i>other ages it was not +so</i>.’ Then Jonson, in his ‘Discoveries,’ +lamenting the decline of literature, <!-- page 287--><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>says, +‘It is the disease of the age, and no wonder if the world, growing +old, begins to be infirm.’ There are hundreds of others +which will immediately occur to you, from Chaucer to Tennyson, though +Pope made noble protests on behalf of his contemporaries. You +have only got to compare these lachrymose observations with the summary +of the year’s literature in any newspaper—‘literary +output’ is the detestable expression always used—and you +will find the same note of depression. ‘The year has not +produced a single masterpiece. Glad as we have been to welcome +Mr. Blank’s verse, “Larkspurs” cannot be compared +with his first delicious volume, “Tealeaves,” published +thirty years ago.’ Then turn to the review in the same paper +of ‘Tealeaves’ thirty years ago. ‘Coarse animalism +draped in the most seductive hues of art and romance, we will not analyse +these poems, we will not even pretend to give the reasons on which our +opinion is based.’ Or read the incisive ‘Musings without +Method,’ in <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>, on contemporary +literature and contemporary things generally.</p> +<p>Again, every painter is told that his work <!-- page 288--><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>is +not as good as last year, and that we have no one like Titian or Velasquez. +The Royal Academy is always said to be worse than usual. I have +known the summer exhibitions at Burlington House for twenty years. +Let me assure you throughout that period they have always been quite +as bad as they are now. But we do not want painters like Titian +or Velasquez; we want something else. If painters were like Titian +or Velasquez they would not be artists at all. When Velasquez +went to Rome he was told he ought to imitate Raphael; had he done so +should we regard him as the greatest painter in the world? If +Rossetti had merely been another Fra Angelico or one of the early artists +from whom he derived such noble inspiration, should we regard him as +we do, as even the fierce young modern art student does, as one of the +greatest figures in English art of the nineteenth century? In +the latter part of that century I think he is the greatest force in +English painting. I would reserve for him the largest print in +my manual of English art. But have we declined since the death +of Rossetti? On the contrary, I think we have advanced and are +<!-- page 289--><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 289</span>advancing. +You must not think I am depreciating the past. The past is one +of my witnesses. The past was very like our present; it nearly +always depreciated itself intellectually and materially.</p> +<p>We all of us think of Athens in the fifth century as a golden period +of great men, when every genius was appreciated, but you know that they +put Pheidias in prison. And take the instance of Euripides. +The majority of his countrymen said he was nothing to the late Aeschylus. +He was chiefly appreciated by foreigners, as you will remember if you +are able to read ‘Balaustion’s Adventure’ (so much +more difficult than Euripides in the original Greek). Listen to +what Professor Murray says:—</p> +<blockquote><p>His contemporary public denounced him as dull, because +he tortured them with personal problems; as malignant, because he made +them see truths they wished not to see; as blasphemous and foul-minded, +because he made demands on their religious and spiritual natures which +they could neither satisfy nor overlook. They did not know whether +he was too wildly imaginative or too realistic, too romantic or too +prosaic, too childishly simple or too philosophical—Aristophanes +says he was all these things at once. They only knew that he made +<!-- page 290--><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>them +angry and that they could not help listening to him.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Does not that remind you a little of what was said all over England +of Mr. Bernard Shaw? Of what is still said about him in many London +houses to-day? If some one praises him, the majority of people +will tell you that he is overrated. Does it not remind you of +the reception which Ibsen’s plays met when they were first produced +here: when they gave an impetus to that new English drama which I understand +is decaying, though it seems to me to be only beginning—the new +English Drama of Mr. Granville Barker, Mr. Housman, Mr. Arnold Bennett, +Mr. Galsworthy, and Mr. Masefield?</p> +<p>Every year the patient research of scholars by the consultation of +original documents has caused us to readjust our historical perspective. +Those villains of our childhood, Tiberius, Richard III., Mary Tudor, +and others, have become respectable monarchs, almost model monarchs, +if you compare them with the popular English view of the present King +of the Belgians, the ex-Sultan of Turkey, and the present Czar of Russia. +It is realised <!-- page 291--><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>that +contemporary journalism gave a somewhat twopence coloured impression +of Kings and Queens, who were only creatures of their age, less admirable +expressions of the individualism of their time. And just as historical +facts require readjustment by posterity, so our critical estimate of +intellectual and æsthetic evolution requires strict revision. +We must not accept the glib statement of the historian, especially of +the contemporary historian, that at certain periods intellectual activity +and artistic expression were decaying or did not exist. If a convention +in one field of intellectual activity is said by the historian or chronicler +to be approaching termination or to be decaying, as he calls it, we +should test carefully his data and his credentials. But, assuming +he is right, there will always be found some compensating reaction in +another sphere of intellectual activity which is in process of development; +and through which, by some divine alchemy, providence, or nature, call +it what you will, a new manifestation will be made to the world. +The arts which we suppose to have perished, of which, indeed, we write +affecting epitaphs, are merely hibernating; <!-- page 292--><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>the +intellect which is necessary for their production and nutrition is simply +otherwise employed; while, of course, you must make allowances for the +appreciations of posterity, change of fashion and taste. From +the middle of the sixteenth century down to nearly the middle of the +nineteenth, the Middle Ages were always thought of as the Dark Ages. +Scarcely any one could appreciate either the pictorial art or architecture +of mediævalism; those who did so always had to apologise for their +predilection. The wonders of Gothic art were furtively relished +by a few antiquaries; and, at certain periods, by men like Beckford +and Walpole, as agreeable drawing-room curiosities. The Romantic +movement commenced by Chatterton enabled us to revise a limited and +narrow view, based on insufficient information. It was John Ruskin, +in England, who made us see what a splendid heritage the Middle Ages +had bequeathed to us. Ruskin and his disciples then fell into +the error of turning the tables on the Renaissance, and regarded everything +that deviated from Gothic convention as <i>debased</i>; the whole art +of the eighteenth century <!-- page 293--><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>was +anathema to them. The decadence began, according to Ruskin, with +Raphael. Out of that ingenious error, or synchronous with it, +began the brilliant movement of the Pre-Raphaelites in the middle of +the last century. And when the Pre-Raphaelites appeared, every +one said the end of Art had arrived. Dickens openly attacked them; +Thackeray ridiculed the new tendencies; every one, great and small, +spoke of decay and decline. The French word <i>Décadence</i> +had not crept into use. However, the weary Titan staggered on, +as Matthew Arnold said, and when Mr. Whistler’s art dawned on +the horizon, Ruskin was among the first to see in it signs of decay. +Except the poetry of Swinburne, never has any art met with such abuse. +An example of the immortal painter now adorns the National Gallery of +<i>British</i> painting, which is cared for—oh, irony of circumstances—by +one of the first prophets of impressionism in this country, or, rather, +let me say, one of the first English critics—Mr. D. S. MacColl.</p> +<p>But you will now ask how do I account for those periods when apparently +the liberal arts <!-- page 294--><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>are +supposed not to have existed? I maintain they did exist, or that +human intellect was otherwise employed. The excavations of prehistoric +cities are evidences of my contention. Because things are destroyed +we must not say they have decayed; if evidences are scarce, do not say +they never existed. Our architecture, for example, took five hundred +years to develop out of the splendid Norman through the various transitions +of Gothic down to the perfection of the English country house in Elizabethan +and Jacobean times. If church architecture was decaying, domestic +architecture was improving. <i>Architecture is, of course, the +first and most important of all the arts</i>, and when the human intellect +is being used up for some other purpose there is a temporary cessation; +there is never any decay of architecture. The putting up of ugly +buildings is merely a sign of growing stupidity, not of declining intellect +or decaying taste. Jerry-building is the successful competition +of dishonesty against competency. Do not imagine that because +the good architects do not get commissions to put up useful or beautiful +buildings they do not exist. The history of <!-- page 295--><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>stupidity +and the history of bad taste must one day engage our serious attention. +There is no decay, alas, even in stupidity and bad taste.</p> +<p>The suddenness with which the literature of the sixteenth century +developed in England has been explained, I know, by the Reformation. +But you should remember the other critics of art, who ascribe the barrenness +of our painting and the necessity of importing continental artists, +also to the Reformation. I suggest that the intellectual capacity +of the nation was directed towards literature, politics and <i>religious</i> +controversy, rather than to art and religion. I cannot think there +was any scarcity of the artistic germ in the English nation which had +already expressed itself in the great Abbeys and Churches, such as Glastonbury, +Tintern, Fountains, and York. And you must remember that the minor +art of embroidery, the ‘<i>opus anglicanum</i>’ (which flourished +for three centuries previous to the Reformation), was famous throughout +Europe.</p> +<p>In the middle of the eighteenth century, the big men, Swift, Pope, +and Addison, having passed away, the Augustan age of English literature +seemed exhausted. It was a time <!-- page 296--><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>of +intellectual dyspepsia; every one was much too fond of ruins; people +built sham ruins on their estates. Rich men, who could afford +the luxury, kept a dilapidated hermit in a cavern. Their chief +pleasure on the continent was measuring ruins in the way described so +amusingly by Goldsmith in <i>The Citizen of the World</i>. Though +no century was more thoroughly pleased with itself, I might almost say +smugly self-satisfied, the men of that century were always lamenting +the decline of the age. The observations of Johnson and Goldsmith +I need scarcely repeat. But here is one which may have escaped +your notice. It is not a suggestion of decline, but an assertion +of non-existence. Gray, the poet, the cultivated connoisseur, +the Professor of History, writing in 1763 to Count Algarrotti, says: +‘Why this nation has made no advances hitherto in painting and +sculpture it is hard to say; the fact is undeniable, and we have the +vanity to apologise for ourselves as Virgil did for the Romans:</p> +<blockquote><p>Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera,<br /> +Credo equidem, vivos ducent de marmore vultus,<br /> +Orabunt causas melius, coelique meatus<br /> +<!-- page 297--><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>Describent +radio, et surgentia sidera dicent:<br /> +Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento;<br /> +Hae tibi erunt artes; pacisque imponere morem,<br /> +Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘You are generous enough to wish, and sanguine enough to see +that art shall one day flourish in England. <i>I too much wish, +but can hardly extend my hopes so far</i>.’ Yet in 1754 +Chippendale had published his Cabinet Makers’ Guide; and the next +fifty years was to see the production of all that beautiful English +furniture of which we are so justly proud, and which we forge with such +surprising skill. It was the next fifty years that saw the production +of the beautiful English pottery which we prize so highly, and it was +the next hundred years that was to be the period of Reynolds, Gainsborough, +Lawrence, Crome, Cotman, Alfred Stevens, and Turner, who died in 1851, +just when the Pre-Raphaelites were supposed to be inaugurating the decay +of that which Gray denied the existence, nearly one hundred years before.</p> +<p>Though the scope of my discussion is limited to literature and art, +it would be paltry to confine our inquiries within limited <!-- page 298--><a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>horizons. +Painting and architecture, alas, are not the whole of life; the fine +arts are only the flowers of existence; they are useful as humanising +elements; but they are not indispensable. That vague community +among whom we arbitrarily place those with whom we disagree—the +Philistines—get on very well without them. But even Philistines +have to reckon with Religion and Science, and in a lesser degree with +Philosophy. That powerful trinity affects our every-day life. +Philosophy is so cloistered, so difficult to understand, that we seldom +hear of its decay; though we are constantly told that some branch of +science is being neglected, or owing to a religious revival that its +prestige is becoming undermined; its truths are becoming falsehoods. +I am not a man of science, not even a student, only a desultory reader. +Yet I suggest that, as was pointed out in the case of the fine arts, +certain branches of the divine scholarship, if I may call it so, may +be arrested temporarily in any development they may have reached. +Let us take medicine. Medicine is primarily based upon the study +of anatomy or structure—physiology—or the <!-- page 299--><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>scheme +of structure carried out in life; and upon botany and chemistry as representing +the vegetable and mineral worlds where the remedies are sought. +Anatomy soon reaches a finite position, when a sufficient number of +careful dissections has been made; the other divisions used to look +like promising endless development; but there is reason to suppose that +they too, as far as medicine is concerned, have reached a sterile perfection.</p> +<p>The microscope is perfected up to a point which mechanicians think +cannot be improved upon; so that those ultimate elements of physiology +which depend upon the observation of minute structure are known to us. +To put it crudely, we cannot discover any more germs, whose presence +is hidden from us by mere minuteness, unless we can improve our machinery, +and that, we are told, is an improbable event. I will not labour +the point by applying it to botany, which is very obvious, or to chemistry, +where it is not so clear. But it <i>is</i> clear that owing to +a feeling that not much more is to be got from minute observation with +the tools at our disposal, the brightest intellects and most inventive +<!-- page 300--><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 300</span>clairvoyant +work are shunted into more imaginative channels. There are no +men who guess so brilliantly as men of science, so that science, in +that respect, has attained the dignity of Theology. I suppose +that the startling theories propounded by Sir Oliver Lodge and others +will be taken as evidence of the decay of science. But the human +intellect, especially if it is scientific, cannot, I imagine, like actors, +go on repeating or feigning the same emotion. It must leave for +the moment as apparently completed one branch of knowledge to which +it may return again after developing some less mature branch on which +the attention of the most learned investigators is for a time wholly +concentrated. The tree of knowledge is an evergreen, and in science, +no more than in arts, is there any decay. When Darwin published +his great <i>Origin of Species</i> which was hailed as a revelation, +not only by scientific men, but by intelligent laymen, religious people +became very much alarmed. They talked about the decay of faith, +and ascribed any falling off in the offertories to the shillings spent +on visiting the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens. <!-- page 301--><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>Younger +sons and less gifted members of clever families were no longer destined +for Holy Orders; as we were descended from apes it would have seemed +impious. They were sent to Cambridge to pursue a so-called scientific +career, which was crowned by the usual ægrotat in botany instead +of a pass in history. The falling off in candidates for Holy Orders +seriously alarmed some of our Bishops; and Darwin—the gentle, +delightful Darwin—became what the Pope had been to our ancestors. +I need not point out how groundless these fears happily proved to be. +The younger intellects of the country simply became more interested +for the moment in the cross-breeding of squirrels, than in the internecine +difficulties of the Protestant church on Apostolic succession, the number +of candles on the altar, and the legality of incense. Now, I rejoice +to say, there is a healthy revival of interest and a healthy difference +of opinion on all these important religious questions. We must +never pay serious attention to the alarmists who tell us that the churches +and sects are seeing their last days. Macaulay has warned us never +to be too sanguine about the <!-- page 302--><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>Church +of Rome. The moments of her greatest trials produced some of her +greatest men—Ignatius Loyola, Philip Neri, and Francis Xavier. +Do you think the Church is decaying because the congregations are banished +from France, and the Concordat has come to an end? I tell you +it will only stimulate her to further conquests; it is the beginning +of a new life for the Catholic Church in France. If the Anglican +Church were to be disestablished to-morrow, I would regard it as a Sandow +exercise for the hardworking, splendid intellects of the Establishment. +The Nonconformists—well, they never talk about their own decline; +of all the divisions of Christianity they always seem to me heartily +to enjoy persecution; and like myself, I never knew them to admit the +word <i>décadence</i> into their vocabulary, at least about themselves. +I hold them up to you as examples. Let us all be Nonconformists +in that respect.</p> +<p>I do not ask you to adopt the habit against which Matthew Arnold +directed one of his witty essays, the habit of expressing a too unctuous +satisfaction with the age and time in which we are living. That +was the <!-- page 303--><a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>intellectual +error of the Eighteenth Century. There are problems of poverty, +injustice, disease, and unhappiness, which should make the most prosperous +and most selfish of us chafe; but I do urge that we should not suspect +the art and literature of our time, the intellectual manifestations +of our age, whether scientific or literary. I urge that we do +not sit on the counter in order to cry ‘stinking fish,’ +and observe that this is merely an age of commerce. An overweening +modesty in us seems to persuade us that it is quite impossible we should +be fortunate enough to be the contemporaries of great men. The +fact that we know them personally sometimes undermines our faith; contemporary +contempt for a great man is too often turned on the contemporaries. +Do not let us look upon genius, as Schopenhauer accused some people +of doing, ‘as upon a hare which is good to eat when it has been +killed and dressed up, but so long as it is alive only good to be shot +at.’ And if our intellectuals are not all Brobdingnagians, +they are not all Liliputians. It seems to me ungenerous to make +sweeping and deprecating assertions about our own time; it is also dangerous. +<!-- page 304--><a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>The +contemporary praise of unworthy work, ephemeral work—there is +always plenty of that, we know—is forgotten; and (though it does +not decay) perishes with the work it extolled. But unsound criticism +and foolish abuse of great work is remembered to the confusion of the +critics. Think of the reception accorded to Wordsworth, Coleridge, +Byron, Keats, Shelley, Rossetti, and Swinburne.</p> +<p>I remember that excellent third-rate writer, W. E. H. Lecky, making +a speech at a dinner of the Authors’ Society, in which he said +that he was sorry to say there were no great writers alive, and no stylists +to compare with those who had passed away. A few paces off him +sat Walter Pater, George Meredith, and Mr. Austin Dobson. Tennyson, +though not present at the banquet, was president of the Society, and +Ruskin was still alive. When Swinburne’s ‘Atalanta +in Calydon’ appeared, another third-rate writer, James Russell +Lowell, assured the world that its author was no poet, because there +was no thought in the verse. Four years ago, at a provincial town +in Italy, when one of the Italian ministers, at the opening of some +public <!-- page 305--><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>building, +said that united Italy owed to the great English poet Swinburne a debt +which it could never forget, the inhabitants cheered vociferously. +This was no idle compliment; every one in Italy knows who Swinburne +was. I will not hazard to guess the extent of the ovation which +the names of Lowell and Lecky would receive, but I think the incident +is a fair sign that English poetry has not decayed.</p> +<p>In the <i>Daily Mail</i> I saw once an interview with an inferior +American black-and-white draughtsman at Berlin. He was asked his +opinion about a splendid exhibition of old English pictures being held +there, and took occasion to say ‘what the pictures demonstrate +is not that the English women of the eighteenth century were conspicuously +lovely, but the artists who painted them possessed secrets of reproduction +which posterity has failed to inherit.’ I would like to +reply ‘Rot, rot, rot;’ but that would imply a belief in +decay. I suggest to the same critic that he should visit one of +the ‘International Exhibitions,’ where he will see the pictures +of Mr. Charles Hazelwood Shannon. Such a stupid view from an <!-- page 306--><a name="page306"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 306</span>American +is particularly amazing, because in Mr. John Singer Sargent, we (by +<i>we</i> I mean America and ourselves) possess an artist who is certainly +the peer of Gainsborough and Reynolds, and personally I should say a +much greater painter than Reynolds. A hundred years hence, perhaps +people at Berlin (the most critical and cultivated capital in the world) +will be bending before the ‘Three Daughters of Percy Wyndham,’ +the ‘Duchess of Sutherland,’ the ‘Marlborough Family,’ +and many another masterpiece of Mr. Sargent and Mr. Charles Shannon. +The same American critic says that our era of mediocrity will continue; +so I am full of hope. Even the existence of America does not depress +me: nor do I see in it a symptom of decay; if it produces much that +is distasteful in the way of tinned meat, it gave us Mr. John Sargent +and Mr. Henry James, and it took away from England Mr. Richard Le Gallienne.</p> +<p>I should be the last to invite you not to discriminate about the +present. We must be cautious in estimating the very popular writers +or painters of our time; but we must not <!-- page 307--><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>dismiss +them because they are popular. We should be tall enough to worship +in a crowd. Let our criticism be aristocratic, our taste fastidious, +and let our sympathies be democratic and catholic. Dickens, I +suppose, is one of the most popular writers who ever lived, and yet +he is part of the structure of our literature; but as Dickens is dead, +I prefer to mention the names of three living writers, who are also +popular, and have become corner-stones of the same building—Mr. +Thomas Hardy, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. H. G. Wells. ‘There +are at all times,’ says Schopenhauer, ‘two literatures in +progress running side by side, but little known to each other; the one +real, the other only apparent. The former grows into permanent +literature: it is pursued by those who live <i>for</i> science or poetry. +The other is pursued by those who live <i>on</i> science or poetry; +but after a few years one asks where are they? where is the glory that +came so soon and made so much clamour?’ We are happy if +we can discriminate between those two literatures.</p> +<p>While we should remember that there are at all times intellects whose +work is <!-- page 308--><a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>more +for posterity than for the present; work which appeals, perhaps, only +to the few, that of artists whose work has no purchasers, writers whose +books may have publishers but few readers, we must be cautious about +accepting the verdict of the dove-cot. There are many obscure +artists and writers whose work, though admired by a select few, remains +very properly obscure, and will always remain obscure; it is of no value +intellectually; the world should know nothing of its inferior men. +Sometimes, however, it is these inferior men who are able to get temporary +places as critics, and inform us in leading articles that ours is an +age <i>of Decadence</i>. Every new drama, every work of art which +possesses individuality or gives a fresh point of view or evinces development +of any kind, is held up as an instance of Decay. ‘<i>L’école +décadent</i>’ was a phrase invented as a jest in 1886, +I believe by Monsieur Bourde, a journalist in Paris. It was eagerly +adopted by the Parisians, and soon floated across the Channel. +Used as a term of reproach, it was accepted by the group of poets it +was intended to ridicule. I need not remind you that the master +of that school <!-- page 309--><a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>was +Paul Verlaine, the immortal poet who enlarged the scope of French verse—the +poet who achieved for French poetry what I am told the so-called decadent +philosopher Nietzsche has done for German prose. Unfortunately +I do not know German, and it seems almost impossible to add to the German +language. But Nietzsche, I am assured by competent authorities, +has performed a similar feat to that of Luther on the issue of his Bible.</p> +<p>When, therefore, we hear of decadence in literature or art, even +if we accept Mr. Balfour’s definition of its symptom—‘<i>the +employment of an over-wrought technique</i>’—we must remember +that Decadence and Decay have now different meanings, though originally +they meant the same sort of thing. An over-wrought technique is +characteristic of the decadent school of France, particularly of Mallarmé, +and some of our own decadents. Walter Pater and Sir Thomas Browne. +The existence of writers adopting an over-wrought technique, however, +is not (and Mr. Balfour would repudiate the idea) a sign of decay as +commonplace moralists would have us believe, <!-- page 310--><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 310</span>but +of realised perfection. Pater is the most perfect prose writer +we ever produced. The Euphuists of the sixteenth century were +of course decadents, and I think you will admit that they did not herald +any decay in our literature.</p> +<p>The truth is that men after a certain age, if not on the crest of +the waves themselves, become bored with counting the breakers, and decide +that the tide is going out. You must often have had arguments +with friends on this subject when walking by the sea. The water +seems to be receding; you can see that there is an ebb; and then an +unusually long wave comes up and wets your feet. Great writers +are guilty of a similar error without any intention of contriving a +literary conceit (as I suspect many a past outcry to have been). +Even Pater declared that he would not disturb himself by reading any +contemporary literature published by an author who did not exist before +1870. He never read Stevenson or Kipling. Now that is a +terrible state to be in; it is a symptom of premature old age; not physical +but mental old age.</p> +<p>The art of the present day is not architecture, <!-- page 311--><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 311</span>painting, +or literature. It is the art of remaining young. It is the +art of life. It is a science. The fairer, the stronger, +the better sex—shall I call its members our equals or our superiors?—have +always realised this. Indeed, they have employed ingenious mechanical +contrivances for arresting the march of time or that physical decay +of which we are all victims. Sometimes they may be said to have +indulged in an over-wrought technique, which may be the reason why we +are told that every woman is at heart a decadent. Otto Weininger +certainly thought so. I have always regretted that the male sex +was precluded by prejudice from following their example. I regret +somewhat acutely the desuetude of the periwig.</p> +<p>So we can take an example from women—they are so often our +theme, let them be our examples in a symbolical sense. If we choose, +we too can remain young intellectually, sensitive to new impressions, +new impulses and new revelations, whether of science or art. The +Greeks of the fifth century, and even of the age of St. Paul, preserved +their youth by cultivating the superb gift of curiosity, delightful +anxiety <!-- page 312--><a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>about +the present and future. William Morris once described the Whigs +as careless of the past, ignorant of the present, and fearful of the +future. Whatever your politics are, do not be like the Whigs as +described by William Morris. Cultivate a feminine curiosity. +I used to be told the old story of Blue Beard as a warning against that +particular failing. I see in it a much profounder moral. +It is the emancipation of woman; and asserts her right, if not to vote, +at least to be curious. Her curiosity rid the world of a monster, +and in her curiosity we see the nucleus of the new drama. That +little blood-stained key unlocked for us the cupboard where the family +skeleton had been left too long in the cold; it was time that he joined +the festive board, or, at least, appeared on the boards: and now, I +am glad to say, he has done so; and he is called new-fangled. +Do not let us call things ‘new-fangled.’ New-fangled +medicine probably saves fifty per cent. of the population from premature +death. Do not speak of the ‘crudity of youth.’ +Youth is sometimes crude. It is better than being rude. +It is an error to mock at the single <!-- page 313--><a name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>virtue +a possible offender may possess. I observe that men of science +remain younger intellectually, and even physically, than artists or +men of letters. I believe it is because to them science is always +full of surprises and fresh impressions. They know there is practically +no end to their knowledge; and that in the study of science there is +no decay, whatever they may detect in the crust of the earth or on the +face of heaven. They are never satisfied with the past. +They look to youth and its enthusiasms for realising their own dreams +and developing their own hypotheses. And as there are great men +of science to-day, so, too, there are great men of letters, great poets, +and great painters, some of whose names you may not have heard. +But when you do hear of them I beg of you not to regard any of them +as symptoms of decay, even if their technique is elaborate and over-wrought. +The <i>early</i> work of every modern painter is over-elaborate and +over-wrought, just as all the work of early painters is over-elaborate +and over-wrought. Do not greet the dawn as though it were a lowering +sunset. Listen, and, with William Blake, you may <!-- page 314--><a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 314</span>hear +the sons of God shouting for joy. If your mind is bent on decay, +read that neglected poet, Byron. He thought the romantic movement, +of which he became the accidental centre, a symptom of decay. +Read any period of history and its literature, and you will find the +same cry reiterated. When you have read an old book go out and +buy a new one. When you have sold your old masters, go out and +buy new masters. Aladdin’s maid is one of the wronged characters +of legend. . . . Of the Pierian spring there are many fountains. +Yet it is a spring which never runs dry; though it flows with greater +freedom at one season than at another, with greater volume from one +fountain than some other. In the glens of Parnassus there are +hidden flowers always blooming; though, to the binoculars of the tourist, +the mountain seems unusually barren. You will find that youth +does not vanish with the rose, that you need never close the sweet-scented +manuscript of love, science, art or literature. In them youth +returns like daffodils that come before the swallow dares, and take +the winds of March with beauty: or like the snapdragons which <!-- page 315--><a name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>Cardinal +Newman saw blossoming on the wall at Oxford, and which became for him +the symbol of hope. For us they may stand as the symbol of realisation +and the immortality of the human intellect, in which there has been +no decay since the days of Tubal Cain.</p> +<p><i>To</i> <span class="smcap">J. G. Legge, Esq</span>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASQUES & PHASES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 17601-h.htm or 17601-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/0/17601 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://www.gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: +http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +</pre></body> +</html> |