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diff --git a/2292-h/2292-h.htm b/2292-h/2292-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c7ab581 --- /dev/null +++ b/2292-h/2292-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6879 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Yet Again, by Max Beerbohm +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.block {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Yet Again, by Max Beerbohm + +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: Yet Again + +Author: Max Beerbohm + +Posting Date: March 24, 2009 [EBook #2292] +Release Date: August, 2000 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YET AGAIN *** + + + + +Produced by Tom Weiss. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +Yet Again +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Max Beerbohm +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P> +Till I gave myself the task of making a little selection from what I +had written since last I formed a book of essays, I had no notion that +I had put, as it were, my eggs into so many baskets—The Saturday +Review, The New Quarterly, The New Liberal Review, Vanity Fair, The +Daily Mail, Literature, The Traveller, The Pall Mall Magazine, The May +Book, The Souvenir Book of Charing Cross Hospital Bazaar, The Cornhill +Magazine, Harper's Magazine, and The Anglo-Saxon Review...Ouf! But the +sigh of relief that I heave at the end of the list is accompanied by a +smile of thanks to the various authorities for letting me use here what +they were so good as to require. +<BR><BR> +M. B. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<H4> + <A HREF="#fire">THE FIRE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#seeing">SEEING PEOPLE OFF</A><BR> + <A HREF="#memory">A MEMORY OF A MIDNIGHT EXPRESS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#porro">PORRO UNUM...</A><BR> + <A HREF="#club">A CLUB IN RUINS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#273">'273'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#dejection">A STUDY IN DEJECTION</A><BR> + <A HREF="#imposture">A PATHETIC IMPOSTURE</A><BR> + <A HREF="#decline">THE DECLINE OF THE GRACES</A><BR> + <A HREF="#writing">WHISTLER'S WRITING</A><BR> + <A HREF="#ichabod">ICHABOD</A><BR> + <A HREF="#elections">GENERAL ELECTIONS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#parallel">A PARALLEL</A><BR> + <A HREF="#morris">A MORRIS FOR MAY-DAY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#manner">THE HOUSE OF COMMONS MANNER</A><BR> + <A HREF="#streets">THE NAMING OF STREETS</A><BR> + <A HREF="#birthday">ON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY</A><BR> + <A HREF="#homecoming">A HOME-COMING</A><BR> + <A HREF="#regiment">'THE RAGGED REGIMENT'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#humour">THE HUMOUR OF THE PUBLIC</A><BR> + <A HREF="#dulcedo">DULCEDO JUDICIORUM</A><BR> +</H4> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +WORDS FOR PICTURES +</H2> + +<H4> + <A HREF="#harlequin">'HARLEQUIN'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#garden">'THE GARDEN OF LOVE'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#ariane">'ARIANE ET DIONYSE'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#peter">'PETER THE DOMINICAN'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#oiseau">'L' OISEAU BLEU'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#macbeth">'MACBETH AND THE WITCHES'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#carlotta">'CARLOTTA GRISI'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#hotei">'HO-TEI'</A><BR> + <A HREF="#visit">'THE VISIT'</A><BR> +</H4> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +'YET AGAIN' +</H2> + +<H4> + <A HREF="#yetagain">SOME CRITICISMS OF THE FIRST EDITION</A> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="fire"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE FIRE +</H3> + +<P> +If I were 'seeing over' a house, and found in every room an iron cage +let into the wall, and were told by the caretaker that these cages were +for me to keep lions in, I think I should open my eyes rather wide. Yet +nothing seems to me more natural than a fire in the grate. +</P> + +<P> +Doubtless, when I began to walk, one of my first excursions was to the +fender, that I might gaze more nearly at the live thing roaring and +raging behind it; and I dare say I dimly wondered by what blessed +dispensation this creature was allowed in a domain so peaceful as my +nursery. I do not think I ever needed to be warned against scaling the +fender. I knew by instinct that the creature within it was +dangerous—fiercer still than the cat which had once strayed into the +room and scratched me for my advances. As I grew older, I ceased to +wonder at the creature's presence and learned to call it 'the fire,' +quite lightly. There are so many queer things in the world that we have +no time to go on wondering at the queerness of the things we see +habitually. It is not that these things are in themselves less queer +than they at first seemed to us. It is that our vision of them has been +dimmed. We are lucky when by some chance we see again, for a fleeting +moment, this thing or that as we saw it when it first came within our +ken. We are in the habit of saying that 'first impressions are best,' +and that we must approach every question 'with an open mind'; but we +shirk the logical conclusion that we were wiser in our infancy than we +are now. 'Make yourself even as a little child' we often say, but +recommending the process on moral rather than on intellectual grounds, +and inwardly preening ourselves all the while on having 'put away +childish things,' as though clarity of vision were not one of them. +</P> + +<P> +I look around the room I am writing in—a pleasant room, and my own, +yet how irresponsive, how smug and lifeless! The pattern of the +wallpaper blamelessly repeats itself from wainscote to cornice; and the +pictures are immobile and changeless within their glazed frames—faint, +flat mimicries of life. The chairs and tables are just as their +carpenter fashioned them, and stand with stiff obedience just where +they have been posted. On one side of the room, encased in coverings of +cloth and leather, are myriads of words, which to some people, but not +to me, are a fair substitute for human company. All around me, in fact, +are the products of modern civilisation. But in the whole room there +are but three things living: myself, my dog, and the fire in my grate. +And of these lives the third is very much the most intensely vivid. My +dog is descended, doubtless, from prehistoric wolves; but you could +hardly decipher his pedigree on his mild, domesticated face. My dog is +as tame as his master (in whose veins flows the blood of the old +cavemen). But time has not tamed fire. Fire is as wild a thing as when +Prometheus snatched it from the empyrean. Fire in my grate is as fierce +and terrible a thing as when it was lit by my ancestors, night after +night, at the mouths of their caves, to scare away the ancestors of my +dog. And my dog regards it with the old wonder and misgiving. Even in +his sleep he opens ever and again one eye to see that we are in no +danger. And the fire glowers and roars through its bars at him with the +scorn that a wild beast must needs have for a tame one. 'You are free,' +it rages, 'and yet you do not spring at that man's throat and tear him +limb from limb and make a meal of him! 'and, gazing at me, it licks its +red lips; and I, laughing good-humouredly, rise and give the monster a +shovelful of its proper food, which it leaps at and noisily devours. +</P> + +<P> +Fire is the only one of the elements that inspires awe. We breathe air, +tread earth, bathe in water. Fire alone we approach with deference. And +it is the only one of the elements that is always alert, always good to +watch. We do not see the air we breathe—except sometimes in London, +and who shall say that the sight is pleasant? We do not see the earth +revolving; and the trees and other vegetables that are put forth by it +come up so slowly that there is no fun in watching them. One is apt to +lose patience with the good earth, and to hanker after a sight of those +multitudinous fires whereover it is, after all, but a thin and +comparatively recent crust. Water, when we get it in the form of a +river, is pleasant to watch for a minute or so, after which period the +regularity of its movement becomes as tedious as stagnation. It is only +a whole seaful of water that can rival fire in variety and in +loveliness. But even the spectacle of sea at its very best—say in an +Atlantic storm—is less thrilling than the spectacle of one building +ablaze. And for the rest, the sea has its hours of dulness and +monotony, even when it is not wholly calm. Whereas in the grate even a +quite little fire never ceases to be amusing and inspiring until you +let it out. As much fire as would correspond with a handful of earth or +a tumblerful of water is yet a joy to the eyes, and a lively suggestion +of grandeur. The other elements, even as presented in huge samples, +impress us as less august than fire. Fire alone, according to the +legend, was brought down from Heaven: the rest were here from the dim +outset. When we call a thing earthy we impute cloddishness; by 'watery' +we imply insipidness; 'airy' is for something trivial. 'Fiery' has +always a noble significance. It denotes such things as faith, courage, +genius. Earth lies heavy, and air is void, and water flows down; but +flames aspire, flying back towards the heaven they came from. They +typify for us the spirit of man, as apart from aught that is gross in +him. They are the symbol of purity, of triumph over corruption. Water, +air, earth, can all harbour corruption; but where flames are, or have +been, there is innocence. Our love of fire comes partly, doubtless, +from our natural love of destruction for destruction's sake. Fire is +savage, and so, even after all these centuries, are we, at heart. Our +civilisation is but as the aforesaid crust that encloses the old +planetary flames. To destroy is still the strongest instinct of our +nature. Nature is still 'red in tooth and claw,' though she has begun +to make fine flourishes with tooth-brush and nail-scissors. Even the +mild dog on my hearth-rug has been known to behave like a wolf to his +own species. Scratch his master and you will find the caveman. But the +scratch must be a sharp one: I am thickly veneered. Outwardly, I am as +gentle as you, gentle reader. And one reason for our delight in fire is +that there is no humbug about flames: they are frankly, primaevally +savage. But this is not, I am glad to say, the sole reason. We have a +sense of good and evil. I do not pretend that it carries us very far. +It is but the tooth-brush and nail-scissors that we flourish. Our +innate instincts, not this acquired sense, are what the world really +hinges on. But this acquired sense is an integral part of our minds. +And we revere fire because we have come to regard it as especially the +foe of evil—as a means for destroying weeds, not flowers; a destroyer +of wicked cities, not of good ones. +</P> + +<P> +The idea of hell, as inculcated in the books given to me when I was a +child, never really frightened me at all. I conceived the possibility +of a hell in which were eternal flames to destroy every one who had not +been good. But a hell whose flames were eternally impotent to destroy +these people, a hell where evil was to go on writhing yet thriving for +ever and ever, seemed to me, even at that age, too patently absurd to +be appalling. Nor indeed do I think that to the more credulous children +in England can the idea of eternal burning have ever been quite so +forbidding as their nurses meant it to be. Credulity is but a form of +incaution. I, as I have said, never had any wish to play with fire; but +most English children are strongly attracted, and are much less afraid +of fire than of the dark. Eternal darkness, with a biting east-wind, +were to the English fancy a far more fearful prospect than eternal +flames. The notion of these flames arose in Italy, where heat is no +luxury, and shadows are lurked in, and breezes prayed for. In England +the sun, even at its strongest, is a weak vessel. True, we grumble +whenever its radiance is a trifle less watery than usual. But that is +precisely because we are a people whose nature the sun has not +mellowed—a dour people, like all northerners, ever ready to make the +worst of things. Inwardly, we love the sun, and long for it to come +nearer to us, and to come more often. And it is partly because this +craving is unsatisfied that we cower so fondly over our open hearths. +Our fires are makeshifts for sunshine. Autumn after autumn, 'we see the +swallows gathering in the sky, and in the osier-isle we hear their +noise,' and our hearts sink. Happy, selfish little birds, gathering so +lightly to fly whither we cannot follow you, will you not, this once, +forgo the lands of your desire? 'Shall not the grief of the old time +follow?' Do winter with us, this once! We will strew all England, every +morning, with bread-crumbs for you, will you but stay and help us to +play at summer! But the delicate cruel rogues pay no heed to us, +skimming sharplier than ever in pursuit of gnats, as the hour draws +near for their long flight over gnatless seas. +</P> + +<P> +Only one swallow have I ever known to relent. It had built its nest +under the eaves of a cottage that belonged to a friend of mine, a man +who loved birds. He had a power of making birds trust him. They would +come at his call, circling round him, perching on his shoulders, eating +from his hand. One of the swallows would come too, from his nest under +the eaves. As the summer wore on, he grew quite tame. And when summer +waned, and the other swallows flew away, this one lingered, day after +day, fluttering dubiously over the threshold of the cottage. Presently, +as the air grew chilly, he built a new nest for himself, under the +mantelpiece in my friend's study. And every morning, so soon as the +fire burned brightly, he would flutter down to perch on the fender and +bask in the light and warmth of the coals. But after a few weeks he +began to ail; possibly because the study was a small one, and he could +not get in it the exercise that he needed; more probably because of the +draughts. My friend's wife, who was very clever with her needle, made +for the swallow a little jacket of red flannel, and sought to divert +his mind by teaching him to perform a few simple tricks. For a while he +seemed to regain his spirits. But presently he moped more than ever, +crouching nearer than ever to the fire, and, sidelong, blinking dim +weak reproaches at his disappointed master and mistress. One swallow, +as the adage truly says, does not make a summer. So this one's mistress +hurriedly made for him a little overcoat of sealskin, wearing which, in +a muffled cage, he was personally conducted by his master straight +through to Sicily. There he was nursed back to health, and liberated on +a sunny plain. He never returned to his English home; but the nest he +built under the mantelpiece is still preserved in case he should come +at last. +</P> + +<P> +When the sun's rays slant down upon your grate, then the fire blanches +and blenches, cowers, crumbles, and collapses. It cannot compete with +its archetype. It cannot suffice a sun-steeped swallow, or ripen a +plum, or parch the carpet. Yet, in its modest way, it is to your room +what the sun is to the world; and where, during the greater part of the +year, would you be without it? I do not wonder that the poor, when they +have to choose between fuel and food, choose fuel. Food nourishes the +body; but fuel, warming the body, warms the soul too. I do not wonder +that the hearth has been regarded from time immemorial as the centre, +and used as the symbol, of the home. I like the social tradition that +we must not poke a fire in a friend's drawing-room unless our +friendship dates back full seven years. It rests evidently, this +tradition, on the sentiment that a fire is a thing sacred to the +members of the household in which it burns. I dare say the fender has a +meaning, as well as a use, and is as the rail round an altar. In 'The +New Utopia' these hearths will all have been rased, of course, as +demoralising relics of an age when people went in for privacy and were +not always thinking exclusively about the State. Such heat as may be +needed to prevent us from catching colds (whereby our vitality would be +lowered, and our usefulness to the State impaired) will be supplied +through hot-water pipes (white-enamelled), the supply being strictly +regulated from the municipal water-works. Or has Mr. Wells arranged +that the sun shall always be shining on us? I have mislaid my copy of +the book. Anyhow, fires and hearths will have to go. Let us make the +most of them while we may. +</P> + +<P> +Personally, though I appreciate the radiance of a family fire, I give +preference to a fire that burns for myself alone. And dearest of all to +me is a fire that burns thus in the house of another. I find an +inalienable magic in my bedroom fire when I am staying with friends; +and it is at bedtime that the spell is strongest. 'Good night,' says my +host, shaking my hand warmly on the threshold; you've everything you +want?' 'Everything,' I assure him; 'good night.' 'Good night.' 'Good +night,' and I close my door, close my eyes, heave a long sigh, open my +eyes, set down the candle, draw the armchair close to the fire (my +fire), sink down, and am at peace, with nothing to mar my happiness +except the feeling that it is too good to be true. +</P> + +<P> +At such moments I never see in my fire any likeness to a wild beast. It +roars me as gently as a sucking dove, and is as kind and cordial as my +host and hostess and the other people in the house. And yet I do not +have to say anything to it, I do not have to make myself agreeable to +it. It lavishes its warmth on me, asking nothing in return. For fifteen +mortal hours or so, with few and brief intervals, I have been making +myself agreeable, saying the right thing, asking the apt question, +exhibiting the proper shade of mild or acute surprise, smiling the +appropriate smile or laughing just so long and just so loud as the +occasion seemed to demand. If I were naturally a brilliant and copious +talker, I suppose that to stay in another's house would be no strain on +me. I should be able to impose myself on my host and hostess and their +guests without any effort, and at the end of the day retire quite +unfatigued, pleasantly flushed with the effect of my own magnetism. +Alas, there is no question of my imposing myself. I can repay +hospitality only by strict attention to the humble, arduous process of +making myself agreeable. When I go up to dress for dinner, I have +always a strong impulse to go to bed and sleep off my fatigue; and it +is only by exerting all my will-power that I can array myself for the +final labours: to wit, making myself agreeable to some man or woman for +a minute or two before dinner, to two women during dinner, to men after +dinner, then again to women in the drawing-room, and then once more to +men in the smoking-room. It is a dog's life. But one has to have +suffered before one gets the full savour out of joy. And I do not +grumble at the price I have to pay for the sensation of basking, at +length, in solitude and the glow of my own fireside. +</P> + +<P> +Too tired to undress, too tired to think, I am more than content to +watch the noble and ever-changing pageant of the fire. The finest part +of this spectacle is surely when the flames sink, and gradually the +red-gold caverns are revealed, gorgeous, mysterious, with inmost +recesses of white heat. It is often thus that my fire welcomes me when +the long day's task is done. After I have gazed long into its depths, I +close my eyes to rest them, opening them again, with a start, whenever +a coal shifts its place, or some belated little tongue of flame spurts +forth with a hiss.... Vaguely I liken myself to the watchman one sees +by night in London, wherever a road is up, huddled half-awake in his +tiny cabin of wood, with a cresset of live coal before him.... I have +come down in the world, and am a night-watchman, and I find the life as +pleasant as I had always thought it must be, except when I let the fire +out, and awake shivering.... Shivering I awake, in the twilight of +dawn. Ashes, white and grey, some rusty cinders, a crag or so of coal, +are all that is left over from last night's splendour. Grey is the lawn +beneath my window, and little ghosts of rabbits are nibbling and +hobbling there. But anon the east will be red, and, ere I wake, the sky +will be blue, and the grass quite green again, and my fire will have +arisen from its ashes, a cackling and comfortable phoenix. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="seeing"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SEEING PEOPLE OFF +</H3> + +<P> +I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most +difficult things in the world, and probably seems so to you, too. +</P> + +<P> +To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we +are never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a +friend is going on a longish journey, and will be absent for a longish +time, that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend, +and the longer the journey, and the longer the likely absence, the +earlier do we turn up, and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failure +is in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depth +of our feeling. +</P> + +<P> +In a room, or even on a door-step, we can make the farewell quite +worthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor +do words fail us. There is no awkwardness, no restraint, on either +side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking +is an ideal one. Why not, then, leave the leave-taking at that? Always, +departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway +station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties, knowing +them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very +odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, they really do want +to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn +up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns! We stretch our arms vainly +across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say. +We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We 'make +conversation'—and such conversation! We know that these are the +friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not +altered. Yet, on the surface, everything is different; and the tension +is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an +end to the farce. +</P> + +<P> +On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see +off an old friend who was starting for America. +</P> + +<P> +Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was +well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his +return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow +of the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to +have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both these +emotions were made evident. It was a perfect farewell. +</P> + +<P> +And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and, +framed in the window of the railway-carriage, was the face of our +friend; but it was as the face of a stranger—a stranger anxious to +please, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. 'Have you got +everything?' asked one of us, breaking a silence. 'Yes, everything,' +said our friend, with a pleasant nod. 'Everything,' he repeated, with +the emphasis of an empty brain. 'You'll be able to lunch on the train,' +said I, though this prophecy had already been made more than once. 'Oh +yes,' he said with conviction. He added that the train went straight +through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We +exchanged glances. 'Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one of us. 'No,' +said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a +long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller, +said 'Well!' The nod, the smile, and the unmeaning monosyllable, were +returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a +fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit, but it served to pass +the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of +the train's departure. Release—ours, and our friend's—was not yet. +</P> + +<P> +My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was +talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window +but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young +lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English; otherwise I +should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I +wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was giving the +very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really +beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final injunctions. +I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the +magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I +experienced it? +</P> + +<P> +In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changed +since last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the Strand. +He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowed half-a-crown. +It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was always magnetic. +And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage +was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent actor, and a man of +sober habit. But, like many others of his kind, Hubert le Ros (I do +not, of course, give the actual name by which he was known) drifted +seedily away into the provinces; and I, like every one else, ceased to +remember him. +</P> + +<P> +It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform +of Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh +that he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard to +recognise. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as +integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his +costume was a model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, not +calling, attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would +have been proud to be seen off by him. +</P> + +<P> +'Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I waved +farewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in +both hands the hands of the young American. 'Stand back, sir, please!' +He obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word. +I think there were tears in her eyes. There certainly were tears in his +when, at length, having watched the train out of sight, he turned +round. He seemed, nevertheless, delighted to see me. He asked me where +I had been hiding all these years; and simultaneously repaid me the +half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his arm +in mine, and walked me slowly along the platform, saying with what +pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday. +</P> + +<P> +I told him, in return, how much he was missed on the stage. 'Ah, yes,' +he said, 'I never act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis on +the word 'stage,' and I asked him where, then, he did act. 'On the +platform,' he answered. 'You mean,' said I, 'that you recite at +concerts?' He smiled. 'This,' he whispered, striking his stick on the +ground, 'is the platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperity +unhinged him? He looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit. +</P> + +<P> +'I suppose,' he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar which +he had offered me, 'you have been seeing a friend off?' I assented. He +asked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched +him doing the same thing. 'No,' he said gravely. 'That lady was not a +friend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning, less than +half an hour ago, here,' and again he struck the platform with his +stick. +</P> + +<P> +I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. 'You may,' he said, 'have +heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?' I had not. He explained to +me that of the thousands of Americans who annually pass through England +there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the old days +they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so +inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are +written on. 'Thus,' said Le Ros, 'the A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt +want. Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of +money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty +per cent. of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is +retained by the A.A.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. If I were, I +should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employe'. But even so I +do very well. I am one of the seers-off.' +</P> + +<P> +Again I asked for enlightenment. 'Many Americans,' he said, 'cannot +afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen +off. The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a single +traveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more. +They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure, +and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the +platform. And then—well, then they are seen off.' +</P> + +<P> +'But is it worth it?' I exclaimed. 'Of course it is worth it,' said Le +Ros. 'It prevents them from feeling "out of it." It earns them the +respect of the guard. It saves them from being despised by their +fellow-passengers—the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives +them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a great pleasure in +itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did +it beautifully?' 'Beautifully,' I admitted. 'I envied you. There was +I—' 'Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling from foot to foot, +staring blankly at your friend, trying to make conversation. I know. +That's how I used to be myself, before I studied, and went into the +thing professionally. I don't say I'm perfect yet. I'm still a martyr +to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all +places to act in, as you have discovered for yourself.' 'But,' I said +with resentment, 'I wasn't trying to act. I really felt.' 'So did I, my +boy,' said Le Ros. 'You can't act without feeling. What's his name, the +Frenchman—Diderot, yes—said you could; but what did he know about it? +Didn't you see those tears in my eyes when the train started? I hadn't +forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you +couldn't have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your +feelings. In other words, you can't act. At any rate,' he added kindly, +'not in a railway station.' 'Teach me!' I cried. He looked thoughtfully +at me. 'Well,' he said at length, 'the seeing-off season is practically +over. Yes, I'll give you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand +already; but yes,' he said, consulting an ornate note-book, 'I could +give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays.' +</P> + +<P> +His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don't grudge the +investment. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="memory"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A MEMORY OF A MIDNIGHT EXPRESS +</H3> + +<P> +Often I have presentiments of evil; but, never having had one of them +fulfilled, I am beginning to ignore them. I find that I have always +walked straight, serenely imprescient, into whatever trap Fate has laid +for me. When I think of any horrible thing that has befallen me, the +horror is intensified by recollection of its suddenness. 'But a moment +before, I had been quite happy, quite secure. A moment later—' I +shudder. Why be thus at Fate's mercy always, when with a little +ordinary second sight...Yet no! That is the worst of a presentiment: it +never averts evil, it does but unnerve the victim. Best, after all, to +have only false presentiments like mine. Bolts that cannot be dodged +strike us kindliest from the blue. +</P> + +<P> +And so let me be thankful that my sole emotion as I entered an empty +compartment at Holyhead was that craving for sleep which, after +midnight, overwhelms every traveller—especially the Saxon traveller +from tumultuous and quick-witted little Dublin. Mechanically, +comfortably, as I sank into a corner, I rolled my rug round me, laid my +feet against the opposite cushions, twitched up my coat collar above my +ears, twitched down my cap over my eyes. +</P> + +<P> +It was not the jerk of the starting train that half awoke me, but the +consciousness that some one had flung himself into the compartment when +the train was already in motion. I saw a small man putting something in +the rack—a large black hand-bag. Through the haze of my sleep I saw +him, vaguely resented him. He had no business to have slammed the door +like that, no business to have jumped into a moving train, no business +to put that huge hand-bag into a rack which was 'for light baggage +only,' and no business to be wearing, at this hour and in this place, a +top-hat. These four peevish objections floated sleepily together round +my brain. It was not till the man turned round, and I met his eye, that +I awoke fully—awoke to danger. I had never seen a murderer, but I knew +that the man who was so steadfastly peering at me now...I shut my eyes. +I tried to think. Could I be dreaming? In books I had read of people +pinching themselves to see whether they were really awake. But in +actual life there never was any doubt on that score. The great thing +was that I should keep all my wits about me. Everything might depend on +presence of mind. Perhaps this murderer was mad. If you fix a lunatic +with your eye... +</P> + +<P> +Screwing up my courage, I fixed the man with my eye. I had never seen +such a horrible little eye as his. It was a sane eye, too. It radiated +a cold and ruthless sanity. It belonged not to a man who would kill you +wantonly, but to one who would not scruple to kill you for a purpose, +and who would do the job quickly and neatly, and not be found out. Was +he physically strong? Though he looked very wiry, he was little and +narrow, like his eyes. He could not overpower me by force, I thought +(and instinctively I squared my shoulders against the cushions, that he +might realise the impossibility of overpowering me), but I felt he had +enough 'science' to make me less than a match for him. I tried to look +cunning and determined. I longed for a moustache like his, to hide my +somewhat amiable mouth. I was thankful I could not see his mouth—could +not know the worst of the face that was staring at me in the lamplight. +And yet what could be worse than his eyes, gleaming from the deep +shadow cast by the brim of his top-hat? What deadlier than that square +jaw, with the bone so sharply delineated under the taut skin? +</P> + +<P> +The train rushed on, noisily swaying through the silence of the night. +I thought of the unseen series of placid landscapes that we were +passing through, of the unconscious cottagers snoring there in their +beds, of the safe people in the next compartment to mine—to his. Not +moving a muscle, we sat there, we two, watching each other, like two +hostile cats. Or rather, I thought, he watched me as a snake watches a +rabbit, and I, like a rabbit, could not look away. I seemed to hear my +heart beating time to the train. Suddenly my heart was at a standstill, +and the double beat of the train receded faintly. The man was pointing +upwards...I shook my head. He had asked me in a low voice, whether he +should pull the hood across the lamp. +</P> + +<P> +He was standing now with his back turned towards me, pulling his +hand-bag out of the rack. He had a furtive back—the back of a man who, +in his day, had borne many an alias. To this day I am ashamed that I +did not spring up and pinion him, there and then. Had I possessed one +ounce of physical courage, I should have done so. A coward, I let slip +the opportunity. I thought of the communication-cord, but how could I +move to it? He would be too quick for me. He would be very angry with +me. I would sit quite still and wait. Every moment was a long reprieve +to me now. Something might intervene to save me. There might be a +collision on the line. Perhaps he was a quite harmless man...I caught +his eyes, and shuddered... +</P> + +<P> +His bag was open on his knees. His right hand was groping in it. (Thank +Heaven he had not pulled the hood over the lamp!) I saw him pull out +something—a limp thing, made of black cloth, not unlike the thing +which a dentist places over your mouth when laughing-gas is to be +administered. 'Laughing-gas, no laughing matter'—the irrelevant and +idiotic embryo of a pun dangled itself for an instant in my brain. What +other horrible thing would come out of the bag? Perhaps some gleaming +instrument?... He closed the bag with a snap, laid it beside him. He +took off his top-hat, laid that beside him. I was surprised (I know not +why) to see that he was bald. There was a gleaming high light on his +bald, round head. The limp, black thing was a cap, which he slowly +adjusted with both hands, drawing it down over the brow and behind the +ears. It seemed to me as though he were, after all, hooding the lamp; +in my feverish fancy the compartment grew darker when the orb of his +head was hidden. The shadow of another simile for his action came +surging up... He had put on the cap so gravely, so judicially. Yes, +that was it: he had assumed the black cap, that decent symbol which +indemnifies the taker of a life; and might the Lord have mercy on my +soul... Already he was addressing me... What had he said? I asked him +to repeat it. My voice sounded even further away than his. He repeated +that he thought we had met before. I heard my voice saying politely, +somewhere in the distance, that I thought not. He suggested that I had +been staying at some hotel in Colchester six years ago. My voice, +drawing a little nearer to me, explained that I had never in my life +been at Colchester. He begged my pardon and hoped no offence would be +taken where none had been meant. My voice, coming right back to its own +quarters, reassured him that of course I had taken no offence at all, +adding that I myself very often mistook one face for another. He +replied, rather inconsequently, that the world was a small place. +</P> + +<P> +Evidently he must have prepared this remark to follow my expected +admission that I had been at that hotel in Colchester six years ago, +and have thought it too striking a remark to be thrown away. A +guileless creature evidently, and not a criminal at all. Then I +reflected that most of the successful criminals succeed rather through +the incomparable guilelessness of the police than through any devilish +cunning in themselves. Besides, this man looked the very incarnation of +ruthless cunning. Surely, he must but have dissembled. My suspicions of +him resurged. But somehow, I was no longer afraid of him. Whatever +crimes he might have been committing, and be going to commit, I felt +that he meant no harm to me. After all, why should I have imagined +myself to be in danger? Meanwhile, I would try to draw the man out, +pitting my wits against his. +</P> + +<P> +I proceeded to do so. He was very voluble in a quiet way. Before long I +was in possession of all the materials for an exhaustive biography of +him. And the strange thing was that I could not, with the best will in +the world, believe that he was lying to me. I had never heard a man +telling so obviously the truth. And the truth about any one, however +commonplace, must always be interesting. Indeed, it is the commonplace +truth—the truth of widest application—that is the most interesting of +all truths. +</P> + +<P> +I do not now remember many details of this man's story; I remember +merely that he was 'travelling in lace,' that he had been born at +Boulogne (this was the one strange feature of the narrative), that +somebody had once left him L100 in a will, and that he had a little +daughter who was 'as pretty as a pink.' But at the time I was +enthralled. Besides, I liked the man immensely. He was a kind and +simple soul, utterly belying his appearance. I wondered how I ever +could have feared him and hated him. Doubtless, the reaction from my +previous state intensified the kindliness of my feelings. Anyhow, my +heart went out to him. I felt that we had known each other for many +years. While he poured out his recollections I felt that he was an old +crony, talking over old days which were mine as well as his. Little by +little, however, the slumber which he had scared from me came hovering +back. My eyelids drooped; my comments on his stories became few and +muffled. 'There!' he said, 'you're sleepy. I ought to have thought of +that.' I protested feebly. He insisted kindly. 'You go to sleep,' he +said, rising and drawing the hood over the lamp. It was dawn when I +awoke. Some one in a top-hat was standing over me and saying 'Euston.' +'Euston?' I repeated. 'Yes, this is Euston. Good day to you.' 'Good day +to you,' I repeated mechanically, in the grey dawn. +</P> + +<P> +Not till I was driving through the cold empty streets did I remember +the episode of the night, and who it was that had awoken me. I wished I +could see my friend again. It was horrible to think that perhaps I +should never see him again. I had liked him so much, and he had seemed +to like me. I should not have said that he was a happy man. There was +something melancholy about him. I hoped he would prosper. I had a +foreboding that some great calamity was in store for him, and wished I +could avert it. I thought of his little daughter who was 'as pretty as +a pink.' Perhaps Fate was going to strike him through her. Perhaps when +he got home he would find that she was dead. There were tears in my +eyes when I alighted on my doorstep. +</P> + +<P> +Thus, within a little space of time, did I experience two deep +emotions, for neither of which was there any real justification. I +experienced terror, though there was nothing to be afraid of, and I +experienced sorrow, though there was nothing at all to be sorry about. +And both my terror and my sorrow were, at the time, overwhelming. +</P> + +<P> +You have no patience with me? Examine yourselves. Examine one another. +In every one of us the deepest emotions are constantly caused by some +absurdly trivial thing, or by nothing at all. Conversely, the great +things in our lives—the true occasions for wrath, anguish, rapture, +what not—very often leave us quite calm. We never can depend on any +right adjustment of emotion to circumstance. That is one of many +reasons which prevent the philosopher from taking himself and his +fellow-beings quite so seriously as he would wish. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="porro"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PORRO UNUM... +</H3> + +<P> +By graceful custom, every newcomer to a throne in Europe pays a round +of visits to his neighbours. When King Edward came back from seeing the +Tsar at Reval, his subjects seemed to think that he had fulfilled the +last demand on his civility. That was in the days of Abdul Hamid. None +of us wished the King to visit Turkey. Turkey is not internationally +powerful, nor had Abdul any Guelph blood in him; and so we were able to +assert, by ignoring her and him, our humanitarianism and passion for +liberty, quite safely, quite politely. Now that Abdul is deposed from +'his infernal throne,' it is taken as a matter of course that the King +will visit his successor. Well, let His Majesty betake himself and his +tact and a full cargo of Victorian Orders to Constantinople, by all +means. But, on the way, nestling in the very heart of Europe, perfectly +civilised and strifeless, jewelled all over with freedom, is another +country which he has not visited since his accession—a country which, +oddly enough, none but I seems to expect him to visit. Why, I ask, +should Switzerland be cold-shouldered? +</P> + +<P> +I admit she does not appeal to the romantic imagination. She never has, +as a nation, counted for anything. Physically soaring out of sight, +morally and intellectually she has lain low and said nothing. Not one +idea, not one deed, has she to her credit. All that is worth knowing of +her history can be set forth without compression in a few lines of a +guide-book. Her one and only hero—William Tell—never, as we now know, +existed. He has been proved to be a myth. Also, he is the one and only +myth that Switzerland has managed to create. He exhausted her poor +little stock of imagination. Living as pigmies among the blind excesses +of Nature, living on sufferance there, animalculae, her sons have been +overwhelmed from the outset, have had no chance whatsoever of +development. Even if they had a language of their own, they would have +no literature. Not one painter, not one musician, have they produced; +only couriers, guides, waiters, and other parasites. A smug, tame, sly, +dull, mercenary little race of men, they exist by and for the alien +tripper. They are the fine flower of commercial civilisation, the +shining symbol of international comity, and have never done anybody any +harm. I cannot imagine why the King should not give them the +incomparable advertisement of a visit. +</P> + +<P> +Not that they are badly in need of advertisement over here. Every year +the British trippers to Switzerland vastly outnumber the British +trippers to any other land—a fact which shows how little the romantic +imagination tells as against cheapness and comfort of hotels and the +notion that a heart strained by climbing is good for the health. And +this fact does but make our Sovereign's abstention the more remarkable. +Switzerland is not 'smart,' but a King is not the figure-head merely of +his entourage: he is the whole nation's figure-head. Switzerland, alone +among nations, is a British institution, and King Edward ought not to +snub her. That we expect him to do so without protest from us, seems to +me a rather grave symptom of flunkeyism. +</P> + +<P> +Fiercely resenting that imputation, you proceed to raise difficulties. +'Who,' you ask, 'would there be to receive the King in the name of the +Swiss nation?' I promptly answer, 'The President of the Swiss +Republic.' You did not expect that. You had quite forgotten, if indeed +you had ever heard, that there was any such person. For the life of +you, you could not tell me his name. Well, his name is not very widely +known even in Switzerland. A friend of mine, who was there lately, +tells me that he asked one Swiss after another what was the name of the +President, and that they all sought refuge in polite astonishment at +such ignorance, and, when pressed for the name, could only screw up +their eyes, snap their fingers, and feverishly declare that they had it +on the tips of their tongues. This is just as it should be. In an ideal +republic there should be no one whose name might not at any moment slip +the memory of his fellows. Some sort of foreman there must be, for the +State's convenience; but the more obscure he be, and the more +automatic, the better for the ideal of equality. In the Republics of +France and of America the President is of an extrusive kind. His office +has been fashioned on the monarchic model, and his whole position is +anomalous. He has to try to be ornamental as well as useful, a symbol +as well as a pivot. Obviously, it is absurd to single out one man as a +symbol of the equality of all men. And not less unreasonable is it to +expect him to be inspiring as a patriotic symbol, an incarnation of his +country. Only an anointed king, whose forefathers were kings too, can +be that. In France, where kings have been, no one can get up the +slightest pretence of emotion for the President. If the President is +modest and unassuming, and doesn't, as did the late M. Faure, make an +ass of himself by behaving in a kingly manner, he is safe from +ridicule: the amused smiles that follow him are not unkind. But in no +case is any one proud of him. Never does any one see France in him. In +America, where no kings have been, they are able to make a pretence of +enthusiasm for a President. But no real chord of national sentiment is +touched by this eminent gentleman who has no past or future eminence, +who has been shoved forward for a space and will anon be sent packing +in favour of some other upstart. Let some princeling of a foreign State +set foot in America, and lo! all the inhabitants are tumbling over one +another in their desire for a glimpse of him—a desire which is the +natural and pathetic outcome of their unsatisfied inner craving for a +dynasty of their own. Human nature being what it is, a monarchy is the +best expedient, all the world over. But, given a republic, let the +thing be done thoroughly, let the appearance be well kept up, as in +Switzerland. Let the President be, as there, a furtive creature and +insignificant, not merely coming no man knows whence, nor merely +passing no man knows whither, but existing no man knows where; and +existing not even as a name—except on the tip of the tongue. National +dignity, as well as the republican ideal, is served better thus. +Besides, it is less trying for the President. +</P> + +<P> +And yet, stronger than all my sense of what is right and proper is the +desire in me that the President of the Swiss Republic should, just for +once, be dragged forth, blinking, from his burrow in Berne (Berne is +the capital of Switzerland), into the glare of European publicity, and +be driven in a landau to the railway station, there to await the King +of England and kiss him on either cheek when he dismounts from the +train, while the massed orchestras of all the principal hotels play our +national anthem—and also a Swiss national anthem, hastily composed for +the occasion. I want him to entertain the King, that evening, at a +great banquet, whereat His Majesty will have the President's wife on +his right hand, and will make a brief but graceful speech in the Swiss +language (English, French, German, and Italian, consecutively) +referring to the glorious and never-to-be-forgotten name of William +Tell (embarrassed silence), and to the vast number of his subjects who +annually visit Switzerland (loud and prolonged cheers). Next morning, +let there be a review of twenty thousand waiters from all parts of the +country, all the head-waiters receiving a modest grade of the Victorian +Order. Later in the day, let the King visit the National Gallery—a +hall filled with picture post-cards of the most picturesque spots in +Switzerland; and thence let him be conducted to the principal factory +of cuckoo-clocks, and, after some of the clocks have been made to +strike, be heard remarking to the President, with a hearty laugh, that +the sound is like that of the cuckoo. How the second day of the visit +would be filled up, I do not know; I leave that to the President's +discretion. Before his departure to the frontier, the King will of +course be made honorary manager of one of the principal hotels. +</P> + +<P> +I hope to be present in Berne during these great days in the +President's life. But, if anything happen to keep me here, I shall +content myself with the prospect of his visit to London. I long to see +him and his wife driving past, with the proper escort of Life Guards, +under a vista of quadrilingual mottoes, bowing acknowledgments to us. I +wonder what he is like. I picture him as a small spare man, with a +slightly grizzled beard, and pleasant though shifty eyes behind a +pince-nez. I picture him frock-coated, bowler-hatted, and evidently +nervous. His wife I cannot at all imagine. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="club"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CLUB IN RUINS +</H3> + +<P> +An antique ruin has its privileges. The longer the period of its +crumbling, the more do the owls build their nests in it, the more do +the excursionists munch in it their sandwiches. Thus, year by year, its +fame increases, till it looks back with contempt on the days when it +was a mere upright waterproof. Local guide-books pander more and more +slavishly to its pride; leader-writers in need of a pathetic metaphor +are more and more frequently supplied by it. If there be any sordid +question of clearing it away to make room for something else, the +public outcry is positively deafening. +</P> + +<P> +Not that we are still under the sway of that peculiar cult which beset +us in the earlier part of the nineteenth century. A bad poet or painter +can no longer reap the reward of genius merely by turning his attention +to ruins under moonlight. Nor does any one cause to be built in his +garden a broken turret, for the evocation of sensibility in himself and +his guests. There used to be one such turret near the summit of Campden +Hill; but that familiar imposture was rased a year or two ago, no one +protesting. Fuit the frantic factitious sentimentalism for ruins. On +the other hand, the sentiment for them is as strong as ever it was. +Decrepit Carisbrooke and its rivals annually tighten their hold on +Britannia's heart. +</P> + +<P> +I do not grudge them their success. But the very fact that they are so +successful inclines me to reserve my own personal sentiment rather for +those unwept, unsung ruins which so often confront me, here and there, +in the streets of this aggressive metropolis. The ruins made, not by +Time, but by the ruthless skill of Labour, the ruins of houses not old +enough to be sacrosanct nor new enough to keep pace with the demands of +a gasping and plethoric community—these are the ruins that move me to +tears. No owls flutter in them. No trippers lunch in them. In no +guide-book or leading-article will you find them mentioned. Their +pathetic interiors gape to the sky and to the street, but nor gods nor +men hold out a hand to save them. The patterns of bedroom wall-papers, +(chosen with what care, after how long discussion! only a few short +years or months ago) stare out their obvious, piteous appeal to us for +mercy. And their dumb agony is echoed dumbly by the places where doors +have been—doors that lately were tapped at by respectful knuckles; or +the places where staircases have been—staircases down whose banisters +lately slid little children, laughing. Exposed, humiliated, doomed, the +home throws out a hundred pleas to us. And the Pharisaic community +passes by on the other side of the way, in fear of a falling brick. +Down come the walls of the home, as quickly as pickaxes can send them. +Down they crumble, piecemeal, into the foundations, and are carted +away. Soon other walls will be rising—red-brick 'residential' walls, +more in harmony with the Zeitgeist. None but I pays any heed to the +ruins. I am their only friend. Me they attract so irresistibly that I +haunt the door of the hoarding that encloses them, and am frequently +mistaken for the foreman. +</P> + +<P> +A few summers ago, I was watching, with more than usual emotion, the +rasure of a great edifice at a corner of Hanover Square. There were two +reasons why this rasure especially affected me. I had known the edifice +so well, by sight, ever since I was a small boy, and I had always +admired it as a fine example of that kind of architecture which is the +most suitable to London's atmosphere. Though I must have passed it +thousands of times, I had never passed without an upward smile of +approval that gaunt and sombre facade, with its long straight windows, +its well-spaced columns, its long straight coping against the London +sky. My eyes deplored that these noble and familiar things must perish. +For sake of what they had sheltered, my heart deplored that they must +perish. The falling edifice had not been exactly a home. It had been +even more than that. It had been a refuge from many homes. It had been +a club. +</P> + +<P> +Certainly it had not been a particularly distinguished club. Its +demolition could not have been stayed on the plea that Charles James +Fox had squandered his substance in its card-room, or that Lord +Melbourne had loved to doze on the bench in its hall. Nothing sublime +had happened in it. No sublime person had belonged to it. Persons +without the vaguest pretensions to sublimity had always, I believe, +found quick and easy entrance into it. It had been a large nondescript +affair. But (to adapt Byron) a club's a club tho' every one's in it. +The ceremony of election gives it a cachet which not even the smartest +hotel has. And then there is the note-paper, and there are the +newspapers, and the cigars at wholesale prices, and the +not-to-be-tipped waiters, and other blessings for mankind. If the +members of this club had but migrated to some other building, taking +their effects and their constitution with them, the ruin would have +been pathetic enough. But alas! the outward wreck was a symbol, a +result, of inner dissolution. Through the door of the hoarding the two +pillars of the front door told a sorry tale. Pasted on either of them +was a dingy bill, bearing the sinister imprimatur of an auctioneer, and +offering (in capitals of various sizes) Bedroom Suites (Walnut and +Mahogany), Turkey, Indian and Wilton Pile Carpets, Two Full-sized +Billiard-Tables, a Remington Type-writer, a Double Door (Fire-Proof), +and other objects not less useful and delightful. The club, then, had +gone to smash. The members had been disbanded, driven out of this Eden +by the fiery sword of the Law, driven back to their homes. Sighing over +the marcescibility of human happiness, I peered between the pillars +into the excavated and chaotic hall. The porter's hatch was still +there, in the wall. There it was, wondering why no inquiries were made +through it now, or, may be, why it had not been sold into bondage with +the double-door and the rest of the fixtures. A melancholy relic of +past glories! I crossed over to the other side of the road, and passed +my eye over the whole ruin. The roof, the ceilings, most of the inner +walls, had already fallen. Little remained but the grim, familiar +facade—a thin husk. I noted (that which I had never noted before) two +iron grills in the masonry. Miserable travesties of usefulness, +ventilating the open air! Through the gaping windows, against the wall +of the next building, I saw in mid-air the greenish Lincrusta Walton of +what I guessed to have been the billiard-room—the billiard-room that +had boasted two full-sized tables. Above it ran a frieze of white and +gold. It was interspersed with flat Corinthian columns. The gilding of +the capitals was very fresh, and glittered gaily under the summer +sunbeams. +</P> + +<P> +And hardly a day of the next autumn and winter passed but I was drawn +back to the ruin by a kind of lugubrious magnetism. The strangest thing +was that the ruin seemed to remain in practically the same state as +when first I had come upon it: the facade still stood high. This might +have been due to the proverbial laziness of British workmen, but I did +not think it could be. The workmen were always plying their pick-axes, +with apparent gusto and assiduity, along the top of the building; +bricks and plaster were always crashing down into the depths and +sending up clouds of dust. I preferred to think the building renewed +itself, by some magical process, every night. I preferred to think it +was prepared thus to resist its aggressors for so long a time that in +the end there would be an intervention from other powers. Perhaps from +this site no 'residential' affair was destined to scrape the sky? +Perhaps that saint to whom the club had dedicated itself would +reappear, at length, glorious equestrian, to slay the dragons who had +infested and desecrated his premises? I wondered whether he would then +restore the ruins, reinstating the club, and setting it for ever on a +sound commercial basis, or would leave them just as they were, a fixed +signal to sensibility. +</P> + +<P> +But, when first I saw the poor facade being pick-axed, I did not 'give' +it more than a fortnight. I had no feeling but of hopeless awe and +pity. The workmen on the coping seemed to me ministers of inexorable +Olympus, executing an Olympian decree. And the building seemed to me a +live victim, a scapegoat suffering sullenly for sins it had not +committed. To me it seemed to be flinching under every rhythmic blow of +those well-wielded weapons, praying for the hour when sunset should +bring it surcease from that daily ordeal. I caught myself nodding to +it—a nod of sympathy, of hortation to endurance. Immediately, I was +ashamed of my lapse into anthropomorphism. I told myself that my pity +ought to be kept for the real men who had been frequenters of the +building, who now were waifs. I reviewed the gaping, glassless windows +through which they had been wont to watch the human comedy. There they +had stood, puffing their smoke and cracking their jests, and tearing +women's reputations to shreds. +</P> + +<P> +Not that I, personally, have ever heard a woman's reputation torn to +shreds in a club window. A constant reader of lady-novelists, I have +always been hoping for this excitement, but somehow it has never come +my way. I am beginning to suspect that it never will, and am inclined +to regard it as a figment. Such conversation as I have heard in clubs +has been always of a very mild, perfunctory kind. A social club (even +though it be a club with a definite social character) is a collection +of heterogeneous creatures, and its aim is perfect harmony and +good-fellowship. Thus any definite expression of opinion by any member +is regarded as dangerous. The ideal clubman is he who looks genial and +says nothing at all. Most Englishmen find little difficulty in +conforming with this ideal. They belong to a silent race. Social clubs +flourish, therefore, in England. Intelligent foreigners, seeing them, +recognise their charm, and envy us them, and try to reproduce them at +home. But the Continent is too loquacious. On it social clubs quickly +degenerate into bear-gardens, and the basic ideal of good-fellowship +goes by the board. In Paris, Petersburg, Vienna, the only social clubs +that prosper are those which are devoted to games of chance—those +which induce silence by artificial means. Were I a foreign visitor, +taking cursory glances, I should doubtless be delighted with the clubs +of London. Had I the honour to be an Englishman, I should doubtless +love them. But being a foreign resident, I am somewhat oppressed by +them. I crave in them a little freedom of speech, even though such +freedom were their ruin. I long for their silence to be broken here and +there, even though such breakage broke them with it. It is not enough +for me to hear a hushed exchange of mild jokes about the weather, or of +comparisons between what the Times says and what the Standard says. I +pine for a little vivacity, a little boldness, a little variety, a few +gestures. A London club, as it is conducted, seems to me very like a +catacomb. It is tolerable so long as you do not actually belong to it. +But when you do belong to it, when you have outlived the fleeting +gratification at having been elected, when you...but I ought not to +have fallen into the second person plural. You, readers, are free-born +Englishmen. These clubs 'come natural' to you. You love them. To them +you slip eagerly from your homes. As for me, poor alien, had I been a +member of the club whose demolition has been my theme, I should have +grieved for it not one whit the more bitterly. Indeed, my tears would +have been a trifle less salt. It was my detachment that enabled me to +be so prodigal of pity. +</P> + +<P> +The poor waifs! Long did I stand, in the sunshine of that day when +first I saw the ruin, wondering and distressed, ruthful, indignant that +such things should be. I forgot on what errand I had come out. I +recalled it. Once or twice I walked away, bent on its fulfilment. But I +could not proceed further than a few yards. I halted, looked over my +shoulder, was drawn back to the spot, drawn by the crude, insistent +anthem of the pick-axes. The sun slanted towards Notting Hill. Still I +loitered, spellbound... I was aware of some one at my side, some one +asking me a question. 'I beg your pardon?' I said. The stranger was a +tall man, bronzed and bearded. He repeated his question. In answer, I +pointed silently to the ruin. 'That?' he gasped. He stared vacantly. I +saw that his face had become pale under its sunburn. He looked from the +ruin to me. 'You're not joking with me?' he said thickly. I assured him +that I was not. I assured him that this was indeed the club to which he +had asked to be directed. 'But,' he stammered, 'but—but—' 'You were a +member?' I suggested. 'I am a member,' he cried. 'And what's more, I'm +going to write to the Committee.' I suggested that there was one fatal +objection to such a course. I spoke to him calmly, soothed him with +words of reason, elicited from him, little by little, his sad story. It +appeared that he had been a member of the club for ten years, but had +never (except once, as a guest) been inside it. He had been elected on +the very day on which (by compulsion of his father) he set sail for +Australia. He was a mere boy at the time. Bitterly he hated leaving old +England; nor did he ever find the life of a squatter congenial. The one +thing which enabled him to endure those ten years of unpleasant exile +was the knowledge that he was a member of a London club. Year by year, +it was a keen pleasure to him to send his annual subscription. It kept +him in touch with civilisation, in touch with Home. He loved to know +that when, at length, he found himself once again in the city of his +birth he would have a firm foothold on sociability. The friends of his +youth might die, or might forget him. But, as member of a club, he +would find substitutes for them in less than no time. Herding bullocks, +all day long, on the arid plains of Central Australia, he used to keep +up his spirits by thinking of that first whisky-and-soda which he would +order from a respectful waiter as he entered his club. All night long, +wrapped in his blanket beneath the stars, he used to dream of that +drink to come, that first symbol of an unlost grip on civilisation... +He had arrived in London this very afternoon. Depositing his luggage at +an hotel, he had come straight to his club. 'And now...' He filled up +his aposiopesis with an uncouth gesture, signifying 'I may as well get +back to Australia.' +</P> + +<P> +I was on the point of offering to take him to my own club and give him +his first whisky-and-soda therein. But I refrained. The sight of an +extant club might have maddened the man. It certainly was very hard for +him, to have belonged to a club for ten years, to have loved it so +passionately from such a distance, and then to find himself destined +never to cross its threshold. Why, after all, should he not cross its +threshold? I asked him if he would like to. 'What,' he growled, 'would +be the good?' I appealed, not in vain, to the imaginative side of his +nature. I went to the door of the hoarding, and explained matters to +the foreman; and presently, nodding to me solemnly, he passed with the +foreman through the gap between the doorposts. I saw him crossing the +excavated hall, crossing it along a plank, slowly and cautiously. His +attitude was very like Blondin's, but it had a certain tragic dignity +which Blondin's lacked. And that was the last I saw of him. I hailed a +cab and drove away. What became of the poor fellow I do not know. Often +as I returned to the ruin, and long as I loitered by it, him I never +saw again. Perhaps he really did go straight back to Australia. Or +perhaps he induced the workmen to bury him alive in the foundations. +His fate, whatever it was, haunts me. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="273"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'273' +</H3> + +<P> +This is an age of prescriptions. Morning after morning, from the +back-page of your newspaper, quick and uncostly cures for every human +ill thrust themselves wildly on you. The age of miracles is not past. +But I would raise no false hopes of myself. I am no thaumaturgist. Do +you awake with a sinking sensation in the stomach? Have you lost the +power of assimilating food? Are you oppressed with an indescribable +lassitude? Can you no longer follow the simplest train of thought? Are +you troubled throughout the night with a hacking cough? Are you—in +fine, are you but a tissue of all the most painful symptoms of all the +most malignant maladies ancient and modern? If so, skip this essay, and +try Somebody's Elixir. The cure that I offer is but a cure for +overwrought nerves—a substitute for the ordinary 'rest-cure.' Nor is +it absurdly cheap. Nor is it instant. It will take a week or so of your +time. But then, the 'rest-cure' takes at least a month. The scale of +payment for board and lodging may be, per diem, hardly lower than in +the 'rest-cure'; but you will save all but a pound or so of the very +heavy fees that you would have to pay to your doctor and your nurse (or +nurses). And certainly, my cure is the more pleasant of the two. My +patient does not have to cease from life. He is not undressed and +tucked into bed and forbidden to stir hand or foot during his whole +term. He is not forbidden to receive letters, or to read books, or to +look on any face but his nurse's (or nurses'). Nor, above all, is he +condemned to the loathsome necessity of eating so much food as to make +him dread the sight of food. Doubtless, the grim, inexorable process of +the 'rest-cure' is very good for him who is strong enough and brave +enough to bear it, and rich enough to pay for it. I address myself to +the frailer, cowardlier, needier man. Instead of ceasing from life, and +entering purgatory, he need but essay a variation in life. He need but +go and stay by himself in one of those vast modern hotels which abound +along the South and East coasts. +</P> + +<P> +You are disappointed? All simple ideas are disappointing. And all good +cures spring from simple ideas. +</P> + +<P> +The right method of treating overwrought nerves is to get the patient +away from himself—to make a new man of him; and this trick can be done +only by switching him off from his usual environment, his usual habits. +The ordinary rest-cure, by its very harshness, intensifies a man's +personality at first, drives him miserably within himself; and only by +its long duration does it gradually wear him down and build him up +anew. There is no harshness in the vast hotels which I have +recommended. You may eat there as little as you like, especially if you +are en pension. Letters may be forwarded to you there; though, unless +your case is a very mild one, I would advise you not to leave your +address at home. There are reading-rooms where you can see all the +newspapers; though I advise you to ignore them. You suffer under no +sense of tyranny. And yet, no sooner have you signed your name in the +visitors' book, and had your bedroom allotted to you, than you feel +that you have surrendered yourself irrepleviably. It is not necessary +to this illusion that you should pass under an assumed name, unless you +happen to be a very eminent actor, or cricketer, or other idol of the +nation, whose presence would flutter the young persons at the bureau. +If your nervous breakdown be (as it more likely is) due to merely +intellectual distinction, these young persons will mete out to you no +more than the bright callous civility which they mete out impartially +to all (but those few) who come before them. To them you will be a +number, and to yourself you will have suddenly become a number—the +number graven on the huge brass label that depends clanking from the +key put into the hand of the summoned chambermaid. You are merely (let +us say) 273. +</P> + +<P> +Up you go in the lift, realising, as for the first time, your +insignificance in infinity, and rather proud to be even a number. You +recognise your double on the door that has been unlocked for you. No +prisoner, clapped into his cell, could feel less personal, less +important. A notice on the wall, politely requesting you to leave your +key at the bureau (as though you were strong enough or capacious enough +to carry it about with you) comes as a pleasant reminder of your +freedom. You remember joyously that you are even free from yourself. +You have begun a new life, have forgotten the old. This mantelpiece, so +strangely and brightly bare of photographs or 'knickknacks,' is meaning +in its meaninglessness. And these blank, fresh walls, that you have +never seen, and that never were seen by any one whom you know...their +pattern is of poppies and mandragora, surely. Poppies and mandragora +are woven, too, on the brand-new Axminster beneath your elastic step. +'Come in!' A porter bears in your trunk, deposits it on a trestle at +the foot of the bed, unstraps it, leaves you alone with it. It seems to +be trying to remind you of something or other. You do not listen. You +laugh as you open it. You know that if you examined these shirts you +would find them marked '273.' Before dressing for dinner, you take a +hot bath. There are patent taps, some for fresh water, others for sea +water. You hesitate. Yet you know that whichever you touch will effuse +but the water of Lethe, after all. You dress before your fire. The +coals have burnt now to a lovely glow. Once and again, you eye them +suspiciously. But no, there are no faces in them. All's well. +</P> + +<P> +Sleek and fresh, you sit down to dinner in the 'Grande Salle a' +Manger.' Graven on your wine-glasses, emblazoned on your soup-plate, +are the armorial bearings of the company that shelters you. The College +of Arms might sneer at them, be down on them, but to you they are a +joy, in their grand lack of links with history. They are a sympathetic +symbol of your own newness, your own impersonality. You glance down the +endless menu. It has been composed for a community. None of your +favourite dishes (you once had favourite dishes) appears in it, thank +heaven! You will work your way through it, steadily, unquestioningly, +gladly, with a communal palate. And the wine? All wines are alike here, +surely. You scour the list vaguely, and order a pint of 273. Your eye +roves over the adjacent tables. +</P> + +<P> +You behold a galaxy of folk evidently born, like yourself, anew. Some, +like yourself, are solitary. Others are with wives, with children—but +with new wives, new children. The associations of home have been +forgotten, even though home's actual appendages be here. The members of +the little domestic circles are using company manners. They are +actually making conversation, 'breaking the ice.' They are new here to +one another. They are new to themselves. How much newer to you! You +cannot 'place' them. That paterfamilias with the red moustache—is he a +soldier, a solicitor, a stockbroker, what? You play vaguely, vainly, at +the game of attributions, while the little orchestra in yonder bower of +artificial palm-trees plays new, or seemingly new, cake-walks. Who are +they, these minstrels in the shadow? They seem not to be the Red +Hungarians, nor the Blue, nor the Hungarians of any other colour of the +spectrum. You set them down as the Colourless Hungarians, and resume +your study of the tables. They fascinate you, these your fellow-diners. +You fascinate them, doubtless. They, doubtless, are cudgelling their +brains to 'spot' your state in life—your past, which now has escaped +you. Next day, some of them are gone; and you miss them, almost +bitterly. But others succeed them, not less detached and enigmatic than +they. You must never speak to one of them. You must never lapse into +those casual acquaintances of the 'lounge' or the smoking-room. Nor is +it hard to avoid them. No Englishman, how gregarious and garrulous +soever, will dare address another Englishman in whose eye is no spark +of invitation. There must be no such spark in yours. Silence is part of +the cure for you, and a very important part. It is mainly through +unaccustomed silence that your nerves are made trim again. Usually, you +are giving out in talk all that you receive through your senses of +perception. Keep silence now. Its gold will accumulate in you at +compound interest. You will realise the joy of being full of +reflections and ideas. You will begin to hoard them proudly, like a +miser. You will gloat over your own cleverness—you, who but a few days +since, were feeling so stupid. Solitude in a crowd, silence among +chatterboxes—these are the best ministers to a mind diseased. And with +the restoration of the mind, the body will be restored too. You, who +were physically so limp and pallid, will be a ruddy Hercules now. And +when, at the moment of departure, you pass through the hall, shyly +distributing to the servants that largesse which is so slight in +comparison with what your doctor and nurse (or nurses) would have +levied on you, you will feel that you are more than fit to resume that +burden of personality whereunder you had sunk. You will be victoriously +yourself again. +</P> + +<P> +Yet I think you will look back a little wistfully on the period of your +obliteration. People—for people are very nice, really, most of +them—will tell you that they have missed you. You will reply that you +did not miss yourself. And you will go the more strenuously to your +work and pleasure, so as to have the sooner an excuse for a good +riddance. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dejection"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A STUDY IN DEJECTION +</H3> + +<P> +Riderless the horse was, and with none to hold his bridle. But he +waited patiently, submissively, there where I saw him, at the shabby +corner of a certain shabby little street in Chelsea. 'My beautiful, my +beautiful, thou standest meekly by,' sang Mrs. Norton of her Arab +steed, 'with thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery +eye.' Catching the eye of this other horse, I saw that such fire as +might once have blazed there had long smouldered away. Chestnut though +he was, he had no mettle. His chestnut coat was all dull and rough, +unkempt as that of an inferior cab-horse. Of his once luxuriant mane +there were but a few poor tufts now. His saddle was torn and +weather-stained. The one stirrup that dangled therefrom was red with +rust. +</P> + +<P> +I never saw in any creature a look of such unutterable dejection. +Dejection, in the most literal sense of the word, indeed was his. He +had been cast down. He had fallen from higher and happier things. With +his 'arched neck,' and with other points which not neglect nor +ill-usage could rob of their old grace, he had kept something of his +fallen day about him. In the window of the little shop outside which he +stood were things that seemed to match him—things appealing to the +sense that he appealed to. A tarnished French mirror, a strip of faded +carpet, some rows of battered, tattered books, a few cups and saucers +that had erst been riveted and erst been dusted—all these, in a +gallimaufry of other languid odds and ends, seen through this +mud-splashed window, silently echoed the silent misery of the horse. +They were remembering Zion. They had been beautiful once, and +expensive, and well cared for, and admired, and coveted. And now... +</P> + +<P> +They had, at least, the consolation of being indoors. Public +laughing-stock though they were, they had a barrier of glass between +themselves and the irreverent world. To be warm and dry, too, was +something. Piteous, they could yet afford to pity the horse. He was +more ludicrously, more painfully, misplaced than they. A real +blood-horse that has done his work is rightly left in the open +air—turned out into some sweet meadow or paddock. It would be cruel to +make him spend his declining years inside a house, where no grass is. +Is it less cruel that a fine old rocking-horse should be thrust from +the nursery out into the open air, upon the pavement? +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps some child had just given the horse a contemptuous shove in +passing. For he was rocking gently when I chanced to see him. Nor did +he cease to rock, with a slight creak upon the pavement, so long as I +watched him. A particularly black and bitter north wind was blowing +round the corner of the street. Perhaps it was this that kept the horse +in motion. Boreas himself, invisible to my mortal eyes, may have been +astride the saddle, lashing the tired old horse to this futile +activity. But no, I think rather that the poor thing was rocking of his +own accord, rocking to attract my attention. He saw in me a possible +purchaser. He wanted to show me that he was still sound in wind and +limb. Had I a small son at home? If so, here was the very mount for +him. None of your frisky, showy, first-hand young brutes, on which no +fond parent ought to risk his offspring's bones; but a sound, +steady-going, well-mannered old hack with never a spark of vice in him! +Such was the message that I read in the glassy eye fixed on me. The +nostril of faded scarlet seemed for a moment to dilate and quiver. At +last, at last, was some one going to inquire his price? +</P> + +<P> +Once upon a time, in a far-off fashionable toy-shop, his price had been +prohibitive; and he, the central attraction behind the gleaming +shop-window, had plumed himself on his expensiveness. He had been in no +hurry to be bought. It had seemed to him a good thing to stand there +motionless, majestic, day after day, far beyond the reach of average +purses, and having in his mien something of the frigid nobility of the +horses on the Parthenon frieze, with nothing at all of their unreality. +A coat of real chestnut hair, glossy, glorious! From end to end of the +Parthenon frieze not one of the horses had that. +</P> + +<P> +From end to end of the toy-shop that exhibited him not one of the +horses was thus graced. Their flanks were mere wood, painted white, +with arbitrary blotches of grey here and there. Miserable creatures! It +was difficult to believe that they had souls. No wonder they were +cheap, and 'went off,' as the shopman said, so quickly, whilst he +stayed grandly on, cynosure of eyes that dared not hope for him. Into +bondage they went off, those others, and would be worked to death, +doubtless, by brutal little boys. +</P> + +<P> +When, one fine day, a lady was actually not shocked by the price +demanded for him, his pride was hurt. And when, that evening, he was +packed in brown paper and hoisted to the roof of a four-wheeler, he +faced the future fiercely. Who was this lady that her child should dare +bestride him? With a biblical 'ha, ha,' he vowed that the child should +not stay long in saddle: he must be thrown—badly—even though it was +his seventh birthday. But this wicked intention vanished while the +child danced around him in joy and wonder. Never yet had so many +compliments been showered on him. Here, surely, was more the manner of +a slave than of a master. And how lightly the child rode him, with +never a tug or a kick! And oh, how splendid it was to be flying thus +through the air! Horses were made to be ridden; and he had never before +savoured the true joy of life, for he had never known his own strength +and fleetness. Forward! Backward! Faster, faster! To floor! To ceiling! +Regiments of leaden soldiers watched his wild career. Noah's quiet +sedentary beasts gaped up at him in wonderment—as tiny to him as the +gaping cows in the fields are to you when you pass by in an express +train. This was life indeed! He remembered Katafalto—remembered +Eclipse and the rest nowhere. Aye, thought he, and even thus must Black +Bess have rejoiced along the road to York. And Bucephalus, skimming +under Alexander the plains of Asia, must have had just this glorious +sense of freedom. Only less so! Not Pegasus himself can have flown more +swiftly. Pegasus, at last, became a constellation in the sky. 'Some +day,' reflected the rocking-horse, when the ride was over, 'I, too, +shall die; and five stars will appear on the nursery ceiling.' +</P> + +<P> +Alas for the vanity of equine ambition! I wonder by what stages this +poor beast came down in the world. Did the little boy's father go +bankrupt, leaving it to be sold in a 'lot' with the other toys? Or was +it merely given away, when the little boy grew up, to a poor but +procreative relation, who anon became poorer? I should like to think +that it had been mourned. But I fear that whatever mourning there may +have been for it must have been long ago discarded. The creature did +not look as if it had been ridden in any recent decade. It looked as if +it had almost abandoned the hope of ever being ridden again. It was but +hoping against hope now, as it stood rocking there in the bleak +twilight. Bright warm nurseries were for younger, happier horses. Still +it went on rocking, to show me that it could rock. +</P> + +<P> +The more sentimental a man is, the less is he helpful; the more loth is +he to cancel the cause of his emotion. I did not buy the horse. +</P> + +<P> +A few days later, passing that way, I wished to renew my emotion; but +lo! the horse was gone. Had some finer person than I bought it?—towed +it to the haven where it would be? Likelier, it had but been relegated +to some mirky recess of the shop... I hope it has room to rock there. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="imposture"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PATHETIC IMPOSTURE +</H3> + +<P> +Lord Rosebery once annoyed the Press by declaring that his ideal +newspaper was one which should give its news without comment. Doubtless +he was thinking of the commonweal. Yet a plea for no comments might be +made, with equal force, in behalf of the commentators themselves. +Occupations that are injurious to the persons engaged in them ought not +to be encouraged. The writing of 'leaders' and 'notes' is one of these +occupations. The practice of it, more than of any other, depends on, +and fosters hypocrisy, worst of vices. In a sense, every kind of +writing is hypocritical. It has to be done with an air of gusto, though +no one ever yet enjoyed the act of writing. Even a man with a specific +gift for writing, with much to express, with perfect freedom in choice +of subject and manner of expression, with indefinite leisure, does not +write with real gusto. But in him the pretence is justified: he has +enjoyed thinking out his subject, he will delight in his work when it +is done. Very different is the pretence of one who writes at top-speed, +on a set subject, what he thinks the editor thinks the proprietor +thinks the public thinks nice. If he happen to have a talent for +writing, his work will be but the more painful, and his hypocrisy the +greater. The chances are, though, that the talent has already been +sucked out of him by Journalism, that vampire. To her, too, he will +have forfeited any fervour he may have had, any learning, any gaiety. +How can he, the jaded interpreter, hold any opinion, feel any +enthusiasm?—without leisure, keep his mind in cultivation?—be +sprightly to order, at unearthly hours in a whir-r-ring office? To +order! Yes, sprightliness is compulsory there; so are weightiness, and +fervour, and erudition. He must seem to abound in these advantages, or +another man will take his place. He must disguise himself at all costs. +But disguises are not easy to make; they require time and care, which +he cannot afford. So he must snatch up ready-made disguises—unhook +them, rather. He must know all the cant-phrases, the cant-references. +There are very, very many of them, and belike it is hard to keep them +all at one's finger-tips. But, at least, there is no difficulty in +collecting them. Plod through the 'leaders' and 'notes' in half-a-dozen +of the daily papers, and you will bag whole coveys of them. +</P> + +<P> +Most of the morning papers still devote much space to the old-fashioned +kind of 'leader,' in which the pretence is of weightiness, rather than +of fervour, sprightliness, or erudition. The effect of weightiness is +obtained simply by a stupendous disproportion of language to sense. The +longest and most emphatic words are used for the simplest and most +trivial statements, and they are always so elaborately qualified as to +leave the reader with a vague impression that a very difficult matter, +which he himself cannot make head or tail of, has been dealt with in a +very judicial and exemplary manner. +</P> + +<P> +A leader-writer would not, for instance, say— +</P> + +<P> +Lord Rosebery has made a paradox. +</P> + +<P> +He would say:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Lord Rosebery +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + whether intentionally or otherwise, we leave our readers to decide,<BR> + or, with seeming conviction,<BR> + or, doubtless giving rein to the playful humour which is + characteristic of him,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +has +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + expressed a sentiment,<BR> + or, taken on himself to enunciate a theory,<BR> + or, made himself responsible for a dictum,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +which, +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + we venture to assert,<BR> + or, we have little hesitation in declaring,<BR> + or, we may be pardoned for thinking,<BR> + or, we may say without fear of contradiction,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +is +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + nearly akin to<BR> + or, not very far removed from<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +the paradoxical. +</P> + +<P> +But I will not examine further the trick of weightiness—it takes up +too much of my space. Besides, these long 'leaders' are a mere +survival, and will soon disappear altogether. The 'notes' are the +characteristic feature of the modern newspaper, and it is in them that +the modern journalist displays his fervour, sprightliness, and +erudition. 'Note'-writing, like chess, has certain recognised openings, +e.g.:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + There is no new thing under the sun.<BR> + It is always the unexpected that happens.<BR> + Nature, as we know, abhors a vacuum.<BR> + The late Lord Coleridge once electrified his court by inquiring 'Who + is Connie Gilchrist?'<BR> +</P> + +<P> +And here are some favourite methods of conclusion:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + A mad world, my masters!<BR> + 'Tis true 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true.<BR> + There is much virtue in that 'if.'<BR> + But that, as Mr. Kipling would say, is another story.<BR> + Si non e' vero, etc.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +or (lighter style) +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> +We fancy we recognise here the hand of Mr. Benjamin Trovato. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Not less inevitable are such parallelisms as:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + Like Topsy, perhaps it 'growed.'<BR> + Like the late Lord Beaconsfield on a famous occasion, 'on the side of + the angels.'<BR> + Like Brer Rabbit, 'To lie low and say nuffin.'<BR> + Like Oliver Twist, 'To ask for more.'<BR> + Like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, 'extensive and peculiar.'<BR> + Like Napoleon, a believer in 'the big battalions.'<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Nor let us forget Pyrrhic victory, Parthian dart, and Homeric laughter; +quos deus vult and nil de mortuis; Sturm und Drang; masterly +inactivity, unctuous rectitude, mute inglorious Miltons, and damned +good-natured friends; the sword of Damocles, the thin edge of the +wedge, the long arm of coincidence, and the soul of goodness in things +evil; Hobson's choice, Frankenstein's monster, Macaulay's schoolboy, +Lord Burleigh's nod, Sir Boyle Roche's bird, Mahomed's coffin, and Davy +Jones's locker. +</P> + +<P> +A melancholy catalogue, is it not? But it is less melancholy for you +who read it here, than for them whose existence depends on it, who draw +from it a desperate means of seeming to accomplish what is impossible. +And yet these are the men who shrank in horror from Lord Rosebery's +merciful idea. They ought to be saved despite themselves. Might not a +short Act of Parliament be passed, making all comment in daily +newspapers illegal? In a way, of course, it would be hard on the +commentators. Having lost the power of independent thought, having sunk +into a state of chronic dulness, apathy and insincerity, they could +hardly, be expected to succeed in any of the ordinary ways of life. +They could not compete with their fellow-creatures; no door but would +be bolted if they knocked on it. What would become of them? Probably +they would have to perish in what they would call 'what the late Lord +Goschen would have called "splendid isolation."' But such an end were +sweeter, I suggest to them, than the life they are leading. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="decline"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE DECLINE OF THE GRACES +</H3> + +<P> +Have you read The Young Lady's Book? You have had plenty of time to do +so, for it was published in 1829. It was described by the two anonymous +Gentlewomen who compiled it as 'A Manual for Elegant Recreations, +Exercises, and Pursuits.' You wonder they had nothing better to think +of? You suspect them of having been triflers? They were not, believe +me. They were careful to explain, at the outset, that the Virtues of +Character were what a young lady should most assiduously cultivate. +They, in their day, labouring under the shadow of the eighteenth +century, had somehow in themselves that high moral fervour which marks +the opening of the twentieth century, and is said to have come in with +Mr. George Bernard Shaw. But, unlike us, they were not concerned wholly +with the inward and spiritual side of life. They cared for the material +surface, too. They were learned in the frills and furbelows of things. +They gave, indeed, a whole chapter to 'Embroidery.' Another they gave +to 'Archery,' another to 'The Aviary,' another to 'The Escrutoire.' +Young ladies do not now keep birds, nor shoot with bow and arrow; but +they do still, in some measure, write letters; and so, for sake of +historical comparison, let me give you a glance at 'The Escrutoire.' It +is not light reading. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'For careless scrawls ye boast of no pretence;<BR> + Fair Russell wrote, as well as spoke, with sense.'<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Thus is the chapter headed, with a delightful little wood engraving of +'Fair Russell,' looking pre-eminently sensible, at her desk, to prepare +the reader for the imminent welter of rules for 'decorous composition.' +Not that pedantry is approved. 'Ease and simplicity, an even flow of +unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious sentiments' +is the ideal to be striven for. 'A metaphor may be used with advantage' +by any young lady, but only 'if it occur naturally.' And 'allusions are +elegant,' but only 'when introduced with ease, and when they are well +understood by those to whom they are addressed.' 'An antithesis renders +a passage piquant'; but the dire results of a too-frequent indulgence +in it are relentlessly set forth. Pages and pages are devoted to a +minute survey of the pit-falls of punctuation. But when the young lady +of that period had skirted all these, and had observed all the manifold +rules of caligraphy that were here laid down for her, she was not, even +then, out of the wood. Very special stress was laid on 'the use of the +seal.' Bitter scorn was poured on young ladies who misused the seal. +'It is a habit of some to thrust the wax into the flame of the candle, +and the moment a morsel of it is melted, to daub it on the paper; and +when an unsightly mass is gathered together, to pass the seal over the +tongue with ridiculous haste—press it with all the strength which the +sealing party possesses—and the result is, an impression which raises +a blush on her cheek.' +</P> + +<P> +Well! The young ladies of that day were ever expected to exhibit +sensibility, and used to blush, just as they wept or fainted, for very +slight causes. Their tears and their swoons did not necessarily betoken +much grief or agitation; nor did a rush of colour to the cheek mean +necessarily that they were overwhelmed with shame. To exhibit various +emotions in the drawing-room was one of the Elegant Exercises in which +these young ladies were drilled thoroughly. And their habit of +simulation was so rooted in sense of duty that it merged into +sincerity. If a young lady did not swoon at the breakfast-table when +her Papa read aloud from The Times that the Duke of Wellington was +suffering from a slight chill, the chances were that she would swoon +quite unaffectedly when she realised her omission. Even so, we may be +sure that a young lady whose cheek burned not at sight of the letter +she had sealed untidily—'unworthily' the Manual calls it—would anon +be blushing for her shamelessness. Such a thing as the blurring of the +family crest, or as the pollution of the profile of Pallas Athene with +the smoke of the taper, was hardly, indeed, one of those 'very slight +causes' to which I have referred. The Georgian young lady was imbued +through and through with the sense that it was her duty to be +gracefully efficient in whatsoever she set her hand to. To the young +lady of to-day, belike, she will seem accordingly ridiculous—seem +poor-spirited, and a pettifogger. True, she set her hand to no +grandiose tasks. She was not allowed to become a hospital nurse, for +example, or an actress. The young lady of to-day, when she hears in +herself a 'vocation' for tending the sick, would willingly, without an +instant's preparation, assume responsibility for the lives of a whole +ward at St. Thomas's. This responsibility is not, however, thrust on +her. She has to submit to a long and tedious course of training before +she may do so much as smooth a pillow. The boards of the theatre are +less jealously hedged in than those of the hospital. If our young lady +have a wealthy father, and retain her schoolroom faculty for learning +poetry by heart, there is no power on earth to prevent her from making +her de'but, somewhere, as Juliet—if she be so inclined; and such is +usually her inclination. That her voice is untrained, that she cannot +scan blank-verse, that she cannot gesticulate with grace and propriety, +nor move with propriety and grace across the stage, matters not a +little bit—to our young lady. 'Feeling,' she will say, 'is +everything'; and, of course, she, at the age of eighteen, has more +feeling than Juliet, that 'flapper,' could have had. All those other +things—those little technical tricks—'can be picked up,' or 'will +come.' But no; I misrepresent our young lady. If she be conscious that +there are such tricks to be played, she despises them. When, later, she +finds the need to learn them, she still despises them. It seems to her +ridiculous that one should not speak and comport oneself as artlessly +on the stage as one does off it. The notion of speaking or comporting +oneself with conscious art in real life would seem to her quite +monstrous. It would puzzle her as much as her grandmother would have +been puzzled by the contrary notion. +</P> + +<P> +Personally, I range myself on the grandmother's side. I take my stand +shoulder to shoulder with the Graces. On the banner that I wave is +embroidered a device of prunes and prisms. +</P> + +<P> +I am no blind fanatic, however. I admit that artlessness is a charming +idea. I admit that it is sometimes charming as a reality. I applaud it +(all the more heartily because it is rare) in children. But then, +children, like the young of all animals whatsoever, have a natural +grace. As a rule, they begin to show it in their third year, and to +lose it in their ninth. Within that span of six years they can be +charming without intention; and their so frequent failure in charm is +due to their voluntary or enforced imitation of the ways of their +elders. In Georgian and Early Victorian days the imitation was always +enforced. Grown-up people had good manners, and wished to see them +reflected in the young. Nowadays, the imitation is always voluntary. +Grown-up people have no manners at all; whereas they certainly have a +very keen taste for the intrinsic charm of children. They wish children +to be perfectly natural. That is (aesthetically at least) an admirable +wish. My complaint against these grown-up people is, that they +themselves, whom time has robbed of their natural grace as surely as it +robs the other animals, are content to be perfectly natural. This +contentment I deplore, and am keen to disturb. +</P> + +<P> +I except from my indictment any young lady who may read these words. I +will assume that she differs from the rest of the human race, and has +not, never had, anything to learn in the art of conversing prettily, of +entering or leaving a room or a vehicle gracefully, of writing +appropriate letters, et patati et patata. I will assume that all these +accomplishments came naturally to her. She will now be in a mood to +accept my proposition that of her contemporaries none seems to have +been so lucky as herself. She will agree with me that other girls need +training. She will not deny that grace in the little affairs of life is +a thing which has to be learned. Some girls have a far greater aptitude +for learning it than others; but, with one exception, no girls have it +in them from the outset. It is a not less complicated thing than is the +art of acting, or of nursing the sick, and needs for the acquirement of +it a not less laborious preparation. +</P> + +<P> +Is it worth the trouble? Certainly the trouble is not taken. The +'finishing school,' wherein young ladies were taught to be graceful, is +a thing of the past. It must have been a dismal place; but the +dismalness of it—the strain of it—was the measure of its +indispensability. There I beg the question. Is grace itself +indispensable? Certainly, it has been dispensed with. It isn't reckoned +with. To sit perfectly mute 'in company,' or to chatter on at the top +of one's voice; to shriek with laughter; to fling oneself into a room +and dash oneself out of it; to collapse on chairs or sofas; to sprawl +across tables; to slam doors; to write, without punctuation, notes that +only an expert in handwriting could read, and only an expert in +mis-spelling could understand; to hustle, to bounce, to go straight +ahead—to be, let us say, perfectly natural in the midst of an +artificial civilisation, is an ideal which the young ladies of to-day +are neither publicly nor privately discouraged from cherishing. The +word 'cherishing' implies a softness of which they are not guilty. I +hasten to substitute 'pursuing.' If these young ladies were not in the +aforesaid midst of an artificial civilisation, I should be the last to +discourage their pursuit. If they were Amazons, for example, spending +their lives beneath the sky, in tilth of stubborn fields, and in armed +conflict with fierce men, it would be unreasonable to expect of them +any sacrifice to the Graces. But they are exposed to no such hardships. +They have a really very comfortable sort of life. They are not expected +to be useful. (I am writing all the time, of course, about the young +ladies in the affluent classes.) And it seems to me that they, in +payment of their debt to Fate, ought to occupy the time that is on +their hands by becoming ornamental, and increasing the world's store of +beauty. In a sense, certainly, they are ornamental. It is a strange +fact, and an ironic, that they spend quite five times the annual amount +that was spent by their grandmothers on personal adornment. If they can +afford it, well and good: let us have no sumptuary law. But plenty of +pretty dresses will not suffice. Pretty manners are needed with them, +and are prettier than they. +</P> + +<P> +I had forgotten men. Every defect that I had noted in the modern young +woman is not less notable in the modern young man. Briefly, he is a +boor. If it is true that 'manners makyth man,' one doubts whether the +British race can be perpetuated. The young Englishman of to-day is +inferior to savages and to beasts of the field in that they are eager +to show themselves in an agreeable and seductive light to the females +of their kind, whilst he regards any such effort as beneath his +dignity. Not that he cultivates dignity in demeanour. He merely +slouches. Unlike his feminine counterpart, he lets his raiment match +his manners. Observe him any afternoon, as he passes down Piccadilly, +sullenly, with his shoulders humped, and his hat clapped to the back of +his head, and his cigarette dangling almost vertically from his lips. +It seems only appropriate that his hat is a billy-cock, and his shirt a +flannel one, and that his boots are brown ones. Thus attired, he is on +his way to pay a visit of ceremony to some house at which he has +recently dined. No; that is the sort of visit he never pays. (I must +confess I don't myself.) But one remembers the time when no +self-respecting youth would have shown himself in Piccadilly without +the vesture appropriate to that august highway. Nowadays there is no +care for appearances. Comfort is the one aim. Any care for appearances +is regarded rather as a sign of effeminacy. Yet never, in any other age +of the world's history, has it been regarded so. Indeed, elaborate +dressing used to be deemed by philosophers an outcome of the +sex-instinct. It was supposed that men dressed themselves finely in +order to attract the admiration of women, just as peacocks spread their +plumage with a similar purpose. Nor do I jettison the old theory. The +declension of masculine attire in England began soon after the time +when statistics were beginning to show the great numerical +preponderance of women over men; and is it fanciful to trace the one +fact to the other? Surely not. I do not say that either sex is +attracted to the other by elaborate attire. But I believe that each +sex, consciously or unconsciously, uses this elaboration for this very +purpose. Thus the over-dressed girl of to-day and the ill-dressed youth +are but symbols of the balance of our population. The one is pleading, +the other scorning. 'Take me!' is the message borne by the furs and the +pearls and the old lace. 'I'll see about that when I've had a look +round!' is the not pretty answer conveyed by the billy-cock and the +flannel shirt. +</P> + +<P> +I dare say that fine manners, like fine clothes, are one of the +stratagems of sex. This theory squares at once with the modern young +man's lack of manners. But how about the modern young woman's not less +obvious lack? Well, the theory will square with that, too. The modern +young woman's gracelessness may be due to her conviction that men like +a girl to be thoroughly natural. She knows that they have a very high +opinion of themselves; and what, thinks she, more natural than that +they should esteem her in proportion to her power of reproducing the +qualities that are most salient in themselves? Men, she perceives, are +clumsy, and talk loud, and have no drawing-room accomplishments, and +are rude; and she proceeds to model herself on them. Let us not blame +her. Let us blame rather her parents or guardians, who, though they +well know that a masculine girl attracts no man, leave her to the +devices of her own inexperience. Girls ought not to be allowed, as they +are, to run wild. So soon as they have lost the natural grace of +childhood, they should be initiated into that course of artificial +training through which their grandmothers passed before them, and in +virtue of which their grandmothers were pleasing. This will not, of +course, ensure husbands for them all; but it will certainly tend to +increase the number of marriages. Nor is it primarily for that +sociological reason that I plead for a return to the old system of +education. I plead for it, first and last, on aesthetic grounds. Let +the Graces be cultivated for their own sweet sake. +</P> + +<P> +The difficulty is how to begin. The mothers of the rising generation +were brought up in the unregenerate way. Their scraps of oral tradition +will need to be supplemented by much research. I advise them to start +their quest by reading The Young Lady's Book. Exactly the right spirit +is therein enshrined, though of the substance there is much that could +not be well applied to our own day. That chapter on 'The Escrutoire,' +for example, belongs to a day that cannot be recalled. We can get rid +of bad manners, but we cannot substitute the Sedan-chair for the +motor-car; and the penny post, with telephones and telegrams, has, in +our own beautiful phrase, 'come to stay,' and has elbowed the art of +letter-writing irrevocably from among us. But notes are still written; +and there is no reason why they should not be written well. Has the +mantle of those anonymous gentlewomen who wrote The Young Lady's Book +fallen on no one? Will no one revise that 'Manual of Elegant +Recreations, Exercises, and Pursuits,' adapting it to present needs?... +A few hints as to Deportment in the Motor-Car; the exact Angle whereat +to hold the Receiver of a Telephone, and the exact Key wherein to pitch +the Voice; the Conduct of a Cigarette... I see a wide and golden vista. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="writing"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHISTLER'S WRITING +</H3> + +<P> +No book-lover, I. Give me an uninterrupted view of my fellow-creatures. +The most tedious of them pleases me better than the best book. You see, +I admit that some of them are tedious. I do not deem alien from myself +nothing that is human: I discriminate my fellow-creatures according to +their contents. And in that respect I am not more different in my way +from the true humanitarian than from the true bibliophile in his. To +him the content of a book matters not at all. He loves books because +they are books, and discriminates them only by the irrelevant standard +of their rarity. A rare book is not less dear to him because it is +unreadable, even as to the snob a dull duke is as good as a bright one. +Indeed, why should he bother about readableness? He doesn't want to +read. 'Uncut edges' for him, when he can get them; and, even when he +can't, the notion of reading a rare edition would seem to him quite +uncouth and preposterous The aforesaid snob would as soon question His +Grace about the state of His Grace's soul. I, on the other hand, +whenever human company is denied me, have often a desire to read. +Reading, I prefer cut edges, because a paper-knife is one of the things +that have the gift of invisibility whenever they are wanted; and +because one's thumb, in prising open the pages, so often affects the +text. Many volumes have I thus mutilated, and I hope that in the +sale-rooms of a sentimental posterity they may fetch higher prices than +their duly uncut duplicates. So long as my thumb tatters merely the +margin, I am quite equanimous. If I were reading a First Folio +Shakespeare by my fireside, and if the matchbox were ever so little +beyond my reach, I vow I would light my cigarette with a spill made +from the margin of whatever page I were reading. I am neat, +scrupulously neat, in regard to the things I care about; but a book, as +a book, is not one of these things. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, a book may happen to be in itself a beautiful object. Such a +book I treat tenderly, as one would a flower. And such a book is, in +its brown-papered boards, whereon gleam little gilt italics and a +little gilt butterfly, Whistler's Gentle Art of Making Enemies. It +happens to be also a book which I have read again and again—a book +that has often travelled with me. Yet its cover is as fresh as when +first, some twelve years since, it came into my possession. A flower +freshly plucked, one would say—a brown-and-yellow flower, with a +little gilt butterfly fluttering over it. And its inner petals, its +delicately proportioned pages, are as white and undishevelled as though +they never had been opened. The book lies open before me, as I write. I +must be careful of my pen's transit from inkpot to MS. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, I know, many worthy folk would like the book blotted out of +existence. These are they who understand and love the art of painting, +but neither love nor understand writing as an art. For them The Gentle +Art of Making Enemies is but something unworthy of a great man. +Certainly, it is a thing incongruous with a great hero. And for most +people it is painful not to regard a great man as also a great hero; +hence all the efforts to explain away the moral characteristics +deducible from The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, and to prove that +Whistler, beneath a prickly surface, was saturated through and through +with the quintessence of the Sermon on the Mount. +</P> + +<P> +Well! hero-worship is a very good thing. It is a wholesome exercise +which we ought all to take, now and again. Only, let us not strain +ourselves by overdoing it. Let us not indulge in it too constantly. Let +hero-worship be reserved for heroes. And there was nothing heroic about +Whistler, except his unfaltering devotion to his own ideals in art. No +saint was he, and none would have been more annoyed than he by +canonisation; would he were here to play, as he would have played +incomparably, the devil's advocate! So far as he possessed the +Christian virtues, his faith was in himself, his hope was for the +immortality of his own works, and his charity was for the defects in +those works. He is known to have been an affectionate son, an +affectionate husband; but, for the rest, all the tenderness in him +seems to have been absorbed into his love for such things in nature as +were expressible through terms of his own art. As a man in relation to +his fellow-men, he cannot, from any purely Christian standpoint, be +applauded. He was inordinately vain and cantankerous. Enemies, as he +has wittily implied, were a necessity to his nature; and he seems to +have valued friendship (a thing never really valuable, in itself, to a +really vain man) as just the needful foundation for future enmity. +Quarrelling and picking quarrels, he went his way through life +blithely. Most of these quarrels were quite trivial and tedious. In the +ordinary way, they would have been forgotten long ago, as the trivial +and tedious details in the lives of other great men are forgotten. But +Whistler was great not merely in painting, not merely as a wit and +dandy in social life. He had, also, an extraordinary talent for +writing. He was a born writer. He wrote, in his way, perfectly; and his +way was his own, and the secret of it has died with him. Thus, +conducting them through the Post Office, he has conducted his squabbles +to immortality. +</P> + +<P> +Immortality is a big word. I do not mean by it that so long as this +globe shall endure, the majority of the crawlers round it will spend +the greater part of their time in reading The Gentle Art of Making +Enemies. Even the pre-eminently immortal works of Shakespeare are read +very little. The average of time devoted to them by Englishmen cannot +(even though one assess Mr. Frank Harris at eight hours per diem, and +Mr. Sidney Lee at twenty-four) tot up to more than a small fraction of +a second in a lifetime reckoned by the Psalmist's limit. When I dub +Whistler an immortal writer, I do but mean that so long as there are a +few people interested in the subtler ramifications of English prose as +an art-form, so long will there be a few constantly-recurring readers +of The Gentle Art. +</P> + +<P> +There are in England, at this moment, a few people to whom prose +appeals as an art; but none of them, I think, has yet done justice to +Whistler's prose. None has taken it with the seriousness it deserves. I +am not surprised. When a man can express himself through two media, +people tend to take him lightly in his use of the medium to which he +devotes the lesser time and energy, even though he use that medium not +less admirably than the other, and even though they themselves care +about it more than they care about the other. Perhaps this very +preference in them creates a prejudice against the man who does not +share it, and so makes them sceptical of his power. Anyhow, if Disraeli +had been unable to express himself through the medium of political +life, Disraeli's novels would long ago have had the due which the +expert is just beginning to give them. Had Rossetti not been primarily +a poet, the expert in painting would have acquired long ago his present +penetration into the peculiar value of Rossetti's painting. Likewise, +if Whistler had never painted a picture, and, even so, had written no +more than he actually did write, this essay in appreciation would have +been forestalled again and again. As it is, I am a sort of herald. And, +however loudly I shall blow my trumpet, not many people will believe my +message. For many years to come, it will be the fashion among literary +critics to pooh-pooh Whistler, the writer, as an amateur. For Whistler +was primarily a painter—not less than was Rossetti primarily a poet, +and Disraeli a statesman. And he will not live down quicklier than they +the taunt of amateurishness in his secondary art. Nevertheless, I will, +for my own pleasure, blow the trumpet. +</P> + +<P> +I grant you, Whistler was an amateur. But you do not dispose of a man +by proving him to be an amateur. On the contrary, an amateur with real +innate talent may do, must do, more exquisite work than he could do if +he were a professional. His very ignorance and tentativeness may be, +must be, a means of especial grace. Not knowing 'how to do things,' +having no ready-made and ready-working apparatus, and being in constant +fear of failure, he has to grope always in the recesses of his own soul +for the best way to express his soul's meaning. He has to shift for +himself, and to do his very best. Consequently, his work has a more +personal and fresher quality, and a more exquisite 'finish,' than that +of a professional, howsoever finely endowed. All of the much that we +admire in Walter Pater's prose comes of the lucky chance that he was an +amateur, and never knew his business. Had Fate thrown him out of Oxford +upon the world, the world would have been the richer for the prose of +another John Addington Symonds, and would have forfeited Walter Pater's +prose. In other words, we should have lost a half-crown and found a +shilling. Had Fate withdrawn from Whistler his vision for form and +colour, leaving him only his taste for words and phrases and cadences, +Whistler would have settled solidly down to the art of writing, and +would have mastered it, and, mastering it, have lost that especial +quality which the Muse grants only to them who approach her timidly, +bashfully, as suitors. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Whistler would never, in any case, have +acquired the professional touch in writing. For we know that he never +acquired it in the art to which he dedicated all but the surplus of his +energy. Compare him with the other painters of his day. He was a child +in comparison with them. They, with sure science, solved roughly and +readily problems of modelling and drawing and what not that he never +dared to meddle with. It has often been said that his art was an art of +evasion. But the reason of the evasion was reverence. He kept himself +reverently at a distance. He knew how much he could not do, nor was he +ever confident even of the things that he could do; and these things, +therefore, he did superlatively well, having to grope for the means in +the recesses of his soul. The particular quality of exquisiteness and +freshness that gives to all his work, whether on canvas or on stone or +on copper, a distinction from and above any contemporary work, and +makes it dearer to our eyes and hearts, is a quality that came to him +because he was an amateur, and that abided with him because he never +ceased to be an amateur. He was a master through his lack of mastery. +In the art of writing, too, he was a master through his lack of +mastery. There is an almost exact parallel between the two sides of his +genius. Nothing could be more absurd than the general view of him as a +masterly professional on the one side and a trifling amateur on the +other. He was, certainly, a painter who wrote; but, by the slightest +movement of Fate's little finger, he might have been a writer who +painted, and this essay have been written not by me from my standpoint, +but by some painter, eager to suggest that Whistler's painting was a +quite serious thing. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, that painting and that writing are marvellously akin; and such +differences as you will see in them are superficial merely. I spoke of +Whistler's vanity in life, and I spoke of his timidity and reverence in +art. That contradiction is itself merely superficial. Bob Acres was +timid, but he was also vain. His swagger was not an empty assumption to +cloak his fears; he really did regard himself as a masterful and +dare-devil fellow, except when he was actually fighting. Similarly, +except when he was at his work, Whistler, doubtless, really did think +of himself as a brilliant effortless butterfly. The pose was, doubtless +a quite sincere one, a necessary reaction of feeling. Well, in his +writing he displays to us his vanity; whilst in his Painting we discern +only his reverence. In his writing, too, he displays his +harshness—swoops hither and thither a butterfly equipped with sharp +little beak and talons; whereas in his painting we are conscious only +of his caressing sense of beauty. But look from the writer, as shown by +himself, to the means by which himself is shown. You will find that for +words as for colour-tones he has the same reverent care, and for +phrases as for forms the same caressing sense of beauty. +Fastidiousness—'daintiness,' as he would have said—dandyishness, as +we might well say: by just that which marks him as a painter is he +marked as a writer too. His meaning was ever ferocious; but his method, +how delicate and tender! The portrait of his mother, whom he loved, was +not wrought with a more loving hand than were his portraits of Mr. +Harry Quilter for The World. +</P> + +<P> +His style never falters. The silhouette of no sentence is ever blurred. +Every sentence is ringing with a clear vocal cadence. There, after all, +in that vocal quality, is the chief test of good writing. Writing, as a +means of expression, has to compete with talking. The talker need not +rely wholly on what he says. He has the help of his mobile face and +hands, and of his voice, with its various inflexions and its variable +pace, whereby he may insinuate fine shades of meaning, qualifying or +strengthening at will, and clothing naked words with colour, and making +dead words live. But the writer? He can express a certain amount +through his handwriting, if he write in a properly elastic way. But his +writing is not printed in facsimile. It is printed in cold, mechanical, +monotonous type. For his every effect he must rely wholly on the words +that he chooses, and on the order in which he ranges them, and on his +choice among the few hard-and-fast symbols of punctuation. He must so +use those slender means that they shall express all that he himself can +express through his voice and face and hands, or all that he would thus +express if he were a good talker. Usually, the good talker is a dead +failure when he tries to express himself in writing. For that matter, +so is the bad talker. But the bad talker has the better chance of +success, inasmuch as the inexpressiveness of his voice and face and +hands will have sharpened his scent for words and phrases that shall in +themselves convey such meanings as he has to express. Whistler was that +rare phenomenon, the good talker who could write as well as he talked. +Read any page of The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, and you will hear a +voice in it, and see a face in it, and see gestures in it. And none of +these is quite like any other known to you. It matters not that you +never knew Whistler, never even set eyes on him. You see him and know +him here. The voice drawls slowly, quickening to a kind of snap at the +end of every sentence, and sometimes rising to a sudden screech of +laughter; and, all the while, the fine fierce eyes of the talker are +flashing out at you, and his long nervous fingers are tracing +extravagant arabesques in the air. No! you need never have seen +Whistler to know what he was like. He projected through printed words +the clean-cut image and clear-ringing echo of himself. He was a born +writer, achieving perfection through pains which must have been +infinite for that we see at first sight no trace of them at all. +</P> + +<P> +Like himself, necessarily, his style was cosmopolitan and eccentric. It +comprised Americanisms and Cockneyisms and Parisian argot, with +constant reminiscences of the authorised version of the Old Testament, +and with chips off Molie're, and with shreds and tags of what-not +snatched from a hundred-and-one queer corners. It was, in fact, an +Autolycine style. It was a style of the maddest motley, but of motley +so deftly cut and fitted to the figure, and worn with such an air, as +to become a gracious harmony for all beholders. +</P> + +<P> +After all, what matters is not so much the vocabulary as the manner in +which the vocabulary is used. Whistler never failed to find right +words, and the right cadence for a dignified meaning, when dignity was +his aim. 'And when the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, +as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, +and the tall chimneys become campanili, and the warehouses are palaces +in the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens, and fairyland is +before us...' That is as perfect, in its dim and delicate beauty, as +any of his painted 'nocturnes.' But his aim was more often to pour +ridicule and contempt. And herein the weirdness of his natural +vocabulary and the patchiness of his reading were of very real value to +him. Take the opening words of his letter to Tom Taylor: 'Dead for a +ducat, dead! my dear Tom: and the rattle has reached me by post. Sans +rancune, say you? Bah! you scream unkind threats and die badly...' And +another letter to the same unfortunate man: 'Why, my dear old Tom, I +never was serious with you, even when you were among us. Indeed, I +killed you quite, as who should say, without seriousness, "A rat! A +rat!" you know, rather cursorily...' There the very lack of coherence +in the style, as of a man gasping and choking with laughter, drives the +insults home with a horrible precision. Notice the technical skill in +the placing of 'you know, rather cursorily' at the end of the sentence. +Whistler was full of such tricks—tricks that could never have been +played by him, could never have occurred to him, had he acquired the +professional touch And not a letter in the book but has some such +little sharp felicity of cadence or construction. +</P> + +<P> +The letters, of course, are the best thing in the book, and the best of +the letters are the briefest. An exquisite talent like Whistler's, +whether in painting or in writing, is always at its best on a small +scale. On a large scale it strays and is distressed. Thus the 'Ten +o'Clock,' from which I took that passage about the evening mist and the +riverside, does not leave me with a sense of artistic satisfaction. It +lacks structure. It is not a roundly conceived whole: it is but a row +of fragments. Were it otherwise, Whistler could never have written so +perfectly the little letters. For no man who can finely grasp a big +theme can play exquisitely round a little one. +</P> + +<P> +Nor can any man who excels in scoffing at his fellows excel also in +taking abstract subjects seriously. Certainly, the little letters are +Whistler's passport among the elect of literature. Luckily, I can judge +them without prejudice. Whether in this or that case Whistler was in +the right or in the wrong is not a question which troubles me at all. I +read the letters simply from the literary standpoint. As controversial +essays, certainly, they were often in very bad taste. An urchin +scribbling insults upon somebody's garden-wall would not go further +than Whistler often went. Whistler's mode of controversy reminds me, in +another sense, of the writing on the wall. They who were so foolish as +to oppose him really did have their souls required of them. After an +encounter with him they never again were quite the same men in the eyes +of their fellows. Whistler's insults always stuck—stuck and spread +round the insulted, who found themselves at length encased in them, +like flies in amber. +</P> + +<P> +You may shed a tear over the flies, if you will. For myself, I am +content to laud the amber. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ichabod"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ICHABOD +</H3> + +<P> +It is not cast from any obvious mould of sentiment. It is not a +memorial urn, nor a ruined tower, nor any of those things which he who +runs may weep over. Though not less really deplorable than they, it +needs, I am well aware, some sort of explanation to enable my reader to +mourn with me. For it is merely a hat-box. +</P> + +<P> +It is nothing but that—an ordinary affair of pig-skin, with a brass +lock. As I write, it stands on a table near me. It is of the kind that +accommodates two hats, one above the other. It has had many tenants, +and is sun-tanned, rain-soiled, scarred and dented by collision with +trucks and what not other accessories to the moving scenes through +which it has been bandied. Yes! it has known the stress of many +journeys; yet has it never (you would say, seeing it) received its +baptism of paste: it has not one label on it. And there, indeed, is the +tragedy that I shall unfold. +</P> + +<P> +For many years this hat-box had been my travelling companion, and was, +but a few days since, a dear record of all the big and little journeys +I had made. It was much more to me than a mere receptacle for hats. It +was my one collection, my collection of labels. Well! last week its +lock was broken. I sent it to the trunk-makers, telling them to take +the greatest care of it. It came back yesterday. The idiots, the +accursed idots! had carefully removed every label from its surface. I +wrote to them—it matters not what I said. My fury has burnt itself +out. I have reached the stage of craving general sympathy. So I have +sat down to write, in the shadow of a tower which stands bleak, bare, +prosaic, all the ivy of its years stripped from it; in the shadow of an +urn commemorating nothing. +</P> + +<P> +I think that every one who is or ever has been a collector will pity me +in this dark hour of mine. In other words, I think that nearly every +one will pity me. For few are they who have not, at some time, come +under the spell of the collecting spirit and known the joy of +accumulating specimens of something or other. The instinct has its +corner, surely, in every breast. Of course, hobby-horses are of many +different breeds; but all their riders belong to one great cavalcade, +and when they know that one of their company has had his steed shot +under him, they will not ride on without a backward glance of sympathy. +Lest my fall be unnoted by them, I write this essay. I want that glance. +</P> + +<P> +Do not, reader, suspect that because I am choosing my words nicely, and +playing with metaphor, and putting my commas in their proper places, my +sorrow is not really and truly poignant. I write elaborately, for that +is my habit, and habits are less easily broken than hearts. I could no +more 'dash off' this my cri de coeur than I could an elegy on a +broomstick I had never seen. Therefore, reader, bear with me, despite +my sable plumes and purple; and weep with me, though my prose be, like +those verses which Mr. Beamish wrote over Chloe's grave, 'of a +character to cool emotion.' For indeed my anguish is very real. The +collection I had amassed so carefully, during so many years, the +collection I loved and revelled in, has been obliterated, swept away, +destroyed utterly by a pair of ruthless, impious, well-meaning, +idiotic, unseen hands. It cannot be restored to me. Nothing can +compensate me for it gone. It was part and parcel of my life. +</P> + +<P> +Orchids, jade, majolica, wines, mezzotints, old silver, first editions, +harps, copes, hookahs, cameos, enamels, black-letter folios, +scarabaei—such things are beautiful and fascinating in themselves. +Railway-labels are not, I admit. For the most part, they are crudely +coloured, crudely printed, without sense of margin or spacing; in fact, +quite worthless as designs. No one would be a connoisseur in them. No +one could be tempted to make a general collection of them. My own +collection of them was strictly personal: I wanted none that was not a +symbol of some journey made by myself, even as the hunter of big game +cares not to possess the tusks, and the hunter of women covets not the +photographs, of other people's victims. My collection was one of those +which result from man's tendency to preserve some obvious record of his +pleasures—the points he has scored in the game. To Nimrod, his tusks; +to Lothario, his photographs; to me (who cut no dash in either of those +veneries, and am not greedy enough to preserve menus nor silly enough +to preserve press-cuttings, but do delight in travelling from place to +place), my railway-labels. Had nomady been my business, had I been a +commercial traveller or a King's Messenger, such labels would have held +for me no charming significance. But I am only by instinct a nomad. I +have a tether, known as the four-mile radius. To slip it is for me +always an event, an excitement. To come to a new place, to awaken in a +strange bed, to be among strangers! To have dispelled, as by sudden +magic, the old environment! It is on the scoring of such points as +these that I preen myself, and my memory is always ringing the +'changes' I have had, complacently, as a man jingles silver in his +pocket. The noise of a great terminus is no jar to me. It is music. I +prick up my ears to it, and paw the platform. Dear to me as the +bugle-note to any war-horse, as the first twittering of the birds in +the hedgerows to the light-sleeping vagabond, that cry of 'Take your +seats please!' or—better still—'En voiture!' or 'Partenza!' Had I the +knack of rhyme, I would write a sonnet-sequence of the journey to +Newhaven or Dover—a sonnet for every station one does not stop at. I +await that poet who shall worthily celebrate the iron road. There is +one who describes, with accuracy and gusto, the insides of engines; but +he will not do at all. I look for another, who shall show us the heart +of the passenger, the exhilaration of travelling by day, the +exhilaration and romance and self-importance of travelling by night. +</P> + +<P> +'Paris!' How it thrills me when, on a night in spring, in the hustle +and glare of Victoria, that label is slapped upon my hat-box! Here, +standing in the very heart of London, I am by one sweep of a +paste-brush transported instantly into that white-grey city across the +sea. To all intents and purposes I am in Paris already. Strange, that +the porter does not say, 'V'la', M'sieu'!' Strange, that the evening +papers I buy at the bookstall are printed in the English language. +Strange, that London still holds my body, when a corduroyed magician +has whisked my soul verily into Paris. The engine is hissing as I hurry +my body along the platform, eager to reunite it with my soul... Over +the windy quay the stars are shining as I pass down the gangway, +hat-box in hand. They twinkle brightly over the deck I am now +pacing—amused, may be, at my excitement. The machinery grunts and +creaks. The little boat quakes in the excruciating throes of its +departure. At last!... One by one, the stars take their last look at +me, and the sky grows pale, and the sea blanches mysteriously with it. +Through the delicate cold air of the dawn, across the grey waves of the +sea, the outlines of Dieppe grow and grow. The quay is lined with its +blue-bloused throng. These porters are as excited by us as though they +were the aborigines of some unknown island. (And yet, are they not +here, at this hour, in these circumstances, every day of their lives?) +These gestures! These voices, hoarse with passion! The dear music of +French, rippling up clear for me through all this hoarse confusion of +its utterance, and making me happy!... I drink my cup of steaming +coffee—true coffee!—and devour more than one roll. At the tables +around me, pale and dishevelled from the night, sit the people whom I +saw—years ago!—at Charing Cross. How they have changed! The coffee +sends a glow throughout my body. I am fulfilled with a sense of +material well-being. The queer ethereal exaltation of the dawn has +vanished. I climb up into the train, and dispose myself in the +dun-cushioned coupe'. 'Chemins de Fer de l'Ouest' is perforated on the +white antimacassars. Familiar and strange inscription! I murmur its +impressive iambs over and over again. They become the refrain to which +the train vibrates on its way. I smoke cigarettes, a little drowsily +gazing out of the window at the undulating French scenery that flies +past me, at the silver poplars. Row after slanted row of these +incomparably gracious trees flies past me, their foliage shimmering in +the unawoken landscape Soon I shall be rattling over the cobbles of +unawoken Paris, through the wide white-grey streets with their unopened +jalousies. And when, later, I awake in the unnatural little bedroom of +walnut-wood and crimson velvet, in the bed whose curtains are white +with that whiteness which Paris alone can give to linen, a Parisian sun +will be glittering for me in a Parisian sky. +</P> + +<P> +Yes! In my whole collection the Paris specimens were dearest to me, +meant most to me, I think. But there was none that had not some +tendrils on sentiment. All of them I prized, more or less. Of the +Aberdeen specimens I was immensely fond. Who can resist the thought of +that express by which, night after night, England is torn up its +centre? I love well that cab-drive in the chill autumnal night through +the desert of Bloomsbury, the dead leaves rustling round the horse's +hoofs as we gallop through the Squares. Ah, I shall be across the +Border before these doorsteps are cleaned, before the coming of the +milk-carts. Anon, I descry the cavernous open jaws of Euston. The +monster swallows me, and soon I am being digested into Scotland. I sit +ensconced in a corner of a compartment. The collar of my ulster is +above my ears, my cap is pulled over my eyes, my feet are on a +hot-water tin, and my rug snugly envelops most of me. Sleeping-cars are +for the strange beings who love not the act of travelling. Them I +should spurn even if I could not sleep a wink in an ordinary +compartment. I would liefer forfeit sleep than the consciousness of +travelling. But it happens that I, in an ordinary compartment, am blest +both with the sleep and with the consciousness, all through the long +night. To be asleep and to know that you are sleeping, and to know, +too, that even as you sleep you are being borne away through darkness +into distance—that, surely, is to go two better than Endymion. Surely, +nothing is more mysteriously delightful than this joint consciousness +of sleep and movement. Pitiable they to whom it is denied. All through +the night the vibration of the train keeps one-third of me awake, while +the other two parts of me profoundly slumber. Whenever the train stops, +and the vibration ceases, then the one-third of me falls asleep, and +the other two parts stir. I am awake just enough to hear the +hollow-echoing cry of 'Crewe' or 'York,' and to blink up at the +green-hooded lamp in the ceiling. May be, I raise a corner of the +blind, and see through the steam-dim window the mysterious, empty +station. A solitary porter shuffles along the platform. Yonder, those +are the lights of the refreshment room, where, all night long, a +barmaid is keeping her lonely vigil over the beer-handles and the +Bath-buns in glass cases. I see long rows of glimmering milk-cans, and +wonder drowsily whether they contain forty modern thieves. The engine +snorts angrily in the benighted silence. Far away is the faint, +familiar sound—clink-clank, clink-clank—of the man who tests the +couplings. Nearer and nearer the sound comes. It passes, recedes It is +rather melancholy.... A whistle, a jerk, and the two waking parts of me +are asleep again, while the third wakes up to mount guard over them, +and keeps me deliciously aware of the rhythmic dream they are dreaming +about the hot bath and the clean linen, and the lovely breakfast that I +am to have at Aberdeen; and of the Scotch air, crisp and keen, that is +to escort me, later along the Deeside. +</P> + +<P> +Little journeys, as along the Deeside, have a charm of their own. +Little journeys from London to places up the river, or to places on the +coast of Kent—journeys so brief that you lunch at one end and have tea +at the other—I love them all, and loved the labels that recalled them +to me. But the labels of long journeys, of course, took precedence in +my heart. Here and there on my hat-box were labels that recalled to me +long journeys in which frontiers were crossed at dead of night—dim +memories of small, crazy stations where I shivered half-awake, and was +sleepily conscious of a strange tongue and strange uniforms, of my +jingling bunch of keys, of ruthless arms diving into the nethermost +recesses of my trunks, of suspicious grunts and glances, and of +grudging hieroglyphics chalked on the slammed lids. These were things +more or less painful and resented in the moment of experience, yet even +then fraught with a delicious glamour. I suffered, but gladly. In the +night, when all things are mysteriously magnified, I have never crossed +a frontier without feeling some of the pride of conquest. And, indeed, +were these conquests mere illusions? Was I not actually extending the +frontiers of my mind, adding new territories to it? Every crossed +frontier, every crossed sea, meant for me a definite success—an +expansion and enrichment of my soul. When, after seven days and nights +of sea traversed, I caught my first glimpse of Sandy Hook, was there no +comparison between Columbus and myself? To see what one has not seen +before, is not that almost as good as to see what no one has ever seen? +</P> + +<P> +Romance, exhilaration, self-importance these are what my labels +symbolised and recalled to me. That lost collection was a running +record of all my happiest hours; a focus, a monument, a diary. It was +my humble Odyssey, wrought in coloured paper on pig-skin, and the one +work I never, never was weary of. If the distinguished Ithacan had +travelled with a hat-box, how finely and minutely Homer would have +described it—its depth and girth, its cunningly fashioned lock and +fair lining withal! And in how interminable a torrent of hexameters +would he have catalogued all the labels on it, including those +attractive views of the Hotel Circe, the Hotel Calypso, and other +high-class resorts. Yet no! Had such a hat-box existed and had it been +preserved in his day, Homer would have seen in it a sufficient record, +a better record than even he could make, of Odysseus' wanderings. We +should have had nothing from him but the Iliad. I, certainly never felt +any need of commemorating my journeys till my labels were lost to me. +And I am conscious how poor and chill is the substitute. +</P> + +<P> +My collection like most collections, began imperceptibly. A man does +not say to himself, 'I am going to collect' this thing or that. True, +the schoolboy says so; but his are not, in the true sense of the word, +collections. He seeks no set autobiographic symbols, for boys never +look back—there is too little to look back on, too much in front. Nor +have the objects of his collection any intrinsic charm for him. He +starts a collection merely that he may have a plausible excuse for +doing something he ought not to do. He goes in for birds' eggs merely +that he may be allowed to risk his bones and tear his clothes in +climbing; for butterflies, that he may be encouraged to poison and +impale; for stamps...really, I do not know why he, why any sane +creature goes in for stamps. It follows that he has no real love of his +collection and soon abandons it for something else. The sincere +collector, how different! His hobby has a solid basis of personal +preference. Some one gives him (say) a piece of jade. He admires it. He +sees another piece in a shop, and buys it; later, he buys another. He +does not regard these pieces of jade as distinct from the rest of his +possessions; he has no idea of collecting jade. It is not till he has +acquired several other pieces that he ceases to regard them as mere +items in the decoration of his room, and gives them a little table, or +a tray of a cabinet, all to themselves. How well they look there! How +they intensify one another! He really must get some one to give him +that little pedestalled Cupid which he saw yesterday in Wardour Street. +Thus awakes in him, quite gradually, the spirit of the collector. Or +take the case of one whose collection is not of beautiful things, but +of autobiographic symbols: take the case of the glutton. He will have +pocketed many menus before it occurs to him to arrange them in an +album. Even so, it was not until a fair number of labels had been +pasted on my hat-box that I saw them as souvenirs, and determined that +in future my hat-box should always travel with me and so commemorate my +every darling escape. +</P> + +<P> +In the path of every collector are strewn obstacles of one kind or +another; which, to overleap, is part of the fun. As a collector of +labels I had my pleasant difficulties. On any much-belabelled piece of +baggage the porter always pastes the new label over that which looks +most recent; else the thing might miss its destination. Now, paste +dries before the end of the briefest journey; and one of my canons was +that, though two labels might overlap, none must efface the inscription +of another. On the other hand, I did not wish to lose my hat-box, for +this would have entailed inquiries, and descriptions, and telegraphing +up the line, and all manner of agitation. What, then, was I to do? I +might have taken my hat-box with me in the carriage? That, indeed, is +what I always did. But, unless a thing is to go in the van, it receives +no label at all. So I had to use a mild stratagem. 'Yes,' I would say, +'everything in the van!' The labels would be duly affixed. 'Oh,' I +would cry, seizing the hat-box quickly, 'I forgot. I want this with me +in the carriage.' (I learned to seize it quickly, because some porters +are such martinets that they will whisk the label off and confiscate +it.) Then, when the man was not looking, I would remove the label from +the place he had chosen for it and press it on some unoccupied part of +the surface. You cannot think how much I enjoyed these manoeuvres. +There was the moral pleasure of having both outwitted a railway company +and secured another specimen for my collection; and there was the +physical pleasure of making a limp slip of paper stick to a hard +substance—that simple pleasure which appeals to all of us and is, +perhaps, the missing explanation of philately. Pressed for time, I +could not, of course, have played my trick. Nor could I have done +so—it would have seemed heartless—if any one had come to see me off +and be agitated at parting. Therefore, I was always very careful to +arrive in good time for my train, and to insist that all farewells +should be made on my own doorstep. +</P> + +<P> +Only in one case did I break the rule that no label must be obliterated +by another. It is a long story; but I propose to tell it. You must know +that I loved my labels not only for the meanings they conveyed to me, +but also, more than a little, for the effect they produced on other +people. Travelling in a compartment, with my hat-box beside me, I +enjoyed the silent interest which my labels aroused in my +fellow-passengers. If the compartment was so full that my hat-box had +to be relegated to the rack, I would always, in the course of the +journey, take it down and unlock it, and pretend to be looking for +something I had put into it. It pleased me to see from beneath my +eyelids the respectful wonder and envy evoked by it. Of course, there +was no suspicion that the labels were a carefully formed collection; +they were taken as the wild-flowers of an exquisite restlessness, of an +unrestricted range in life. Many of them signified beautiful or famous +places. There was one point at which Oxford, Newmarket, and Assisi +converged, and I was always careful to shift my hat-box round in such a +way that this purple patch should be lost on none of my +fellow-passengers. The many other labels, English or alien, they, too, +gave their hints of a life spent in fastidious freedom, hints that I +had seen and was seeing all that is best to be seen of men and cities +and country-houses. I was respected, accordingly, and envied. And I had +keen delight in this ill-gotten homage. A despicable delight, you say? +But is not yours, too, a fallen nature? The love of impressing +strangers falsely, is it not implanted in all of us? To be sure, it is +an inevitable outcome of the conditions in which we exist. It is a +result of the struggle for life. Happiness, as you know, is our aim in +life; we are all struggling to be happy. And, alas! for every one of +us, it is the things he does not possess which seem to him most +desirable, most conducive to happiness. For instance, the poor nobleman +covets wealth, because wealth would bring him comfort, whereas the +nouveau riche covets a pedigree, because a pedigree would make him of +what he is merely in. The rich nobleman who is an invalid covets +health, on the assumption that health would enable him to enjoy his +wealth and position. The rich, robust nobleman hankers after an +intellect. The rich, robust, intellectual nobleman is (be sure of it) +as discontented, somehow, as the rest of them. No man possesses all he +wants. No man is ever quite happy. But, by producing an impression that +he has what he wants—in fact, by 'bluffing'—a man can gain some of +the advantages that he would gain by really having it. Thus, the poor +nobleman can, by concealing his 'balance' and keeping up appearances, +coax more or less unlimited credit from his tradesman. The nouveau +riche, by concealing his origin and trafficking with the College of +Heralds, can intercept some of the homage paid to high birth. And +(though the rich nobleman who is an invalid can make no tangible gain +by pretending to be robust, since robustness is an advantage only from +within) the rich, robust nobleman can, by employing a clever private +secretary to write public speeches and magazine articles for him, +intercept some of the homage which is paid to intellect. +</P> + +<P> +These are but a few typical cases, taken at random from a small area. +But consider the human race at large, and you will find that 'bluffing' +is indeed one of the natural functions of the human animal. Every man +pretends to have what (not having it) he covets, in order that he may +gain some of the advantages of having it. And thus it comes that he +makes his pretence, also, by force of habit, when there is nothing +tangible to be gained by it. The poor nobleman wishes to be thought +rich even by people who will not benefit him in their delusion; and the +nouveau riche likes to be thought well-born even by people who set no +store on good birth; and so forth. But pretences, whether they be an +end or a means, cannot be made successfully among our intimate friends. +These wretches know all about us—have seen through us long ago. With +them we are, accordingly, quite natural. That is why we find their +company so restful. Among acquaintances the pretence is worth making. +But those who know anything at all about us are apt to find us out. +That is why we find acquaintances such a nuisance. Among perfect +strangers, who know nothing at all about us, we start with a clean +slate. If our pretence do not come off, we have only ourselves to +blame. And so we 'bluff' these strangers, blithely, for all we are +worth, whether there be anything to gain or nothing. We all do it. Let +us despise ourselves for doing it, but not one another. By which I +mean, reader, do not be hard on me for making a show of my labels in +railway-carriages. After all, the question is whether a man 'bluff' +well or ill. If he brag vulgarly before his strangers, away with him! +by all means. He does not know how to play the game. He is a failure. +But, if he convey subtly (and, therefore, successfully) the fine +impression he wishes to convey, then you should stifle your wrath, and +try to pick up a few hints. When I saw my fellow-passengers eyeing my +hat-box, I did not, of course, say aloud to them, 'Yes, mine is a +delightful life! Any amount of money, any amount of leisure! And, +what's more, I know how to make the best use of them both!' Had I done +so, they would have immediately seen through me as an impostor. But I +did nothing of the sort. I let my labels proclaim distinction for me, +quietly, in their own way. And they made their proclamation with +immense success. But there came among them, in course of time, one +label that would not harmonise with them. Came, at length, one label +that did me actual discredit. I happened to have had influenza, and my +doctor had ordered me to make my convalescence in a place which, +according to him, was better than any other for my particular +condition. He had ordered me to Ramsgate, and to Ramsgate I had gone. A +label on my hat-box duly testified to my obedience. At the time, I had +thought nothing of it. But, in subsequent journeys, I noticed that my +hat-box did not make its old effect, somehow. My fellow-passengers +looked at it, were interested in it; but I had a subtle sense that they +were not reverencing me as of yore. Something was the matter. I was not +long in tracing what it was. The discord struck by Ramsgate was the +more disastrous because, in my heedlessness, I had placed that ignoble +label within an inch of my point d'appui—the trinity of Oxford, +Newmarket and Assisi. What was I to do? I could not explain to my +fellow-passengers, as I have explained to you, my reason for Ramsgate. +So long as the label was there, I had to rest under the hideous +suspicion of having gone there for pleasure, gone of my own free will. +I did rest under it during the next two or three journeys. But the +injustice of my position maddened me. At length, a too obvious sneer on +the face of a fellow-passenger steeled me to a resolve that I would, +for once, break my rule against obliteration. On the return journey, I +obliterated Ramsgate with the new label, leaving visible merely the +final TE, which could hardly compromise me. +</P> + +<P> +Steterunt those two letters because I was loth to destroy what was, +primarily, a symbol for myself: I wished to remember Ramsgate, even +though I had to keep it secret. Only in a secondary, accidental way was +my collection meant for the public eye. Else, I should not have +hesitated to deck the hat-box with procured symbols of Seville, Simla, +St. Petersburg and other places which I had not (and would have liked +to be supposed to have) visited. But my collection was, first of all, a +private autobiography, a record of my scores of Fate; and thus +positively to falsify it would have been for me as impossible as +cheating at 'Patience.' From that to which I would not add I hated to +subtract anything—even Ramsgate. After all, Ramsgate was not London; +to have been in it was a kind of score. Besides, it had restored me to +health. I had no right to rase it utterly. +</P> + +<P> +But such tendresse was not my sole reason for sparing those two +letters. Already I was reaching that stage where the collector loves +his specimens not for their single sakes, but as units in the +sum-total. To every collector comes, at last, a time when he does but +value his collection—how shall I say?—collectively. He who goes in +for beautiful things begins, at last, to value his every acquisition +not for its beauty, but because it enhances the worth of the rest. +Likewise, he who goes in for autobiographic symbols begins, at last, to +care not for the symbolism of another event in his life, but for the +addition to the objects already there. He begins to value every event +less for its own sake than because it swells his collection. Thus there +came for me a time when I looked forward to a journey less because it +meant movement and change for myself than because it meant another +label for my hat-box. A strange state to fall into? Yes, collecting is +a mania, a form of madness. And it is the most pleasant form of madness +in the whole world. It can bring us nearer to real happiness than can +any form of sanity. The normal, eclectic man is never happy, because he +is always craving something of another kind than what he has got. The +collector, in his mad concentration, wants only more and more of what +he has got already; and what he has got already he cherishes with a +passionate joy. I cherished my gallimaufry of rainbow-coloured labels +almost as passionately as the miser his hoard of gold. Why do we call +the collector of current coin a miser? Wretched? He? True, he denies +himself all the reputed pleasures of life; but does he not do so of his +own accord, gladly? He sacrifices everything to his mania; but that +merely proves how intense his mania is. In that the nature of his +collection cuts him off from all else, he is the perfect type of the +collector. He is above all other collectors. And he is the truly +happiest of them all. It is only when, by some merciless stroke of +Fate, he is robbed of his hoard, that he becomes wretched. Then, +certainly, he suffers. He suffers proportionately to his joy. He is +smitten with sorrow more awful than any sorrow to be conceived by the +sane. I whose rainbow-coloured hoard has been swept from me, seem to +taste the full savour of his anguish. +</P> + +<P> +I sit here thinking of the misers who, in life or in fiction, have been +despoiled. Three only do I remember: Melanippus of Sicyon, Pierre +Baudouin of Limoux, Silas Marner. Melanippus died of a broken heart. +Pierre Baudouin hanged himself. The case of Silas Marner is more +cheerful. He, coming into his cottage one night, saw by the dim light +of the hearth, that which seemed to be his gold restored, but was +really nothing but the golden curls of a little child, whom he was +destined to rear under his own roof, finding in her more than solace +for his bereavement. But then, he was a character in fiction: the other +two really existed. What happened to him will not happen to me. Even if +little children with rainbow-coloured hair were so common that one of +them might possibly be left on my hearth-rug, I know well that I should +not feel recompensed by it, even if it grew up to be as fascinating a +paragon as Eppie herself. Had Silas Marner really existed (nay! even +had George Eliot created him in her maturity) neither would he have +felt recompensed. Far likelier, he would have been turned to stone, in +the first instance, as was poor Niobe when the divine arrows destroyed +that unique collection on which she had lavished so many years. Or, may +be, had he been a very strong man, he would have found a bitter joy in +saving up for a new hoard. Like Carlyle, when the MS. of his +masterpiece was burned by the housemaid of John Stuart Mill, he might +have begun all over again, and builded a still nobler monument on the +tragic ashes. +</P> + +<P> +That is a fine, heartening example! I will be strong enough to follow +it. I will forget all else. I will begin all over again. There stands +my hat-box! Its glory is departed, but I vow that a greater glory +awaits it. Bleak, bare and prosaic it is now, but—ten years hence! Its +career, like that of the Imperial statesman in the moment of his +downfall, 'is only just beginning.' +</P> + +<P> +There is a true Anglo-Saxon ring in this conclusion. May it appease +whomever my tears have been making angry. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="elections"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GENERAL ELECTIONS +</H3> + +<P> +I admire detachment. I commend a serene indifference to hubbub. I like +Archimedes, Leonardo da Vinci, Goethe, Balzac, Darwin, and other sages, +for having been so concentrated on this or that eternal verity in art +or science or philosophy, that they paid no heed to alarums and +excursions which were sweeping all other folk off their feet. It is +with some shame that I haunt the tape-machine whenever a General +Election is going on. +</P> + +<P> +Of politics I know nothing. My mind is quite open on the subject of +fiscal reform, and quite empty; and the void is not an aching one: I +have no desire to fill it. The idea of the British Empire leaves me +quite cold. If this or that subject race threw off our yoke, I should +feel less vexation than if one comma were misplaced in the printing of +this essay. The only feeling that our Colonies inspire in me is a +determination not to visit them. Socialism neither affrights nor +attracts me—or, rather, it has both these effects equally. When I +think of poverty and misery crushing the greater part of humanity, and +most of all when I hear of some specific case of distress, I become a +socialist indeed. But I am not less an artist than a human being, and +when I think of Demos, that chin-bearded god, flushed with victory, +crowned with leaflets of the Social Democratic League, quaffing +temperance beverages in a world all drab; when I think of model +lodging-houses in St. James's Park, and trams running round and round +St. James's Square—the mighty fallen, and the lowly swollen, and, in +Elysium, the shade of Matthew Arnold shedding tears on the shoulder of +a shade so different as George Brummell's—tears, idle tears, at sight +of the Barbarians, whom he had mocked and loved, now annihilated by +those others whom he had mocked and hated; when such previsions as +these come surging up in me, I do deem myself well content with the +present state of things, dishonourable though it is. As to socialism, +then, you see, my mind is evenly divided. It is with no political bias +that I go and hover around the tape-machine. My interest in General +Elections is a merely 'sporting' interest. I do not mean that I lay +bets. A bad fairy decreed over my cradle that I should lose every bet +that I might make; and, in course of time, I abandoned a practice which +took away from coming events the pleasing element of uncertainty. 'A +merely dramatic interest' is less equivocal, and more accurate. +</P> + +<P> +'This,' you say, 'is rank incivism.' I assume readily that you are an +ardent believer in one political party or another, and that, having +studied thoroughly all the questions at issue, you could give cogent +reasons for all the burning faith that is in you. But how about your +friends and acquaintances? How many of them can cope with you in +discussion? How many of them show even a desire to cope with you? +Travel, I beg you, on the Underground Railway, or in a Tube. Such +places are supposed to engender in their passengers a taste for +political controversy. Yet how very elementary are such arguments as +you will hear there! It is obvious that these gentlemen know and care +very little about 'burning questions.' What they do know and care about +is the purely personal side of politics. They have their likes and +their dislikes for a few picturesque and outstanding figures. These +they will attack or defend with fervour. But you will be lucky if you +overhear any serious discussion of policy. Emerge from the nether +world. Range over the whole community—from the costermonger who says +'Good Old Winston!' to the fashionable woman who says 'I do think Mr. +Balfour is rather wonderful!'—and you will find the same plentiful +lack of interest in the impersonal side of polities. You will find that +almost every one is interested in politics only as a personal conflict +between certain interesting men—as a drama, in fact. Frown not, then, +on me alone. +</P> + +<P> +Whenever a General Election occurs, the conflict becomes sharper and +more obvious—the play more exciting—the audience more tense. The +stage is crowded with supernumeraries, not interesting in themselves, +but adding a new interest to the merely personal interest. There is the +stronger 'side,' here the weaker, ranged against each other. Which will +be vanquished? It rests with the audience to decide. And, as human +nature is human nature, of course the audience decides that the weaker +side shall be victorious. That is what politicians call 'the swing of +the pendulum.' They believe that the country is alienated by the +blunders of the Government, and is disappointed by the unfulfilment of +promises, and is anxious for other methods of policy. Bless them! the +country hardly noticed their blunders, has quite forgotten their +promises, and cannot distinguish between one set of methods and +another. When the man in the street sees two other men in the street +fighting, he doesn't care to know the cause of the combat: he simply +wants the smaller man to punish the bigger, and to punish him with all +possible severity. When a party with a large majority appeals to the +country, its appeal falls, necessarily, on deaf ears. Some years ago +there happened an exception to this rule. But then the circumstances +were exceptional. A small nation was fighting a big nation, and, as the +big nation happened to be yourselves, your sympathy was transferred to +the big nation. As the little party was suspected of favouring the +little nation, your sympathy was transferred likewise to the big party. +Barring 'khaki,' sympathy takes its usual course in General Elections. +The bigger the initial majority, the bigger the collapse. It is not +enough that Goliath shall fall: he must bite the dust, and bite plenty +of it. It is not enough that David shall have done what he set out to +do: a throne must be found for this young man. Away with the giant's +body! Hail, King David! +</P> + +<P> +I should like to think that chivalry was the sole motive of our zeal. I +am afraid that the mere craving for excitement has something to do with +it. Pelion has never been piled on Ossa; and no really useful purpose +could be served by the superimposition. But we should like to see the +thing done. It would appeal to our sense of the grandiose—our +hankering after the unlimited. When the man of science shows us a drop +of water in a test-tube, and tells us that this tiny drop contains more +than fifteen billions of infusoria, we are subtly gratified, and +cherish a secret hope that the number of infusoria is very much more +than fifteen billions. In the same way, we hope that the number of +seats gained by the winning party will be even greater to-morrow than +it is to-day. 'We are sweeping the country,' exclaims (say) the +professed Liberal; and at the word 'sweeping' there is in his eyes a +gleam that no mere party feeling could have lit there. It is a gleam +that comes from the very depths of his soul—a reflection of the innate +human passion for breaking records, or seeing them broken, no matter +how or why. 'Yes,' says the professed Tory, 'you certainly are sweeping +the country.' He tries to put a note of despondency into his voice; but +hark how he rolls the word 'sweeping' over his tongue! He, too, though +he may not admit it, is longing to creep into the smoking-room of the +National Liberal Club and feast his eyes on the blazing galaxy of red +seals affixed to the announcements of the polling. He turns to his +evening paper, and reads again the list of ex-Cabinet ministers who +have been unseated. He feels, in his heart of hearts, what fun it would +be if they had all been unseated. He grudges the exceptions. For +political bias is one thing; human nature another. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="parallel"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PARALLEL +</H3> + +<P> +The club-room looked very like the auditorium of a music-hall. Indeed, +that is what it must once have been. But now there were tiers of +benches on the stage; and on these was packed a quarter or so of the +members and their friends. The other three-quarters or so were packed +opposite the proscenium and down either side of the hall. And in the +middle of this human oblong was a raised platform, roped around. +Therefrom, just as I was ushered to my place, a stout man in evening +dress was making some announcement. I did not catch its import; but it +was loudly applauded. The stout man—most of the audience indeed, +seemed to have put on flesh—bowed himself off, and disappeared from my +ken in the clouds of tobacco-smoke that hung about the hall. Almost +immediately, two young people, nimbly insinuating themselves through +the rope fence, leapt upon the platform. One was a man of about twenty +years of age; the other, a girl of about seventeen. She was very +pretty; he was very handsome; both were becomingly dressed, with +evident aim at attractiveness. They proceeded to opposite corners of +the platform. At a signal from some one, they advanced to the middle; +and each made a hideous grimace at the other. The grimace, strange in +itself, was stranger still in the light of what followed. For the young +man began to make passionate protestations of love, to which the girl +responded with equal ardour. The young man fell to his knees; the girl +raised him, and clung to his breast. His language became more and more +lyrical, his eyes more and more ecstatic. Suddenly in the middle of a +pretty sentence, wherein his love was likened to a flight of doves, a +bell rang; whereat, not less abruptly, the couple separated, retiring +to the aforesaid corners of the platform and sinking back on their +chairs with every manifestation of fatigue. Their friends or +attendants, however, rallied round them, counselling them, cooling them +with fans, heartening them to fresh endeavour; and when, at the end of +a minute, the signal was sounded for a second tryst, the two young +people seemed fresher and more eager than ever. This time, most of the +love-making was done by the girl; the young man joyously drinking in +her words, and now and then interpolating a few of his own. There were +four trysts in all, with three intervals for recuperation. At the +fourth sound of the bell, the lovers, stepping asunder, repeated their +hideous mutual grimace, and disappeared from the platform as suddenly +as they had come. Their place was soon taken by another, a more mature, +and heavier, but not less personable, couple, who proceeded to make +love in their own somewhat different way. The lyrical notes seemed to +be missing in them. But maturity, though it had stripped away magic, +had not blunted their passion—had, rather, sharpened the edge of it, +and made it a stronger and more formidable instrument. Throughout the +evening, indeed, in the long succession that there was of amorous +encounters, it seemed to be the encounters of mature couples that +excited in the smoke-laden audience the keenest interest. It was +evidently not etiquette to interrupt the lovers while they were +talking; but, whenever the bell sounded, there was a frantic outburst +of sympathy, straight from the heart; and sometimes, even while a +love-scene was proceeding, this or that stout gentleman would snatch +the cigar from his lips and emit a heart-cry. Now and again, it seemed +to be thought that the lovers were insufficiently fervid—were but +dallying with passion; and then there were stentorian grunts of +disapproval and hortation. I did not gather that the audience itself +was composed mainly of active lovers. I guessed that the greater number +consisted of men who do but take an active interest in other people's +love affairs—men who, vigilant from a detached position, have +developed in themselves an extraordinarily sound critical knowledge of +what is due to Venus. 'Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment,' I +murmured; 'chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie. And wise are ye who, +immune from all love's sorrow, win incessant joy in surveying Cythara +through telescopes. Suave mari magno,' I murmured. And this second tag +caused me to awake from my dream shivering. +</P> + +<P> +A strange dream? Yet a precisely parallel reality had inspired it. I +had been taken over-night—my first visit—to the National Sporting +Club. +</P> + +<P> +The instinct to fight, like the instinct to love, is a quite natural +instinct. To fight and to love are the primary instincts of primitive +man. I know that people with strongly amorous natures are not trained +and paid to make love ceremoniously, in accordance to certain rules +laid down for them by certain authorities, and for the delectation of +highly critical audiences. But, if this custom prevailed, it would not +seem to me stranger than the custom of training and paying pugnacious +people to hit one another on the face and breast, with the greatest +possible skill and violence, for the delectation of highly critical +audiences. I do not say that a glove-fight is in itself a visually +disgusting exhibition. I saw no blood spilt, the other night, and no +bruises expressed, by either the 'light-weights' or the +'heavy-weights.' I dare say, too, that the fighters enjoy their +profession, on the whole. But I contend that it is a very lamentable +profession, in that it depends on the calculated prostitution of good +natural energies. A declaration of love prefaced by a grimace, such as +I saw in my dream, seems to me not one whit more monstrous than a +violent onslaught prefaced by a hand-shake. If two men are angry with +each other, let them fight it out (provided I be not one of them) in +the good old English fashion, by all means. But prize-fighting is to be +deplored as an offence against the soul of man. And this offence is +committed, not by the fighters themselves, but by us soft and sedentary +gentlemen who set them on to fight. Looking back at ancient Rome, no +one blames the poor gladiators in the arena. Every one reserves his +pious horror for the citizens in the amphitheatre. Yet how are we +superior to them? Are we not even as they—suspended at exactly their +point between barbarism and civilisation. In course of time, doubtless, +'the ring'will die out. For either we shall become so civilised that we +shall not rejoice in the sight of painful violence, or we shall relapse +into barbarism and go into the mauling business on our own account. Our +present stage—the stage of our transition—is not pretty, I think. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="morris"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A MORRIS FOR MAY-DAY +</H3> + +<P> +Not long ago a prospectus was issued by some more or less aesthetic +ladies and gentlemen who, deeming modern life not so cheerful as it +should be, had laid their cheerless heads together and decided that +they would meet once every month and dance old-fashioned dances in a +hall hired for the purpose. Thus would they achieve a renascence—I am +sure they called it a renascence—of 'Merrie England.' I know not +whether subscriptions came pouring in. I know not even whether the +society ever met. If it ever did meet, I conceive that its meetings +must have been singularly dismal. If you are depressed by modern life, +you are unlikely to find an anodyne in the self-appointed task of +cutting certain capers which your ancestors used to cut because they, +in their day, were happy. If you think modern life so pleasant a thing +that you involuntarily prance, rather than walk, down the street, I +dare say your prancing will intensify your joy. Though I happen never +to have met him out-of-doors, I am sure my friend Mr. Gilbert +Chesterton always prances thus—prances in some wild way symbolical of +joy in modern life. His steps, and the movements of his arms and body, +may seem to you crude, casual, and disconnected at first sight; but +that is merely because they are spontaneous. If you studied them +carefully, you would begin to discern a certain rhythm, a certain +harmony. You would at length be able to compose from them a specific +dance—a dance not quite like any other—a dance formally expressive of +new English optimism. If you are not optimistic, don't hope to become +so by practising the steps. But practise them assiduously if you are; +and get your fellow-optimists to practise them with you. You will grow +all the happier through ceremonious expression of a light heart. And +your children and your children's children will dance 'The Chesterton' +when you are no more. May be, a few of them will still be dancing it +now and then, on this or that devious green, even when optimism shall +have withered for ever from the land. Nor will any man mock at the +survival. The dance will have lost nothing of its old grace, and will +have gathered that quality of pathos which makes even unlovely relics +dear to us—that piteousness which Time gives ever to things robbed of +their meaning and their use. Spectators will love it for its melancholy +not less than for its beauty. And I hope no mere spectator will be so +foolish as to say, 'Let us do it' with a view to reviving cheerfulness +at large. I hope it will be held sacred to those in whom it will be a +tradition—a familiar thing handed down from father to son. None but +they will be worthy of it. Others would ruin it. Be sure I trod no +measure with the Morris-dancers whom I saw last May-day. +</P> + +<P> +It was in the wide street of a tiny village near Oxford that I saw +them. Fantastic—high-fantastical—figures they did cut in their +finery. But in demeanour they were quite simple, quite serious, these +eight English peasants. They had trudged hither from the neighbouring +village that was their home. And they danced quite simply, quite +seriously. One of them, I learned, was a cobbler, another a baker, and +the rest were farm-labourers. And their fathers and their fathers' +fathers had danced here before them, even so, every May-day morning. +They were as deeply rooted in antiquity as the elm outside the inn. +They were here always in their season as surely as the elm put forth +its buds. And the elm, knowing them, approving them, let its +green-flecked branches dance in unison with them. +</P> + +<P> +The first dance was in full swing when I approached. Only six of the +men were dancers. Of the others, one was the 'minstrel,' the other the +'dysard.' The minstrel was playing a flute; and the dysard I knew by +the wand and leathern bladder which he brandished as he walked around, +keeping a space for the dancers, and chasing and buffeting merrily any +man or child who ventured too near. He, like the others, wore a white +smock decked with sundry ribands, and a top-hat that must have belonged +to his grandfather. Its antiquity of form and texture contrasted +strangely with the freshness of the garland of paper roses that +wreathed it. I was told that the wife or sweetheart of every +Morris-dancer takes special pains to deck her man out more gaily than +his fellows. But this pious endeavour had defeated its own end. So +bewildering was the amount of brand-new bunting attached to all these +eight men that no matron or maiden could for the life of her have +determined which was the most splendid of them all. Besides his +adventitious finery, every dancer, of course, had in his hands the +scarves which are as necessary to his performance of the Morris as are +the bells strapped about the calves of his legs. Waving these scarves +and jangling these bells with a stolid rhythm, the six peasants danced +facing one another, three on either side, while the minstrel fluted and +the dysard strutted around. That minstrel's tune runs in my head even +now—a queer little stolid tune that recalls vividly to me the aspect +of the dance. It is the sort of tune Bottom the Weaver must often have +danced to in his youth. I wish I could hum it for you on paper. I wish +I could set down for you on paper the sight that it conjures up. But +what writer that ever lived has been able to write adequately about a +dance? Even a slow, simple dance, such as these peasants were +performing, is a thing that not the cunningest writer could fix in +words. Did not Flaubert say that if he could describe a valse he would +die happy? I am sure he would have said this if it had occurred to him. +</P> + +<P> +Unable to make you see the Morris, how can I make you feel as I felt in +seeing it? I cannot explain even to myself the effect it had on me. My +critics have often complained of me that I lack 'heart'—presumably the +sort of heart that is pronounced with a rolling of the r; and I suppose +they are right. I remember having read the death of Little Nell on more +than one occasion without floods of tears. How can I explain to myself +the tears that came into my eyes at sight of the Morris? They are not +within the rubric of the tears drawn by mere contemplation of visual +beauty. The Morris, as I saw it, was curious, antique, racy, what you +will: not beautiful. Nor was there any obvious pathos in it. Often, in +London, passing through some slum where a tune was being ground from an +organ, I have paused to watch the little girls dancing. In the swaying +dances of these wan, dishevelled, dim little girls I have discerned +authentic beauty, and have wondered where they had learned the grace of +their movements, and where the certainty with which they did such +strange and complicated steps. Surely, I have thought, this is no trick +of to-day or yesterday: here, surely, is the remainder of some old +tradition; here, may be, is Merrie England, run to seed. There is an +obvious pathos in the dances of these children of the gutter—an +obvious symbolism of sadness, of a wistful longing for freedom and +fearlessness, for wind and sunshine. No wonder that at sight of it even +so heartless a person as the present writer is a little touched. But +why at sight of those rubicund, full-grown, eupeptic Morris-dancers on +the vernal highroad? No obvious pathos was diffusing itself from them. +They were Merrie England in full flower. In part, I suppose, my tears +were tears of joy for the very joyousness of these men; in part, of +envy for their fine simplicity; in part, of sorrow in the thought that +they were a survival of the past, not types of the present, and that +their knell would soon be tolled, and the old elm see their like no +more. +</P> + +<P> +After they had drunk some ale, they formed up for the second dance—a +circular dance. And anon, above the notes of the flute and the jangling +of the bells and the stamping of the boots, I seemed to hear the knell +actually tolling, Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! A motor came fussing and fuming in +its cloud of dust. Hoot! Hoot! The dysard ran to meet it, brandishing +his wand of office. He had to stand aside. Hoot! The dancers had just +time to get out of the way. The scowling motorists vanished. Dancers +and dysard, presently visible through the subsiding dust, looked rather +foolish and crestfallen. And all the branches of the conservative old +elm above them seemed to be quivering with indignation. +</P> + +<P> +In a sense this elm was a mere parvenu as compared with its beloved +dancers. True, it had been no mere sapling in the reign of the seventh +Henry, and so could remember distinctly the first Morris danced here. +But the first Morris danced on English soil was not, by a long chalk, +the first Morris. Scarves such as these were waved, and bells such as +these were jangled, and some such measure as this was trodden, in the +mists of a very remote antiquity. Spanish buccaneers, long before the +dawn of the fifteenth century, had seen the Moors dancing somewhat thus +to the glory of Allah. Home-coming, they had imitated that strange and +savage dance, expressive, for them, of the joy of being on firm native +land again. The 'Morisco' they called it; and it was much admired; and +the fashion of it spread throughout Spain—scaled the very Pyrenees, +and invaded France. To the 'Maurisce' succumbed 'tout Paris' as quickly +as in recent years it succumbed to the cake-walk. A troupe of French +dancers braved the terrors of the sea, and, with their scarves and +their bells, danced for the delectation of the English court. 'The +Kynge,' it seems, 'was pleased by the bels and sweet dauncing.' Certain +of his courtiers 'did presentlie daunce so in open playces.' No one +with any knowledge of the English nature will be surprised to hear that +the cits soon copied the courtiers. But 'the Morrice was not for longe +practysed in the cittie. It went to countrie playces.' London, +apparently, even in those days, did not breed joy in life. The Morris +sought and found its proper home in the fields and by the wayside. +Happy carles danced it to the glory of God, even as it had erst been +danced to the glory of Allah. +</P> + +<P> +It was no longer, of course, an explicitly religious dance. But neither +can its origin have been explicitly religious. Every dance, however +formal it become later, begins as a mere ebullition of high spirits. +The Dionysiac dances began in the same way as 'the Chesterton.' Some +Thessalian vintner, say, suddenly danced for sheer joy that the earth +was so bounteous; and his fellow vintners, sharing his joy, danced with +him; and ere their breath was spent they remembered who it was that had +given them such cause for merry-making, and they caught leaves from the +vine and twined them in their hair, and from the fig-tree and the +fir-tree they snatched branches, and waved them this way and that, as +they danced, in honour of him who was lord of these trees and of this +wondrous vine. Thereafter this dance of joy became a custom, ever to be +observed at certain periods of the year. It took on, beneath its +joyousness, a formal solemnity. It was danced slowly around an altar of +stone, whereon wood and salt were burning—burning with little flames +that were pale in the sunlight. Formal hymns were chanted around this +altar. And some youth, clad in leopard's skin and wreathed with ivy, +masqueraded as the god himself, and spoke words appropriate to that +august character. It was from these beginnings that sprang the art-form +of drama. The Greeks never hid the origin of this their plaything. +Always in the centre of the theatre was the altar to Dionysus; and the +chorus, circling around it, were true progeny of those old agrestic +singers; and the mimes had never been but for that masquerading youth. +It is hard to realise, yet it is true, that we owe to the worship of +Dionysus so dreary a thing as the modern British drama. Strange that +through him who gave us the juice of the grape, 'fiery, venerable, +divine,' came this gift too! Yet I dare say the chorus of a musical +comedy would not be awestruck—would, indeed, 'bridle'—if one unrolled +to them their illustrious pedigree. +</P> + +<P> +The history of the Dionysiac dance has a fairly exact parallel in that +of the 'Morisco.' Each dance has travelled far, and survives, shorn of +its explicitly religious character, and in many other ways 'diablement +change' en route.' The 'Morisco,' of course, has changed the less of +the two. Besides the scarves and the bells, it seemed to me last +May-day that the very steps danced and figures formed were very like to +those of which I had read, and which I had seen illustrated in old +English and French engravings. Above all, the dancers seemed to retain, +despite their seriousness, something of the joy in which the dance +originated. They frowned as they footed it, but they were evidently +happy. Their frowns did but betoken determination to do well and +rightly a thing that they loved doing—were proud of doing. The smiles +of the chorus in a musical comedy seem but to express depreciation of a +rather tedious and ridiculous exercise. The coryphe'es are quite +evidently bored and ashamed. But these eight be-ribanded sons of the +soil were hardly less glad in dancing than was that antique Moor who, +having slain beneath the stars some long-feared and long-hated enemy, +danced wildly on the desert sand, and, to make music, tore strips of +bells from his horse's saddle and waved them in either hand while he +danced, and made so great a noise in the night air that other Moors +came riding to see what had happened, and marvelled at the sight and +sound of the dance, and, praising Allah, leapt down and tore strips of +bells from their own saddles, and danced as nearly as they could in +mimicry of that glad conqueror, to Allah's glory. +</P> + +<P> +As this scene is mobled in the aforesaid mists of antiquity, I cannot +vouch for the details. Nor can I say just when the Moors found that +they could make a finer and more rhythmic jangle by attaching the bells +to their legs than by swinging them in their hands. Nor can I fix the +day when they tore strips from their turbans for their idle hands to +wave. I cannot say how long the rite's mode had been set when first the +adventurers from Spain beheld it with their keen wondering eyes and +fixed it for ever in their memories. +</P> + +<P> +In Spain, and then in France, and then in London, the dance was +secular. But perhaps I ought not to have said that it was 'not +explicitly religious' in the English countryside. The cult for Robin +Hood was veritably a religion throughout the Midland Counties. Rites in +his honour were performed on certain days of the year with a not less +hearty reverence, a not less quaint elaboration, than was infused into +the rustic Greek rites for Dionysus. The English carles danced, not +indeed around an altar, but around a bunt pole crowned with such +flowers as were in season; and one of them, like the youth who in the +Dionysiac dance masqueraded as the god, was decked out duly as Robin +Hood—'with a magpye's plume to hys capp,' we are told, and sometimes +'a russat bearde compos'd of horses hair.' The most famous of the +dances for Robin Hood was the 'pageant.' Herein appeared, besides the +hero himself and various tabours and pipers, a 'dysard' or fool, and +Friar Tuck, and Maid Marian—'in a white kyrtele and her hair all +unbrayded, but with blossoms thereyn.' This 'pageant' was performed at +Whitsun, at Easter, on New-Year's day, and on May-day. The Morris, when +it had become known in the villages, was very soon incorporated in the +'pageant.' The Morris scarves and bells, the Morris steps and figures, +were all pressed into the worship of Robin Hood. In most villages the +properties for the 'pageant' had always rested in the custody of the +church-wardens. The properties for the Morris were now kept with them. +In the Kingston accounts for 1537-8 are enumerated 'a fryers cote of +russat, and a kyrtele weltyd with red cloth, a Mowrens cote of buckram, +and four morres daunsars cotes of white fustian spangelid, and two +gryne saten cotes, and disarddes cote of cotton, and six payre of +garters with belles.' The 'pageant' itself fell, little by little, into +disuse; the Morris, which had been affiliated to it, superseded it. Of +the 'pageant' nothing remained but the minstrel and the dysard and an +occasional Maid Marian. In the original Morris there had been no music +save that of the bells. But now there was always a flute or tabor. The +dysard, with his rod and leathern bladder, was promoted to a sort of +leadership. He did not dance, but gave the signal for the dance, and +distributed praise or blame among the performers, and had power to +degrade from the troupe any man who did not dance with enough skill or +enough heartiness. Often there were in one village two rival troupes of +dancers, and a prize was awarded to whichever acquitted itself the more +admirably. But not only the 'ensemble' was considered. A sort of 'star +system' seems to have crept in. Often a prize would be awarded to some +one dancer who had excelled his fellows. There were, I suppose, 'born' +Morris-dancers. Now and again, one of them, flushed with triumph, would +secern himself from his troupe, and would 'star' round the country for +his livelihood. +</P> + +<P> +Such a one was Mr. William Kemp, who, at the age of seventeen, and in +the reign of Queen Elizabeth, danced from his native village to London, +where he educated himself and became an actor. Perhaps he was not a +good actor, for he presently reverted to the Morris. He danced all the +way from London to Norwich, and wrote a pamphlet about it—'Kemp's Nine +Dajes' Wonder, performed in a daunce from London to Norwich. Containing +the pleasures, paines, and kind entertainment of William Kemp betweene +London and that Citty, in his late Morrice.' He seems to have +encountered more pleasures than 'paines.' Gentle and simple, all the +way, were very cordial. The gentle entertained him in their mansions by +night. The simple danced with him by day. In Sudbury 'there came a +lusty tall fellow, a butcher by his profession, that would in a Morice +keepe me company to Bury. I gave him thankes, and forward wee did set; +but ere ever wee had measur'd halfe a mile of our way, he gave me over +in the plain field, protesting he would not hold out with me; for, +indeed, my pace in dauncing is not ordinary. As he and I were parting, +a lusty country lasse being among the people, cal'd him faint-hearted +lout, saying, "If I had begun to daunce, I would have held out one +myle, though it had cost my life." At which words many laughed. "Nay," +saith she, "if the dauncer will lend me a leash of his belles, I'le +venter to treade one myle with him myself." I lookt upon her, saw mirth +in her eies, heard boldness in her words, and beheld her ready to tucke +up her russat petticoate; and I fitted her with bels, which she merrily +taking garnisht her thicke short legs, and with a smooth brow bad the +tabur begin. The drum strucke; forward marcht I with my merry Mayde +Marian, who shook her stout sides, and footed it merrily to Melford, +being a long myle. There parting with her (besides her skinfull of +drinke), and English crowne to buy more drinke; for, good wench, she +was in a pittious heate; my kindness she requited with dropping a dozen +good courtsies, and bidding God blesse the dauncer. I bade her adieu; +and, to give her her due, she had a good eare, daunst truly, and wee +parted friends.' Kemp, you perceive, wrote as well as he danced. I wish +he had danced less and written more. It seems that he never wrote +anything but this one delightful pamphlet. He died three years later, +in the thirtieth year of his age—died dancing, with his bells on his +legs, in the village of Ockley. +</P> + +<P> +John Thorndrake, another professional Morris-dancer, was not so +brilliant a personage as poor Kemp; but was of tougher fibre, it would +seem. He died in his native town, Canterbury, at the age of +seventy-eight; and had danced—never less than a mile, seldom less than +five miles—every day, except Sunday, for sixty years. But even his +record pales beside the account of a Morris that was danced by eight +men, in Hereford, one May-day in the reign of James I. The united ages +of these dancers, according to a contemporary pamphleteer, exceeded +eight hundred years. The youngest of them was seventy-nine, and the +ages of the rest ranged between ninety-five and a hundred and nine. +'And they daunced right well.' Of the hold that the Morris had on +England, could there be stronger proof than in the feat of these +indomitable dotards? The Morris ceased not even during the Civil Wars. +Some of King Charles's men (according to Groby, the Puritan) danced +thus on the eve of Naseby. Not even the Protectorate could stamp the +Morris out, though we are told that Groby and other preachers +throughout the land inveighed against it as 'lewde' and 'ungodlie.' The +Restoration was in many places celebrated by special Morrises. The +perihelion of this dance seems, indeed, to have been in the reign of +Charles II. Georgian writers treated it somewhat as a survival, and +were not always even tender to it. Says a writer in Bladud's Courier, +describing a 'soire'e de beaute'' given by Lady Jersey, 'Mrs. —— (la +belle) looked as silly and gaudy, I do vow, as one of the old Morris +Dancers.' And many other writers—from Horace Walpole to Captain +Harver—have their sneer at the Morris. Its rusticity did not appeal to +the polite Georgian mind; and its Moorishness, which would have +appealed strongly, was overlooked. Still, the Morris managed to survive +urban disdain—was still dear to the carles whose fathers had taught it +them. +</P> + +<P> +And long may it linger! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="manner"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOUSE OF COMMONS MANNER +</H3> + +<P> +A grave and beautiful place, the Palace of Westminster. I sometimes go +to that little chamber of it wherein the Commons sit sprawling or stand +spouting. I am a constant reader of the 'graphic reports' of what goes +on in the House of Commons; and the writers of these things always +strive to give one the impression that nowhere is the human comedy so +fast and furious, nowhere played with such skill and brio, as at St. +Stephen's; and I am rather easily influenced by anything that appears +in daily print, for I have a burning faith in the sagacity and +uprightness of sub-editors; and so, when the memory of my last visit to +the House has lost its edge, and when there is a crucial debate in +prospect, to the House I go, full of hope that this time I really shall +be edified or entertained. With an open mind I go, reeking naught of +the pro's and con's of the subject of the debate. I go as to a +gladiatorial show, eager to applaud any man who shall wield his sword +brilliantly. If a 'stranger' indulge in applause, he is tapped on the +shoulder by one of those courteous, magpie-like officials, and +conducted beyond the precincts of the Palace of Westminster. I speak +from hearsay. I do not think I have ever seen a 'stranger' applauding. +My own hands, certainly, never have offended. +</P> + +<P> +Years ago, when to be a member of the House of Commons was to be (or to +deem oneself) a personage of great importance, the debates were +conducted with a keen eye to effect. Members who had a sense of beauty +made their speeches beautiful, and even those to whom it was denied did +their best. Grace of ample gesture was cultivated, and sonorous +elocution, and lucid ordering of ideas, and noble language. In fact, +there was a school of oratory. This is no mere superstition, bred of +man's innate tendency to exalt the past above the present. It is a fact +that can easily be verified through contemporary records. It is a fact +which I myself have verified in the House with my own eyes and ears. +More than once, I heard there—and it was a pleasure and privilege to +hear—a speech made by Sir William Harcourt. And from his speeches I +was able to deduce the manner of his coevals and his forerunners. Long +past his prime he was, and bearing up with very visible effort against +his years. An almost extinct volcano! But sufficient to imagination +these glimpses of the glow that had been, and the sight of these last +poor rivulets of the old lava. An almost extinct volcano, but majestic +among mole-hills! Assuredly, the old school was a fine one. It had its +faults, of course—floridness, pomposity, too much histrionism. It was, +indeed, very like the old school of acting, in its defects as in its +qualities. With all his defects, what a relief it is to see one of the +old actors among a cast of new ones! How he takes the stage, making +himself felt—and heard! How surely he achieves his effects in the +grand manner! Robustious? Yes. But it is better to exaggerate a style +than to have no style at all. That is what is the matter with these +others—these quiet, shifty, shamefaced others they have no style at +all. And as is the difference between the old actor and them, so, +precisely was the difference between Sir William Harcourt and the +modern members. +</P> + +<P> +I do not desire the new actors to model themselves on the old, whose +manner is quite incongruous with the character of modern drama. All I +would have them do is to achieve the manner for which they are darkly +fumbling. Even so, I do not demand oratory of the modern senators. +Oratory I love, but I admit that the time for it is bygone. It belonged +to the age of port. On plenty of port the orator spoke, and on plenty +of port his audience listened to him. A diet-bound generation can +hardly produce an orator; and if, by some mysterious throw-back, an +orator actually is produced, he falls very flat. There was in my +college at Oxford a little 'Essay Society,' to which I found myself +belonging. We used to meet every Thursday evening in the room of this +or that member; and, when coffee had been handed round, one of us read +an essay—a calm little mild essay on one of those vast themes that no +undergraduate can resist. After this, we had a calm little mild +discussion 'It seems to me that the reader of the paper has hardly laid +enough stress on...' One of these evenings I can recall most +distinctly. A certain freshman had been elected. The man who was to +have read an essay had fallen ill, and the freshman had been asked to +step into the breach. This he did, with an essay on 'The Ideals of +Mazzini,' and with strange and terrific effect. During the exordium we +raised our eyebrows. Presently we were staring open-mouthed. Where were +we? In what wild dream were we drifting? To this day I can recite the +peroration. Mazzini is dead. But his spirit lives, and can never be +crushed. And his motto—the motto that he planted on the gallant banner +of the Italian Republic, and sealed with his life's blood, remains, and +shall remain, till, through the eternal ages, the universal air +re-echoes to the inspired shout—'GOD AND THE PEOPLE!' +</P> + +<P> +The freshman had begun to read his essay in a loud, declamatory style; +but gradually, knowing with an orator's instinct, I suppose, that his +audience was not 'with' him, he had quieted down, and become rather +nervous—too nervous to skip, as I am sure he wished to skip, the +especially conflagrant passages. But, as the end hove in sight, his +confidence was renewed. A wave of emotion rose to sweep him ashore upon +its crest. He gave the peroration for all it was worth. Mazzini is +dead. I can hear now the hushed tone in which he spoke those words; the +pause that followed them; and the gradual rising of his voice to a +culmination at the words 'inspired shout'; and then another pause +before that husky whisper 'GOD AND THE PEOPLE.' There was no +discussion. We were petrified. We sat like stones; and presently, like +shadows, we drifted out into the evening air. The little society met +once or twice again; but any activity it still had was but the faint +convulsion of a murdered thing. Old wine had been poured into a new +bottle, with the usual result. Broken even so, belike, would be the +glass roof of the Commons if a member spouted up to it such words as we +heard that evening in Oxford. At any rate, the member would be howled +down. So strong is the modern distaste for oratory. The day for +oratory, as for toping, is past beyond redemption. 'Debating' is the +best that can be done and appreciated by so abstemious a generation as +ours. You will find a very decent level of 'debating' in the Oxford +Union, in the Balham Ethical Society, in the Pimlico Parliament, and +elsewhere. But not, I regret to say, in the House of Commons. +</P> + +<P> +No one supposes that in a congeries of—how many?—six hundred and +seventy men, chosen by the British public, there will be a very high +average of mental capacity. If any one were so sanguine, a glance at +the faces of our Conscript Fathers along the benches would soon bleed +him. (I have no doubt that the custom of wearing hats in the House +originated in the members' unwillingness to let strangers spy down on +the shapes of their heads.) But it is not unreasonable to expect that +the more active of these gentlemen will, through constant practice, not +only in the senate, but also at elections and public dinners and so +forth, have acquired a rough-and-ready professionalism in the art of +speaking. It is not unreasonable to expect that they will be fairly +fluent—fairly capable of arranging in logical sequence such ideas as +they may have formed, and of reeling out words more or less expressive +of these ideas. Well! certain of the Irishmen, certain of the Welshmen, +proceed easily enough. But oh! those Saxon others! Look at them, hark +at them, poor dears! See them clutching at their coats, and shuffling +from foot to foot in travail, while their ideas—ridiculous mice, for +the most part—get jerked painfully out somehow and anyhow. 'It seems +to me that the Right—the honourable member for—er—er (the speaker +dives to be prompted)—yes, of course—South Clapham—er—(temporising) +the Southern division of Clapham—(long pause; his lips form the words +'Where was I?')—oh yes, the honourable gentleman the member for South +Clapham seems to me to me—to be—in the position of one who, whilst +the facts on which his propo—supposition are based—er—may or may not +be in themselves acc—correct (gasps)—yet +inasmuch—because—nevertheless...I should say rather—er—what it +comes to is this: the honourable member for North—South Clapham seems +to be labouring under a total, an entire, a complete (emphatic gesture, +which throws him off his tack)—a contire—a complete +disill—misunderstanding of the things which he himself relies on +as—as—as a backing-up of the things that he would have us take +or—er—accept and receive as the right sort of reduction—deduction +from the facts of...in fact, from the facts of the case.' Then the poor +dear heaves a deep sigh of relief, which is drowned by other members in +a hideous cachinnation meant to express mirth. +</P> + +<P> +And the odd thing is that the mirth is quite sincere and quite +friendly. The speaker has just scored a point, though you mightn't +think it. He has just scored a point in the true House of Commons +manner. Possibly you have never been to the House of Commons, and +suspect that I have caricatured its manner. Not at all. Indeed, to save +space in these pages, I have rather improved it. If a phonograph were +kept in the house, you would learn from it that the average sentence of +the average speaker is an even more grotesque abortion than I have +adumbrated. Happily for the prestige of the House, phonographs are +excluded. Certain skilled writers—modestly dubbing themselves +'reporters'—are admitted, and by them cosmos is conjured out of chaos. +'The member for South Clapham appeared to be labouring under a +misapprehension of the nature of the facts on which his argument was +based (Laughter).' That is the finished article that your morning paper +offers to you. And you, enjoying the delicious epigram over your tea +and toast, are as unconscious of the toil that went to make it, and of +the crises through which it passed, as you are of those poor sowers and +reapers, planters and sailors and colliers, but for whom there would be +no fragrant tea and toast for you. +</P> + +<P> +The English are a naturally silent race. The most popular type of +national hero is the 'strong silent man.' And most of the members of +the House of Commons are, at any rate, silent members. Mercifully +silent. Seeing the level attained by such members as have an impulse to +speak, I shudder to conceive an oration by one of those unimpelled +members... Perhaps I am too nervous. Surely I am too nervous. Surely +the House of Commons manner cannot be a natural growth. Such perfect +virtuosity in dufferdom can be acquired only by constant practice. But +how comes it to be practised? I can only repeat that the English are a +naturally silent race. They are apt to mistrust fluency. 'Glibness' +they call it, and scent behind it the adventurer, the player of the +confidence trick or the three-card trick, the robber of the widow and +the orphan. Be smooth-tongued, and the Englishman will withdraw from +you as quickly as may be, walking sideways like a crab, and looking +askance at you with panic in his eyes. But stammer and blurt to him, +and he will fall straight under the spell of your transparent honesty. +A silly superstition; but there it is, ineradicable; and through it, +undoubtedly, has come the house of Commons manner. Sometimes, through +sheer nervousness, a new member achieves something like that manner; +insomuch that his maiden speech is adjudged rich in promise, and 'the +ear of the House' is assured to him when next he rises. Then is the +dangerous time for him. He has conquered his nervousness now, but has +not yet acquired that complex and delicate technique whereby a man can +produce the illusion that he is striving hopelessly to utter something +which, really, he could say with perfect ease. Thus he forfeits the +sympathy of the House. Members stroll listlessly out. There is a buzz +of conversation along the benches—perhaps the horrific refrain ''Vide, +'Vide, 'Vide.' But the time will come when they shall hear him. Years +hence—a beacon to show the heights that can be sealed by +perseverance—he shall stand fumbling and floundering in a rapt senate. +</P> + +<P> +Well! I take off my hat to virtuosity in any form. I admire +Demosthenes, for whom pebbles in the mouth were a means to the end of +oratory. I admire the Demosthenes de nos jours, for whom oratory is a +means to the end of pebbles in the mouth. But I desire that the +intelligent foreigner and the intelligent country cousin be not +disappointed when they visit the House of Commons. Hitherto, strangers +have expected to find there an exhibition of the art of speaking. That +is the fault partly of those reporters to whom I have paid a +well-deserved tribute. But it is more especially the fault of those +other 'graphic' reporters, who write their lurid impressions of the +debates. These gentlemen are most wildly misleading. I don't think they +mislead you intentionally. If a man criticises one kind of ill-done +thing exclusively, he cannot but, in course of time, lower his +standard. Seeing nothing good, he will gradually forget what goodness +is; and will accept as good that which is least bad. So it is with the +graphic reporter in Parliament. He really does imagine that Hob 'raked +the Treasury Bench with a merciless fire of raillery,' and that Nob +'went, as is his way, straight to the root of the subject,' and that +Chittabob 'struck a deep note of pathos that will linger long in the +memory of all who heard him.' If Hob, Nob, and Chittabob happen to be +in opposition to the politics of the newspaper which he adorns, he will +perhaps tell the truth about their respective performances. But he will +tell it without believing it. All his geese are swans—bless him!—even +when he won't admit it. The moral is that no man should be employed as +graphic reporter for more than one session. Then the public would begin +to learn the truth about St. Stephen's. Nor need the editors flinch +from such a consummation. They used to entertain a theory that it was +safest to have the productions at every theatre praised, in case any +manager should withdraw his advertisements. But there need be no such +fear in regard to St. Stephen's. That establishment does not advertise +itself in the press as a place of amusement. Why should the press +advertise it gratuitously? +</P> + +<P> +For utility's sake, as well as for truth's, I would have the public +enlightened. Exposed to ruthless criticism, our Commons might be shamed +into an attempt at proficiency in the art of speaking. Then the +sessions would be comparatively brief. After all, it is on the nation +itself that falls the cost of lighting, warming, and ventilating St. +Stephen's during the session. All the aforesaid dufferdom, therefore, +increases the burden of the taxpayer. All those hum's and ha's mean so +many pence from the pockets of you, reader, and me. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="streets"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE NAMING OF STREETS +</H3> + +<P> +'The Rebuilding of London' proceeds ruthlessly apace. The humble old +houses that dare not scrape the sky are being duly punished for their +timidity. Down they come; and in their place are shot up new tenements, +quick and high as rockets. And the little old streets, so narrow and +exclusive, so shy and crooked—we are making an example of them, too. +We lose our way in them, do we?—we whose time is money. Our omnibuses +can't trundle through them, can't they? Very well, then. Down with +them! We have no use for them. This is the age of 'noble arteries.' +</P> + +<P> +'The Rebuilding of London' is a source of much pride and pleasure to +most of London's citizens, especially to them who are county +councillors, builders, contractors, navvies, glaziers, decorators, and +so forth. There is but a tiny residue of persons who do not swell and +sparkle. And of these glum bystanders at the carnival I am one. Our +aloofness is mainly irrational, I suppose. It is due mainly to +temperamental Toryism. We say 'The old is better.' This we say to +ourselves, every one of us feeling himself thereby justified in his +attitude. But we are quite aware that such a postulate would not be +accepted by time majority. For the majority, then, let us make some +show of ratiocination. Let us argue that, forasmuch as London is an +historic city, with many phases and periods behind her, and forasmuch +as many of these phases and periods are enshrined in the aspect of her +buildings, the constant rasure of these buildings is a disservice to +the historian not less than to the mere sentimentalist, and that it +will moreover (this is a more telling argument) filch from Englishmen +the pleasant power of crowing over Americans, and from Americans the +unpleasant necessity of balancing their pity for our present with envy +of our past. After all, our past is our point d'appui. Our present is +merely a bad imitation of what the Americans can do much better. +</P> + +<P> +Ignoring as mere scurrility this criticism of London's present, but +touched by my appeal to his pride in its history, the average citizen +will reply, reasonably enough, to this effect: 'By all means let us +have architectural evidence of our epochs—Caroline, Georgian, +Victorian, what you will. But why should the Edvardian be ruled out? +London is packed full of architecture already. Only by rasing much of +its present architecture can we find room for commemorating duly the +glorious epoch which we have just entered. To this reply there are two +rejoinders: (1) let special suburbs be founded for Edvardian buildings; +(2) there are no really Edvardian buildings, and there won't be any. +Long before the close of the Victorian Era our architects had ceased to +be creative. They could not express in their work the spirit of their +time. They could but evolve a medley of old styles, some foreign, some +native, all inappropriate. Take the case of Mayfair. Mayfair has for +some years been in a state of transition. The old Mayfair, grim and +sombre, with its air of selfish privacy and hauteur and leisure, its +plain bricked facades, so disdainful of show—was it not redolent of +the century in which it came to being? Its wide pavements and narrow +roads between—could not one see in them the time when by day gentlemen +and ladies went out afoot, needing no vehicle to whisk them to a +destination, and walked to and fro amply, needing elbow-room for their +dignity and their finery, and by night were borne in chairs, singly? +And those queer little places of worship, those stucco chapels, with +their very secular little columns, their ample pews, and their +negligible altars over which one saw the Lion and the Unicorn fighting, +as who should say, for the Cross—did they not breathe all the +inimitable Erastianism of their period? In qua te qaero proseucha, my +Lady Powderbox? Alas! every one of your tabernacles is dust now—dust +turned to mud by the tears of the ghost of the Rev. Charles Honeyman, +and by my own tears.... I have strayed again into sentiment. Back to +the point—which is that the new houses and streets in Mayfair mean +nothing. Let me show you Mount Street. Let me show you that airy +stretch of sham antiquity, and defy you to say that it symbolises, how +remotely soever, the spirit of its time. Mount Street is typical of the +new Mayfair. And the new Mayfair is typical of the new London. In the +height of these new houses, in the width of these new roads, future +students will find, doubtless, something characteristic of this +pressing and bustling age. But from the style of the houses he will +learn nothing at all. The style might mean anything; and means, +therefore, nothing. Original architecture is a lost art in England; and +an art that is once lost is never found again. The Edvardian Era cannot +be commemorated in its architecture. +</P> + +<P> +Erection of new buildings robs us of the past and gives us in exchange +nothing of the present. Consequently, the excuse put by me into the +gaping mouth of the average Londoner cannot be accepted. I had no idea +that my case was such a good one. Having now vindicated on grounds of +patriotic utility that which I took to be a mere sentimental prejudice, +I may be pardoned for dragging 'beauty' into the question. The new +buildings are not only uninteresting through lack of temporal and local +significance: they are also hideous. With all his learned eclecticism, +the new architect seems unable to evolve a fake that shall be pleasing +to the eye. Not at all pleasing is a mad hotch-potch of early Victorian +hospital, Jacobean manor-house, Venetian palace, and bride-cake in +Gunter's best manner. Yet that, apparently, is the modern English +architect's pet ideal. Even when he confines himself to one manner, the +result (even if it be in itself decent) is made horrible by vicinity to +the work of a rival who has been dabbling in some other manner. Every +street in London is being converted into a battlefield of styles, all +shrieking at one another, all murdering one another. The tumult may be +exciting, especially to the architects, but it is not beautiful. It is +not good to live in. +</P> + +<P> +However, I am no propagandist. I am not sanguine enough to suppose that +I could do anything to stop either the adulteration or the demolition +of old streets. I do not wish to infect the public with my own +misgivings. On the contrary, my motive for this essay is to inoculate +the public with my own placid indifference in a certain matter which +seems always to cause them painful anxiety. Whenever a new highway is +about to be opened, the newspapers are filled with letters suggesting +that it ought to be called by this or that beautiful name, or by the +name of this or that national hero. Well, in point of fact, a name +cannot (in the long-run) make any shadow of difference in our sentiment +for the street that bears it, for our sentiment is solely according to +the character of the street itself; and, further, a street does nothing +at all to keep green the memory of one whose name is given to it. +</P> + +<P> +For a street one name is as good as another. To prove this proposition, +let us proceed by analogy of the names borne by human beings. Surnames +and Christian names may alike be divided into two classes: (1) those +which, being identical with words in the dictionary, connote some +definite thing; (2) those which, connoting nothing, may or may not +suggest something by their sound. Instances of Christian names in the +first class are Rose, Faith; of surnames, Lavender, Badger; of +Christian names in the second class, Celia, Mary; of surnames, Jones, +Vavasour. Let us consider the surnames in the first class. You will +say, off-hand, that Lavender sounds pretty, and that Badger sounds +ugly. Very well. Now, suppose that Christian names connoting unpleasant +things were sometimes conferred at baptisms. Imagine two sisters named +Nettle and Envy. Off-hand, you will say that these names sound ugly, +whilst Rose and Faith sound pretty. Yet, believe me, there is not, in +point of actual sound, one pin to choose either between Badger and +Lavender, or between Rose and Nettle, or between Faith and Envy. There +is no such thing as a singly euphonious or a singly cacophonous name. +There is no word which, by itself, sounds ill or well. In combination, +names or words may be made to sound ill or well. A sentence can be +musical or unmusical. But in detachment words are no more preferable +one to another in their sound than are single notes of music. What you +take to be beauty or ugliness of sound is indeed nothing but beauty or +ugliness of meaning. You are pleased by the sound of such words as +gondola, vestments, chancel, ermine, manor-house. They seem to be +fraught with a subtle onomatopoeia, severally suggesting by their +sounds the grace or sanctity or solid comfort of the things which they +connote. You murmur them luxuriously, dreamily. Prepare for a slight +shock. Scrofula, investments, cancer, vermin, warehouse. Horrible +words, are they not? But say gondola—scrofula, vestments—investments, +and so on; and then lay your hand on your heart, and declare that the +words in the first list are in mere sound nicer than the words in the +second. Of course they are not. If gondola were a disease, and if a +scrofula were a beautiful boat peculiar to a beautiful city, the effect +of each word would be exactly the reverse of what it is. This rule may +be applied to all the other words in the two lists. And these lists +might, of course, be extended to infinity. The appropriately beautiful +or ugly sound of any word is an illusion wrought on us by what the word +connotes. Beauty sounds as ugly as ugliness sounds beautiful. Neither +of them has by itself any quality in sound. +</P> + +<P> +It follows, then, that the Christian names and surnames in my first +class sound beautiful or ugly according to what they connote. The sound +of those in the second class depends on the extent to which it suggests +any known word more than another. Of course, there might be a name +hideous in itself. There might, for example, be a Mr. Griggsbiggmiggs. +But there is not. And the fact that I, after prolonged study of a +Postal Directory, have been obliged to use my imagination as factory +for a name that connotes nothing and is ugly in itself may be taken as +proof that such names do not exist actually. You cannot stump me by +citing Mr. Matthew Arnold's citation of the words 'Ragg is in custody,' +and his comment that 'there was no Ragg by the Ilyssus.' 'Ragg' has not +an ugly sound in itself. Mr. Arnold was jarred merely by its suggestion +of something ugly, a rag, and by the cold brutality of the police-court +reporter in withholding the prefix 'Miss' from a poor girl who had got +into trouble. If 'Ragg' had been brought to his notice as the name of +some illustrious old family, Mr. Arnold would never have dragged in the +Ilyssus. The name would have had for him a savour of quaint +distinction. The suggestion of a rag would never have struck him. For +it is a fact that whatever thing may be connoted or suggested by a name +is utterly overshadowed by the name's bearer (unless, as in the case of +poor 'Ragg,' there is seen to be some connexion between the bearer and +the thing implied by the name). Roughly, it may be said that all names +connote their bearers, and them only. +</P> + +<P> +To have a 'beautiful' name is no advantage. To have an 'ugly' name is +no drawback. I am aware that this is a heresy. In a famous passage, +Bulwer Lytton propounded through one of his characters a theory that +'it is not only the effect that the sound of a name has on others which +is to be thoughtfully considered; the effect that his name produces on +the man himself is perhaps still more important. Some names stimulate +and encourage the owner, others deject and paralyse him.' +</P> + +<P> +Bulwer himself, I doubt not, believed that there was something in this +theory. It is natural that a novelist should. He is always at great +pains to select for his every puppet a name that suggests to himself +the character which he has ordained for that puppet. In real life a +baby gets its surname by blind heredity, its other names by the blind +whim of its parents, who know not at all what sort of a person it will +eventually become. And yet, when these babies grow up, their names seem +every whit as appropriate as do the names of the romantic puppets. +'Obviously,' thinks the novelist, 'these human beings must "grow to" +their names; or else, we must be viewing them in the light of their +names.' And the quiet ordinary people, who do not write novels, incline +to his conjectures. How else can they explain the fact that every name +seems to fit its bearer so exactly, to sum him or her up in a flash? +The true explanation, missed by them, is that a name derives its whole +quality from its bearer, even as does a word from its meaning. The late +Sir Redvers Buller, tauredon hupoblepsas [spelled in Greek, from +Plato's Phaedo 117b], was thought to be peculiarly well fitted with his +name. Yet had it belonged not to him, but to (say) some gentle and +thoughtful ecclesiastic, it would have seemed quite as inevitable. +'Gore' is quite as taurine as 'Buller,' and yet does it not seem to us +the right name for the author of Lux Mundi? In connection with him, who +is struck by its taurinity? What hint of ovinity would there have been +for us if Sir Redvers' surname had happened to be that of him who wrote +the Essays of Elia? Conversely, 'Charles Buller' seems to us now an +impossible nom de vie for Elia; yet it would have done just as well, +really. Even 'Redvers Buller' would have done just as well. 'Walter +Pater' means for us—how perfectly!—the author of Marius the +Epicurean, whilst the author of All Sorts and Conditions of Men was +summed up for us, not less absolutely, in 'Walter Besant.' And yet, if +the surnames of these two opposite Walters had been changed at birth, +what difference would have been made? 'Walter Besant' would have +signified a prose style sensuous in its severity, an exquisitely +patient scholarship, an exquisitely sympathetic way of criticism. +'Walter Pater' would have signified no style, but an unslakable thirst +for information, and a bustling human sympathy, and power of carrying +things through. Or take two names often found in conjunction—Johnson +and Boswell. Had the dear great oracle been named Boswell, and had the +sitter-at-his-feet been named Johnson, would the two names seem to us +less appropriate than they do? Should we suffer any greater loss than +if Salmon were Gluckstein, and Gluckstein Salmon? Finally, take a case +in which the same name was borne by two very different characters. What +name could seem more descriptive of a certain illustrious Archbishop of +Westminster than 'Manning'? It seems the very epitome of saintly +astuteness. But for 'Cardinal' substitute 'Mrs.' as its prefix, and, +presto! it is equally descriptive of that dreadful medio-Victorian +murderess who in the dock of the Old Bailey wore a black satin gown, +and thereby created against black satin a prejudice which has but +lately died. In itself black satin is a beautiful thing. Yet for many +years, by force of association, it was accounted loathsome. Conversely, +one knows that many quite hideous fashions in costume have been set by +beautiful women. Such instances of the subtle power of association will +make clear to you how very easily a name (being neither beautiful nor +hideous in itself) can be made hideous or beautiful by its bearer—how +inevitably it becomes for us a symbol of its bearer's most salient +qualities or defects, be they physical, moral, or intellectual. +</P> + +<P> +Streets are not less characteristic than human beings. 'Look!' cried a +friend of mine, whom lately I found studying a map of London, 'isn't it +appalling? All these streets—thousands of them—in this tiny compass! +Think of the miles and miles of drab monotony this map contains! I +pointed out to him (it is a thinker's penalty to be always pointing +things out to people) that his words were nonsense. I told him that the +streets on this map were no more monotonous than the rivers on the map +of England. Just as there were no two rivers alike, every one of them +having its own speed, its own windings, depths, and shallows, its own +way with the reeds and grasses, so had every street its own claim to an +especial nymph, forasmuch as no two streets had exactly the same +proportions, the same habitual traffic, the same type of shops or +houses, the same inhabitants. In some cases, of course, the difference +between the 'atmosphere' of two streets is a subtle difference. But it +is always there, not less definite to any one who searches for it than +the difference between (say) Hill Street and Pont Street, High Street +Kensington and High Street Notting Hill, Fleet Street and the Strand. I +have here purposely opposed to each other streets that have obvious +points of likeness. But what a yawning gulf of difference is between +each couple! Hill Street, with its staid distinction, and Pont Street, +with its eager, pushful 'smartness,' its air de petit parvenu, its +obvious delight in having been 'taken up'; High Street Notting Hill, +down-at-heels and unashamed, with a placid smile on its broad ugly +face, and High Street Kensington, with its traces of former beauty, and +its air of neatness and self-respect, as befits one who in her day has +been caressed by royalty; Fleet Street, that seething channel of +business, and the Strand, that swollen river of business, on whose +surface float so many aimless and unsightly objects. In every one of +these thoroughfares my mood and my manner are differently affected. In +Hill Street, instinctively, I walk very slowly—sometimes, even with a +slight limp, as one recovering from an accident in the hunting-field. I +feel very well-bred there, and, though not clever, very proud, and +quick to resent any familiarity from those whom elsewhere I should +regard as my equals. In Pont Street my demeanour is not so calm and +measured. I feel less sure of myself, and adopt a slight swagger. In +High Street, Kensington, I find myself dapper and respectable, with a +timid leaning to the fine arts. In High Street, Notting Hill, I become +frankly common. Fleet Street fills me with a conviction that if I don't +make haste I shall be jeopardising the national welfare. The Strand +utterly unmans me, leaving me with only two sensations: (1) a regret +that I have made such a mess of my life; (2) a craving for alcohol. +These are but a few instances. If I had time, I could show you that +every street known to me in London has a definite effect on me, and +that no two streets have exactly the same effect. For the most part, +these effects differ in kind according only to the different districts +and their different modes of life; but they differ in detail according +to such specific little differences as exist between such cognate +streets as Bruton Street and Curzon Street, Doughty Street and Great +Russell Street. Every one of my readers, doubtless, realises that he, +too, is thus affected by the character of streets. And I doubt not that +for him, as for me, the mere sound or sight of a street's name conjures +up the sensation he feels when he passes through that street. For him, +probably, the name of every street has hitherto seemed to be also its +exact, inevitable symbol, a perfect suggestion of its character. He has +believed that the grand or beautiful streets have grand or beautiful +names, the mean or ugly streets mean or ugly names. Let me assure him +that this is a delusion. The name of a street, as of a human being, +derives its whole quality from its bearer. +</P> + +<P> +'Oxford Street' sounds harsh and ugly. 'Manchester Street' sounds +rather charming. Yet 'Oxford' sounds beautiful, and 'Manchester' sounds +odious. 'Oxford' turns our thoughts to that 'adorable dreamer, +whispering from her spires the last enchantments of the Middle Age.' An +uproarious monster, belching from its factory-chimneys the latest +exhalations of Hell—that is the image evoked by 'Manchester.' But +neither in 'Manchester Street' is there for us any hint of that +monster, nor in 'Oxford Street' of that dreamer. The names have become +part and parcel of the streets. You see, then, that it matters not +whether the name given to a new street be one which in itself suggests +beauty, or one which suggests ugliness. In point of fact, it is +generally the most pitiable little holes and corners that bear the most +ambitiously beautiful names. To any one who has studied London, such a +title as 'Paradise Court' conjures up a dark fetid alley, with untidy +fat women gossiping in it, untidy thin women quarrelling across it, a +host of haggard and shapeless children sprawling in its mud, and one or +two drunken men propped against its walls. Thus, were there an official +nomenclator of streets, he might be tempted to reject such names as in +themselves signify anything beautiful. But his main principle would be +to bestow whatever name first occurred to him, in order that he might +save time for thinking about something that really mattered. +</P> + +<P> +I have yet to fulfil the second part of my promise: show the futility +of trying to commemorate a hero by making a street his namesake. By +implication I have done this already. But, for the benefit of the less +nimble among my readers, let me be explicit. Who, passing through the +Cromwell Road, ever thinks of Cromwell, except by accident? What +journalist ever thinks of Wellington in Wellington Street? In +Marlborough Street, what policeman remembers Marlborough? In St. +James's Street, has any one ever fancied he saw the ghost of a pilgrim +wrapped in a cloak, leaning on a staff? Other ghosts are there in +plenty. The phantom chariot of Lord Petersham dashes down the slope +nightly. Nightly Mr. Ball Hughes appears in the bow-window of White's. +At cock-crow Charles James Fox still emerges from Brooks's. Such men as +these were indigenous to the street. Nothing will ever lay their ghosts +there. But the ghost of St. James—what should it do in that galley?... +Of all the streets that have been named after famous men, I know but +one whose namesake is suggested by it. In Regent Street you do +sometimes think of the Regent; and that is not because the street is +named after him, but because it was conceived by him, and was designed +and built under his auspices, and is redolent of his character and his +time. When a national hero is to be commemorated by a street, he must +be allowed to design the street himself. The mere plastering-up of his +name is no mnemonic. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="birthday"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY +</H3> + +<P> +My florist has standing orders to deliver early on the morning of this +day a chaplet of laurel. With it in my hand, I reach by a step-ladder +the nobly arched embrasure that is above my central book-case, and +crown there the marble brow of him whose name is the especial glory of +our literature—of all literature. The greater part of the morning is +spent by me in contemplation of that brow, and in silent meditation. +And, year by year, always there intrudes itself into this meditation +the hope that Shakespeare's name will, one day, be swept into oblivion. +</P> + +<P> +I am not—you will have perceived that I certainly am not—a +'Baconian.' So far as I have examined the evidence in the controversy, +I do not feel myself tempted to secede from the side on which (rightly, +inasmuch as it is the obviously authoritative side) every ignorant +person ranges himself. Even the hottest Baconian, filled with the +stubbornest conviction, will, I fancy, admit in confidence that the +utmost thing that could, at present, be said for his conclusions by a +judicial investigator is that they are 'not proven.' To be convinced of +a thing without being able to establish it is the surest recipe for +making oneself ridiculous. The Baconians have thus made themselves very +ridiculous; and that alone is reason enough for not wishing to join +them. And yet my heart is with them, and my voice urges them to carry +on the fight. It is a good fight, in my opinion, and I hope they will +win it. +</P> + +<P> +I do not at all understand the furious resentment they rouse in the +bosoms of the majority. Mistaken they may be; but why yell them down as +knavish blasphemers? Our reverence, after all, is given not to an +Elizabethan named William Shakespeare, who was born at Stratford, and +married, and migrated to London, and became a second-rate actor, and +afterwards returned to Stratford, and made a will, and composed a few +lines of doggerel for the tombstone under which he was buried. Our +reverence is given to the writer of certain plays and sonnets. To that +second-rate actor, because we believe he wrote those plays and sonnets, +we give that reverence. But our belief is not such as we give to the +proposition that one and two make three. It is a belief that has to be +upheld by argument when it is assailed. When a man says to us that one +and two make four, we smile and are silent. But when he argues, point +by point, that in Bacon's life and writings there is nothing to show +that Bacon might not have written the plays and sonnets, and that there +is much to show that he did write them, and that in what we know about +Shakespeare there is little evidence that Shakespeare wrote those +works, and much evidence that he did not write them, then we pull +ourselves together, marshalling all our facts and all out literary +discernment, so as to convince our interlocutor of his error. But why +should we not do our task urbanely? The cyphers, certainly, are stupid +and tedious things, deserving no patience. But the more intelligent +Baconians spurn them as airily as do you or I. Our case is not so +strong that the arguments of these gentlemen can be ignored; and +naughty temper does but hamper us in the task of demolition. If Bacon +were proved to have written Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, would +mankind be robbed of one of those illusions which are necessary to its +happiness and welfare? If so, we have a good excuse for browbeating the +poor Baconians. But it isn't so, really and truly. +</P> + +<P> +Suppose that one fine morning, Mr. Blank, an ardent Baconian, stumbled +across some long-sought document which proved irrefragably that Bacon +was the poet, and Shakespeare an impostor. What would be our +sentiments? For the second-rate actor we should have not a moment's +sneaking kindness or pity. On the other hand, should we not experience +an everlasting thrill of pride and gladness in the thought that he who +had been the mightiest of our philosophers had been also, by some +unimaginable grace of heaven, the mightiest of our poets? Our pleasure +in the plays and sonnets would be, of course, not one whit greater than +it is now. But the pleasure of hero-worship for their author would be +more than reduplicated. The Greeks revelled in reverence of Heracles by +reason of his twelve labours. They would have been disappointed had it +been proved to them that six of those labours had been performed by +some quite obscure person. The divided reverence would have seemed +tame. Conversely, it is pleasant to revere Bacon, as we do now, and to +revere Shakespeare, as we do now; but a wildest ecstasy of worship were +ours could we concentrate on one of those two demigods all that +reverence which now we apportion to each apart. +</P> + +<P> +It is for this reason, mainly, that I wish success to the Baconians. +But there is another reason, less elevated perhaps, but not less strong +for me. I should like to watch the multifarious comedies which would +spring from the downfall of an idol to which for three centuries a +whole world had been kneeling. Glad fancy makes for me a few extracts +from the issue of a morning paper dated a week after the publication of +Mr. Blank's discovery. This from a column of Literary Notes: +</P> + +<P> +From Baiham, Sydenham, Lewisham, Clapham, Herne Hill and Peckham comes +news that the local Shakespeare Societies have severally met and +decided to dissolve. Other suburbs are expected to follow. +</P> + +<P> +This from the same column: +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Sidney Lee is now busily engaged on a revised edition of his +monumental biography of Shakespeare. Yesterday His Majesty the King +graciously visited Mr. Lee's library in order to personally inspect the +progress of the work, which, in its complete form, is awaited with the +deepest interest in all quarters. +</P> + +<P> +And this, a leaderette: +</P> + +<P> +Yesterday at a meeting of the Parks Committee of the London County +Council it was unanimously resolved to recommend at the next meeting of +the Council that the statue of Shakespeare in Leicester Square should +be removed. This decision was arrived at in view of the fact that +during the past few days the well-known effigy has been the centre of +repeated disturbances, and is already considerably damaged. We are +surprised to learn that there are in our midst persons capable of doing +violence to a noble work of art merely because its subject is +distasteful to them. But even the most civilised communities have their +fits of vandalism. ''Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true.' +</P> + +<P> +And this from a page of advertisements: +</P> + +<P> +To be let or sold. A commodious and desirable Mansion at +Stratford-on-Avon. Delightful flower and kitchen gardens. Hot and cold +water on every floor. Within easy drive of station. Hitherto home of +Miss Marie Corelli. +</P> + +<P> +And this, again from the Literary Notes: +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Hall Caine is in town. Yesterday, at the Authors' Club, he passed +almost unrecognised by his many friends, for he has shaved his beard +and moustache, and has had his hair cropped quite closely to the head. +This measure he has taken, he says, owing to the unusually hot weather +prevailing. +</P> + +<P> +A sonnet, too, printed in large type on the middle page, entitled 'To +Shakespeare,' signed by the latest fashionable poet, and beginning thus: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + O undetected during so long years,<BR> + O irrepleviably infamous,<BR> + Stand forth!<BR> +</P> + +<P> +A cable, too, from 'Our Own Correspondent' in New York: +</P> + +<P> +This afternoon the Carmania came into harbour. Among the passengers was +Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan, who had come over in personal charge of Anne +Hathaway's Cottage, his purchase of which for L2,000,000 excited so +much attention on your side a few weeks ago. Mr. Blank's sensational +revelations not having been published to the world till two days after +the Carmania left Liverpool, the millionaire collector had, of course, +no cognisance of the same. On disembarking he proceeded straight to the +Customs Office and inquired how much duty was to be imposed on the +cottage. On being courteously informed that the article would be passed +into the country free of charge, he evinced considerable surprise. I +then ventured to approach Mr. Morgan and to hand him a journal +containing the cabled summary of Mr. Blank's disclosures, which he +proceeded to peruse. His comments I must reserve for the next mail, the +cable clerks here demurring to their transmission. +</P> + +<P> +Only a dream? But a sweet one. Bustle about, Baconians, and bring it +true. Don't listen to my florist. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="homecoming"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A HOME-COMING +</H3> + +<P> +Belike, returning from a long pilgrimage, in which you have seen many +strange men and strange cities, and have had your imagination stirred +by marvellous experiences, you have never, at the very end of your +journey, almost in sight of your home, felt suddenly that all you had +been seeing and learning was as naught—a pack of negligible illusions, +faint and forgotten. From me, however, this queer sensation has not +been withheld. It befell me a few days ago; in a cold grey dawn, and in +the Buffet of Dover Harbour. +</P> + +<P> +I had spent two months far away, wandering and wondering; and now I had +just fulfilled two thirds of the little tripartite journey from Paris +to London. I was sleepy, as one always is after that brief and twice +broken slumber. I was chilly, for is not the dawn always bleak at +Dover, and perforated always with a bleak and drizzling rain? I was +sad, for I had watched from the deck the white cliffs of Albion coming +nearer and nearer to me, towering over me, and in the familiar drizzle +looking to me more than ever ghastly for that I had been so long and so +far away from them. Often though that harsh, chalky coast had thus +borne down on me, I had never yet felt so exactly and lamentably like a +criminal arrested on an extradition warrant. +</P> + +<P> +In its sleepy, chilly shell my soul was still shuddering and +whimpering. Piteously it conjured me not to take it back into this +cruel hum-drum. It rose up and fawned on me. 'Down, Sir, down!' said I +sternly. I pointed out to it that needs must when the devil drives, and +that it ought to think itself a very lucky soul for having had two +happy, sunny months of fresh and curious adventure. 'A sorrow's crown +of sorrow,' it murmured, 'is remembering happier things.' I declared +the sentiment to be as untrue as was the quotation trite, and told my +soul that I looked keenly forward to the pleasure of writing, in +collaboration with it, that book of travel for which I had been so +sedulously amassing notes and photographs by the way. +</P> + +<P> +This colloquy was held at a table in the Buffet. I was sorry, for my +soul's sake, to be sitting there. Britannia owns nothing more crudely +and inalienably Britannic than her Buffets. The barmaids are but +incarnations of her own self, thinly disguised. The stale buns and the +stale sponge-cakes must have been baked, one fancies, by her own heavy +hand. Of her everything is redolent. She it is that has cut the thick +stale sandwiches, bottled the bitter beer, brewed the unpalatable +coffee. Cold and hungry though I was, one sip of this coffee was one +sip too much for me. I would not mortify my body by drinking more of +it, although I had to mortify my soul by lingering over it till one of +the harassed waiters would pause to be paid for it. I was somewhat +comforted by the aspect of my fellow-travellers at the surrounding +tables. Dank, dishevelled, dismal, they seemed to be resenting as much +as I the return to the dear home-land. I suppose it was the contrast +between them and him that made me stare so hard at the large young man +who was standing on the threshold and surveying the scene. +</P> + +<P> +He looked, as himself would undoubtedly have said, 'fit as a fiddle,' +or 'right as rain.' His cheeks were rosy, his eyes sparkling. He had +his arms akimbo, and his feet planted wide apart. His grey bowler +rested on the back of his head, to display a sleek coating of hair +plastered down over his brow. In his white satin tie shone a dubious +but large diamond, and there was the counter-attraction of geraniums +and maidenhair fern in his button-hole. So fresh was the nosegay that +he must have kept it in water during the passage! Or perhaps these +vegetables had absorbed by mere contact with his tweeds, the subtle +secret of his own immarcescibility. I remembered now that I had seen +him, without realising him, on the platform of the Gare du Nord. 'Gay +Paree' was still written all over him. But evidently he was no repiner. +</P> + +<P> +Unaccountable though he was, I had no suspicion of what he was about to +do. I think you will hardly believe me when I tell you what he did. 'A +traveller's tale' you will say, with a shrug. Yet I swear to you that +it is the plain and solemn truth. If you still doubt me, you have the +excuse that I myself hardly believed the evidence of my eyes. In the +Buffet of Dover Harbour, in the cold grey dawn, in the brief interval +between boat and train, the large young man, shooting his cuffs, strode +forward, struck a confidential attitude across the counter, and began +to flirt with the barmaid. +</P> + +<P> +Open-mouthed, fascinated, appalled, I watched this monstrous and +unimaginable procedure. I was not near enough to overhear what was +said. But I knew by the respective attitudes that the time-honoured +ritual was being observed strictly by both parties. I could see the ice +of haughty indifference thawing, little by little, under the fire of +gallant raillery. I could fix the exact moment when 'Indeed?' became 'I +daresay,' and when 'Well, I must say' gave place to 'Go along,' and +when 'Oh, I don't mind you—not particularly' was succeeded by 'Who +gave you them flowers?'... All in the cold grey dawn... +</P> + +<P> +The cry of 'Take your places, please!' startled me into realisation +that all the other passengers had vanished. I hurried away, leaving the +young man still in the traditional attitude which he had assumed from +the first—one elbow sprawling on the counter, one foot cocked over the +other. My porter had put my things into a compartment exactly opposite +the door of the Buffet. I clambered in. +</P> + +<P> +Just as the guard blew his whistle, the young man or monster came +hurrying out. He winked at me. I did not return his wink. +</P> + +<P> +I suppose I ought really to have raised my hat to him. Pre-eminently, +he was one of those who have made England what it is. But they are the +very men whom one does not care to meet just after long truancy in +preferable lands. He was the backbone of the nation. But ought +backbones to be exposed? +</P> + +<P> +Though I would rather not have seen him then and there, I did realise, +nevertheless, the overwhelming interest of him. I knew him to be a +stranger sight, a more memorable and instructive, than any of the fair +sights I had been seeing. He made them all seem nebulous and unreal to +me. Beside me lay my despatch-box. I unlocked it, drew from it all the +notes and all the photographs I had brought back with me. These, one by +one, methodically, I tore up, throwing their fragments out of the +window, not grudging them to the wind. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="regiment"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'THE RAGGED REGIMENT' +</H3> + +<P> +—'commonly called "Longshanks" on account of his great height he was +the first king crowned in the Abbey as it now appears and was interred +with great pomp on St. Simon's and St. Jude's Day October 28th 1307 in +1774 the tomb was opened when the king's body was found almost entire +in the right hand was a richly embossed sceptre and in the left'— +</P> + +<P> +So much I gather as I pass one of the tombs on my way to the Chapel of +Abbot Islip. Anon the verger will have stepped briskly forward, drawing +a deep breath, with his flock well to heel, and will be telling the +secrets of the next tomb on his tragic beat. +</P> + +<P> +To be a verger in Westminster Abbey—what life could be more +unutterably tragic? We are, all of us, more or less enslaved to +sameness; but not all of us are saying, every day, hour after hour, +exactly the same thing, in exactly the same place, in exactly the same +tone of voice, to people who hear it for the first time and receive it +with a gasp of respectful interest. In the name of humanity, I suggest +to the Dean and Chapter that they should relieve these sad-faced men of +their intolerable mission, and purchase parrots. On every tomb, by +every bust or statue, under every memorial window, let a parrot be +chained by the ankle to a comfortable perch, therefrom to enlighten the +rustic and the foreigner. There can be no objection on the ground of +expense; for parrots live long. Vergers do not, I am sure. +</P> + +<P> +It is only the rustic and the foreigner who go to Westminster Abbey for +general enlightenment. If you pause beside any one of the verger-led +groups, and analyse the murmur emitted whenever the verger has said his +say, you will find the constituent parts of the sound to be such +phrases as 'Lor!' 'Ach so!' 'Deary me!' 'Tiens!' and 'My!' 'My!' +preponderates; for antiquities appeal with greatest force to the one +race that has none of them; and it is ever the Americans who hang the +most tenaciously, in the greatest numbers, on the vergers' tired lips. +We of the elder races are capable of taking antiquities as a matter of +course. Certainly, such of us as reside in London take Westminster +Abbey as a matter of course. A few of us will be buried in it, but +meanwhile we don't go to it, even as we don't go to the Tower, or the +Mint, or the Monument. Only for some special purpose do we go—as to +hear a sensational bishop preaching, or to see a monarch anointed. And +on these rare occasions we cast but a casual glance at the Abbey—that +close-packed chaos of beautiful things and worthless vulgar things. +That the Abbey should be thus chaotic does not seem strange to us; for +lack of orderliness and discrimination is an essential characteristic +of the English genius. But to the Frenchman, with his passion for +symmetry and harmony, how very strange it must all seem! How very +whole-hearted a generalising 'Tiens! must he utter when he leaves the +edifice! +</P> + +<P> +My own special purpose in coming is to see certain old waxen effigies +that are here. [In its original form this essay had the good fortune to +accompany two very romantic drawings by William Nicholson—one of Queen +Elizabeth's effigy, the other of Charles II.'s.] A key grates in the +lock of a little door in the wall of (what I am told is) the North +Ambulatory; and up a winding wooden staircase I am ushered into a tiny +paven chamber. The light is dim, through the deeply embrased and narrow +window, and the space is so obstructed that I must pick my way warily. +All around are deep wooden cupboards, faced with glass; and I become +dimly aware that through each glass some one is watching me. Like +sentinels in sentry-boxes, they fix me with their eyes, seeming as +though they would challenge me. How shall I account to them for my +presence? I slip my note-book into my pocket, and try, in the dim +light, to look as unlike a spy as possible. But I cannot, try as I +will, acquit myself of impertinence. Who am I that I should review this +'ragged regiment'? Who am I that I should come peering in upon this +secret conclave of the august dead? Immobile and dark, very gaunt and +withered, these personages peer out at me with a malign dignity, +through the ages which separate me from them, through the twilight in +which I am so near to them. Their eyes... Come, sir, their eyes are +made of glass. It is quite absurd to take wax-works seriously. +Wax-works are not a serious form of art. The aim of art is so to +imitate life as to produce in the spectator an illusion of life. +Wax-works, at best, can produce no such illusion. Don't pretend to be +illuded. For its power to illude, an art depends on its limitations. +Art never can be life, but it may seem to be so if it do but keep far +enough away from life. A statue may seem to live. A painting may seem +to live. That is because each is so far away from life that you do not +apply the test of life to it. A statue is of bronze or marble, than +either of which nothing could be less flesh-like. A painting is a thing +in two dimensions, whereas man is in three. If sculptor or painter +tried to dodge these conventions, his labour would be undone. If a +painter swelled his canvas out and in according to the convexities and +concavities of his model, or if a sculptor overlaid his material with +authentic flesh-tints, then you would demand that the painted or +sculptured figure should blink, or stroke its chin, or kick its foot in +the air. That it could do none of these things would rob it of all +power to illude you. An art that challenges life at close quarters is +defeated through the simple fact that it is not life. Wax-works, being +so near to life, having the exact proportions of men and women, having +the exact texture of skin and hair and habiliments, must either be made +animate or continue to be grotesque and pitiful failures. Lifelike? +They? Rather do they give you the illusion of death. They are akin to +photographs seen through stereoscopic lenses—those photographs of +persons who seem horribly to be corpses, or, at least, catalepts; +and... You see, I have failed to cheer myself up. Having taken up a +strong academic line, and set bravely out to prove to myself the +absurdity of wax-works, I find myself at the point where I started, +irrefutably arguing to myself that I have good reason to be frightened, +here in the Chapel of Abbot Islip, in the midst of these, the Abbot's +glowering and ghastly tenants. Catalepsy! death! that is the atmosphere +I am breathing. +</P> + +<P> +If I were writing in the past tense, I might pause here to consider +whether this emotion was a genuine one or a mere figment for literary +effect. As I am writing in the present tense, such a pause would be +inartistic, and shall not be made. I must seem not to be writing, but +to be actually on the spot, suffering. But then, you may well ask, why +should I stay here, to suffer? why not beat a hasty retreat? The answer +is that my essay would then seem skimpy; and that you, moreover, would +know hardly anything about the wax-works. So I must ask you to imagine +me fighting down my fears, and consoling myself with the reflection +that here, after all, a sense of awe and oppression is just what one +ought to feel—just what one comes for. At Madame Tussaud's exhibition, +by which I was similarly afflicted some years ago, I had no such +consolation. There my sense of fitness was outraged. The place was +meant to be cheerful. It was brilliantly lit. A band was playing +popular tunes. Downstairs there was even a restaurant. (Let fancy +fondly dwell, for a moment, on the thought of a dinner at Madame +Tussaud's: a few carefully-selected guests, and a menu well thought +out; conversation becoming general; corks popping; quips flying; a +sense of bien-etre; 'thank you for a most delightful evening.') +Madame's figures were meant to be agreeable and lively presentments. +Her visitors were meant to have a thoroughly good time. But the Islip +Chapel has no cheerful intent. It is, indeed, a place set aside, with +all reverence, to preserve certain relics of a grim, yet not unlovely, +old custom. These fearful images are no stock-in-trade of a showman; we +are not invited to 'walk-up' to them. They were fashioned with a solemn +and wistful purpose. The reason of them lies in a sentiment which is as +old as the world—lies in man's vain revolt from the prospect of death. +If the soul must perish from the body, may not at least the body itself +be preserved, somewhat in the semblance of life, and, for at least a +while, on the face of the earth? By subtle art, with far-fetched +spices, let the body survive its day and be (even though hidden beneath +the earth) for ever. Nay more, since death cause it straightway to +dwindle somewhat from the true semblance of life, let cunning +artificers fashion it anew—fashion it as it was. Thus, in the earliest +days of England, the kings, as they died, were embalmed, and their +bodies were borne aloft upon their biers, to a sepulture long delayed +after death. In later days, an image of every king that died was +forthwith carved in wood, and painted according to his remembered +aspect, and decked in his own robes; and, when they had sealed his +tomb, the mourners, humouring, to the best of their power, his hatred +of extinction, laid this image upon the tomb's slab, and left it so. In +yet later days, the pretence became more realistic. The hands and the +face were modelled in wax; and the figure stood upright, in some +commanding posture, on a valanced platform above the tomb. Nor were +only the kings thus honoured. Every one who was interred in the Abbey, +whether in virtue of lineage or of achievements, was honoured thus. It +was the fashion for every great lady to write in her will minute +instructions as to the posture in which her image was to be modelled, +and which of her gowns it was to be clad in, and with what of her +jewellery it was to glitter. Men, too, used to indulge in such +precautions. Of all the images thus erected in the Abbey, there remain +but a few. The images had to take their chance, in days that were +without benefit of police. Thieves, we may suppose, stripped the finery +from many of them. Rebels, we know, broke in, less ignobly, and tore +many of them limb from limb, as a protest against the governing +classes. So only a poor remnant, a 'ragged regiment,' has been rallied, +at length, into the sanctuary of Islip's Chapel. Perhaps, if they were +not so few, these images would not be so fascinating. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, I am fascinated by them now. Terror has been toned to wonder. I am +filled with a kind of wondering pity. My academic theory about +wax-works has broken down utterly. These figures—kings, princes, +duchesses, queens—all are real to me now, and all are infinitely +pathetic, in the dignity of their fallen and forgotten greatness. With +what inalienable majesty they wear their rusty velvets and faded silks, +flaunting sere ruffles of point-lace, which at a touch now would be +shivered like cobwebs! My heart goes out to them through the glass that +divides us. I wish I could stay with them, bear them company, always. I +think they like me. I am afraid they will miss me. Perhaps it would be +better for us never to have met. Even Queen Elizabeth, beholding whom, +as she stands here, gaunt and imperious and appalling, I echo the words +spoken by Philip's envoy, 'This woman is possessed of a hundred +thousand devils'—even she herself, though she gazes askance into the +air, seems to be conscious of my presence, and to be willing me to +stay. It is a relief to meet the friendly bourgeois eye of good Queen +Anne. It has restored my common sense. 'These figures really are most +curious, most interesting...' and anon I am asking intelligent +questions about the contents of a big press, which, by special favour, +has been unlocked for me. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps the most romantic thing in the Islip Chapel is this press. +Herein, huddled one against another in dark recesses, lie the battered +and disjected remains of the earlier effigies—the primitive wooden +ones. Edward I. and Eleanor are known to be among them; and Henry VII. +and Elizabeth of York; and others not less illustrious. Which is which? +By size and shape you can distinguish the men from the women; but +beyond that is mere guesswork, be you never so expert. Time has broken +and shuffled these erst so significant effigies till they have become +as unmeaning for us as the bones in one of the old plague-pits. I feel +that I ought to be more deeply moved than I am by this sad state of +things. But I seem to have exhausted my capacity for sentiment; and I +cannot rise to the level of my opportunity. Would that I were +Thackeray! Dear gentleman, how promptly and copiously he would have +wept and moralised here, in his grandest manner, with that perfect +technical mastery which makes even now his tritest and shallowest +sermons sound remarkable, his hollowest sentiment ring true! What a +pity he never came to beat the muffled drum, on which he was so supreme +a performer, around the Islip Chapel! As I make my way down the stairs, +I am trying to imagine what would have been the cadence of the final +sentence in this essay by Thackeray. And, as I pass along the North +Ambulatory, lo! there is the same verger with a new party; and I catch +the words 'was interred with great pomp on St. Simon's and St. Jude's +Day October 28 1307 in 1774 the tomb was opened when— +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="humour"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE HUMOUR OF THE PUBLIC +</H3> + +<P> +They often tell me that So-and-so has no sense of humour. Lack of this +sense is everywhere held to be a horrid disgrace, nullifying any number +of delightful qualities. Perhaps the most effective means of +disparaging an enemy is to lay stress on his integrity, his erudition, +his amiability, his courage, the fineness of his head, the grace of his +figure, his strength of purpose, which has overleaped all obstacles, +his goodness to his parents, the kind word that he has for every one, +his musical voice, his freedom from aught that in human nature is base; +and then to say what a pity it is that he has no sense of humour. The +more highly you extol any one, the more eagerly will your audience +accept anything you may have to say against him. Perfection is unloved +in this imperfect world, but for imperfection comes instant sympathy. +Any excuse is good enough for exalting the bad or stupid brother of us, +but any stick is a valued weapon against him who has the effrontery to +have been by Heaven better graced than we. And what could match for +deadliness the imputation of being without sense of humour? To convict +a man of that lack is to strike him with one blow to a level with the +beasts of the field—to kick him, once and for all, outside the human +pale. What is it that mainly distinguishes us from the brute creation? +That we walk erect? Some brutes are bipeds. That we do not slay one +another? We do. That we build houses? So do they. That we remember and +reason? So, again, do they. That we converse? They are chatterboxes, +whose lingo we are not sharp enough to master. On no possible point of +superiority can we preen ourselves save this: that we can laugh, and +that they, with one notable exception, cannot. They (so, at least, we +assert) have no sense of humour. We have. Away with any one of us who +hasn't! +</P> + +<P> +Belief in the general humorousness of the human race is the more +deep-rooted for that every man is certain that he himself is not +without sense of humour. A man will admit cheerfully that he does not +know one tune from another, or that he cannot discriminate the vintages +of wines. The blind beggar does not seek to benumb sympathy by telling +his patrons how well they are looking. The deaf and dumb do not scruple +to converse in signals. 'Have you no sense of beauty?' I said to a +friend who in the Accademia of Florence suggested that we had stood +long enough in front of the 'Primavera.' 'No!' was his simple, +straightforward, quite unanswerable answer. But I have never heard a +man assert that he had no sense of humour. And I take it that no such +assertion ever was made. Moreover, were it made, it would be a lie. +Every man laughs. Frequently or infrequently, the corners of his mouth +are drawn up into his cheeks, and through his parted lips comes his own +particular variety, soft or loud, of that noise which is called +laughter. Frequently or infrequently, every man is amused by something. +Every man has a sense of humour, but not every man the same sense. A +may be incapable of smiling at what has convulsed B, and B may stare +blankly when he hears what has rolled A off his chair. Jokes are so +diverse that no one man can see them all. The very fact that he can see +one kind is proof positive that certain other kinds will be invisible +to him. And so egoistic in his judgment is the average man that he is +apt to suspect of being humourless any one whose sense of humour +squares not with his own. But the suspicion is always false, +incomparably useful though it is in the form of an accusation. +</P> + +<P> +Having no love for the public, I have often accused that body of having +no sense of humour. Conscience pricks me to atonement. Let me withdraw +my oft-made imputation, and show its hollowness by examining with you, +reader (who are, of course, no more a member of the public than I am), +what are the main features of that sense of humour which the public +does undoubtedly possess. +</P> + +<P> +The word 'public' must, like all collective words, be used with +caution. When we speak of our hair, we should remember not only that +the hairs on our heads are all numbered, but also that there is a +catalogue raisonne' in which every one of those hairs is shown to be in +some respect unique. Similarly, let us not forget that 'public' denotes +a collection not of identical units, but of units separable and (under +close scrutiny) distinguishable one from another. I have said that not +every man has the same sense of humour. I might have said truly that no +two men have the same sense of humour, for that no two men have the +same brain and heart and experience, by which things the sense of +humour is formed and directed. One joke may go round the world, +tickling myriads, but not two persons will be tickled in precisely the +same way, to precisely the same degree. If the vibrations of inward or +outward laughter could be (as some day, perhaps, they will be) +scientifically registered, differences between them all would be made +apparent to us. 'Oh,' is your cry, whenever you hear something that +especially amuses you, 'I must tell that to' whomever you credit with a +sense of humour most akin to your own. And the chances are that you +will be disappointed by his reception of the joke. Either he will laugh +less loudly than you hoped, or he will say something which reveals to +you that it amuses him and you not in quite the same way. Or perhaps he +will laugh so long and loudly that you are irritated by the suspicion +that you have not yourself gauged the full beauty of it. In one of his +books (I do not remember which, though they, too, I suppose, are all +numbered) Mr. Andrew Lang tells a story that has always delighted and +always will delight me. He was in a railway-carriage, and his +travelling-companions were two strangers, two silent ladies, +middle-aged. The train stopped at Nuneaton. The two ladies exchanged a +glance. One of them sighed, and said, 'Poor Eliza! She had reason to +remember Nuneaton!'... That is all. But how much! how deliciously and +memorably much! How infinite a span of conjecture is in those dots +which I have just made! And yet, would you believe me? some of my most +intimate friends, the people most like to myself, see little or nothing +of the loveliness of that pearl of price. Perhaps you would believe me. +That is the worst of it: one never knows. The most sensitive +intelligence cannot predict how will be appraised its any treasure by +its how near soever kin. +</P> + +<P> +This sentence, which I admit to be somewhat mannered, has the merit of +bringing me straight to the point at which I have been aiming; that, +though the public is composed of distinct units, it may roughly be +regarded as a single entity. Precisely because you and I have sensitive +intelligences, we cannot postulate certainly anything about each other. +The higher an animal be in grade, the more numerous and recondite are +the points in which its organism differs from that of its peers. The +lower the grade, the more numerous and obvious the points of likeness. +By 'the public' I mean that vast number of human animals who are in the +lowest grade of intelligence. (Of course, this classification is made +without reference to social 'classes.' The public is recruited from the +upper, the middle, and the lower class. That the recruits come mostly +from the lower class is because the lower class is still the least +well-educated. That they come in as high proportion from the middle +class as from the less well-educated upper class, is because the 'young +Barbarians,' reared in a more gracious environment, often acquire a +grace of mind which serves them as well as would mental keenness.) +Whereas in the highest grade, to which you and I belong, the fact that +a thing affects you in one way is no guarantee that it will not affect +me in another, a thing which affects one man of the lowest grade in a +particular way is likely to affect all the rest very similarly. The +public's sense of humour may be regarded roughly as one collective +sense. +</P> + +<P> +It would be impossible for any one of us to define what are the things +that amuse him. For him the wind of humour bloweth where it listeth. He +finds his jokes in the unlikeliest places. Indeed, it is only there +that he finds them at all. A thing that is labelled 'comic' chills his +sense of humour instantly—perceptibly lengthens his face. A joke that +has not a serious background, or some serious connexion, means nothing +to him. Nothing to him, the crude jape of the professional jester. +Nothing to him, the jangle of the bells in the wagged cap, the thud of +the swung bladder. Nothing, the joke that hits him violently in the +eye, or pricks him with a sharp point. The jokes that he loves are +those quiet jokes which have no apparent point—the jokes which never +can surrender their secret, and so can never pall. His humour is an +indistinguishable part of his soul, and the things that stir it are +indistinguishable from the world around him. But to the primitive and +untutored public, humour is a harshly definite affair. The public can +achieve no delicate process of discernment in humour. Unless a joke +hits in the eye, drawing forth a shower of illuminative sparks, all is +darkness. Unless a joke be labelled 'Comic. Come! why don't you laugh?' +the public is quite silent. Violence and obviousness are thus the +essential factors. The surest way of making a thing obvious is to +provide it in some special place, at some special time. It is thus that +humour is provided for the public, and thus that it is easy for the +student to lay his hand on materials for an analysis of the public's +sense of humour. The obviously right plan for the student is to visit +the music-halls from time to time, and to buy the comic papers. Neither +these halls nor these papers will amuse him directly through their art, +but he will instruct himself quicklier and soundlier from them than +from any other source, for they are the authentic sources of the +public's laughter. Let him hasten to patronise them. +</P> + +<P> +He will find that I have been there before him. The music-halls I have +known for many years. I mean, of course, the real old-fashioned +music-halls, not those depressing palaces where you see by grace of a +biograph things that you have seen much better, and without a headache, +in the street, and pitiable animals being forced to do things which +Nature has forbidden them to do—things which we can do so very much +better than they, without any trouble. Heaven defend me from those +meaningless palaces! But the little old music-halls have always +attracted me by their unpretentious raciness, their quaint monotony, +the reality of the enjoyment on all those stolidly rapt faces in the +audience. Without that monotony there would not be the same air of +general enjoyment, the same constant guffaws. That monotony is the +secret of the success of music-halls. It is not enough for the public +to know that everything is meant to be funny, that laughter is craved +for every point in every 'turn.' A new kind of humour, however obvious +and violent, might take the public unawares, and be received in +silence. The public prefers always that the old well-tested and +well-seasoned jokes be cracked for it. Or rather, not the same old +jokes, but jokes on the same old subjects. The quality of the joke is +of slight import in comparison with its subject. It is the matter, +rather than the treatment, that counts, in the art of the music-hall. +Some subjects have come to be recognised as funny. Two or three of them +crop up in every song, and before the close of the evening all of them +will have cropped up many times. I speak with authority, as an earnest +student of the music-halls. Of comic papers I know less. They have +never allured me. They are not set to music—an art for whose cheaper +and more primitive forms I have a very real sensibility; and I am not, +as I peruse one of them, privy to the public's delight: my copy cannot +be shared with me by hundreds of people whose mirth is wonderful to see +and hear. And the bare contents are not such as to enchant me. However, +for the purpose of this essay, I did go to a bookstall and buy as many +of these papers as I could see—a terrific number, a terrific burden to +stagger away with. +</P> + +<P> +I have gone steadily through them, one by one. My main impression is of +wonder and horror at the amount of hebdomadal labour implicit in them. +Who writes for them? Who does the drawings for them—those thousands of +little drawings, week by week, so neatly executed? To think that daily +and nightly, in so many an English home, in a room sacred to the +artist, sits a young man inventing and executing designs for Chippy +Snips! To think how many a proud mother must be boasting to her +friends: 'Yes, Edward is doing wonderfully well—more than fulfilling +the hopes we always had of him. Did I tell you that the editor of Natty +Tips has written asking him to contribute to his paper? I believe I +have the letter on me. Yes, here it is,' etc., etc.! The awful thing is +that many of the drawings in these comic papers are done with very real +skill. Nothing is sadder than to see the hand of an artist wasted by +alliance to a vacant mind, a common spirit. I look through these +drawings, conceived all so tritely and stupidly, so hopelessly and +helplessly, yet executed—many of them—so very well indeed, and I sigh +over the haphazard way in which mankind is made. However, my concern is +not with the tragedy of these draughtsmen, but with the specific forms +taken by their humour. Some of them deal in a broad spirit with the +world-comedy, limiting themselves to no set of funny subjects, finding +inspiration in the habits and manners of men and women at large. 'HE +WON HER' is the title appended to a picture of a young lady and +gentleman seated in a drawing-room, and the libretto runs thus: 'Mabel: +Last night I dreamt of a most beautiful woman. Harold: Rather a +coincidence. I dreamt of you, too, last night.' I have selected this as +a typical example of the larger style. This style, however, occupies +but a small space in the bulk of the papers that lie before me. As in +the music-halls, so in these papers, the entertainment consists almost +entirely of variations on certain ever-recurring themes. I have been at +pains to draw up a list of these themes. I think it is exhaustive. If +any fellow-student detect an omission, let him communicate with me. +Meanwhile, here is my list:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="block"> + Mothers-in-law<BR> + Hen-pecked husbands<BR> + Twins<BR> + Old maids<BR> + Jews<BR> + Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, Niggers (not Russians, or other + foreigners of any denomination)<BR> + Fatness<BR> + Thinness<BR> + Long hair (worn by a man)<BR> + Baldness<BR> + Sea-sickness<BR> + Stuttering<BR> + Bad cheese<BR> + 'Shooting the moon' (slang expression for leaving a lodging-house + without paying the bill).<BR> +</P> + +<P> +You might argue that one week's budget of comic papers is no real +criterion—that the recurrence of these themes may be fortuitous. My +answer to that objection is that this list coincides exactly with a +list which (before studying these papers) I had made of the themes +commonest, during the past few years, in the music-halls. This twin +list, which results from separate study of the two chief forms of +public entertainment, may be taken as a sure guide to the goal of our +inquiry. +</P> + +<P> +Let us try to find some unifying principle, or principles, among the +variegated items. Take the first item—Mothers-in-law. Why should the +public roar, as roar it does, at the mere mention of that relationship? +There is nothing intrinsically absurd in the notion of a woman with a +married daughter. It is probable that she will sympathise with her +daughter in any quarrel that may arise between husband and wife. It is +probable, also, that she will, as a mother, demand for her daughter +more unselfish devotion than the daughter herself expects. But this +does not make her ridiculous. The public laughs not at her, surely. It +always respects a tyrant. It laughs at the implied concept of the +oppressed son-in-law, who has to wage unequal warfare against two +women. It is amused by the notion of his embarrassment. It is amused by +suffering. This explanation covers, of course, the second item on my +list—Hen-pecked husbands. It covers, also, the third and fourth items. +The public is amused by the notion of a needy man put to double +expense, and of a woman who has had no chance of fulfilling her +destiny. The laughter at Jews, too, may be a survival of the old +Jew-baiting spirit (though one would have thought that even the British +public must have begun to realise, and to reflect gloomily, that the +whirligig of time has so far revolved as to enable the Jews to bait the +Gentiles). Or this laughter may be explained by the fact which alone +can explain why the public laughs at Frenchmen, Germans, Italians, +Niggers. Jews, after all, are foreigners, strangers. The British public +has never got used to them, to their faces and tricks of speech. The +only apparent reason why it laughs at the notion of Frenchmen, etc., is +that they are unlike itself. (At the mention of Russians and other +foreigners it does not laugh, because it has no idea what they are +like: it has seen too few samples of them.) +</P> + +<P> +So far, then, we have found two elements in the public's humour: +delight in suffering, contempt for the unfamiliar. The former motive is +the more potent. It accounts for the popularity of all these other +items: extreme fatness, extreme thinness, baldness, sea-sickness, +stuttering, and (as entailing distress for the landlady) 'shooting the +moon.' The motive of contempt for the unfamiliar accounts for long hair +(worn by a man). Remains one item unexplained. How can mirth possibly +be evoked by the notion of bad cheese? Having racked my brains for the +solution, I can but conjecture that it must be the mere ugliness of the +thing. Why any one should be amused by mere ugliness I cannot conceive. +Delight in cruelty, contempt for the unfamiliar, I can understand, +though I cannot admire them. They are invariable elements in children's +sense of humour, and it is natural that the public, as being +unsophisticated, should laugh as children laugh. But any nurse will +tell you that children are frightened by ugliness. Why, then, is the +public amused by it? I know not. The laughter at bad cheese I abandon +as a mystery. I pitch it among such other insoluble problems, as Why +does the public laugh when an actor and actress in a quite serious play +kiss each other? Why does it laugh when a meal is eaten on the stage? +Why does it laugh when any actor has to say 'damn'? +</P> + +<P> +If they cannot be solved soon, such problems never will be solved. For +Mr. Forster's Act will soon have had time to make apparent its effects; +and the public will proudly display a sense of humour as sophisticated +as our own. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="dulcedo"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DULCEDO JUDICIORUM +</H3> + +<P> +When a 'sensational' case is being tried, the court is well filled by +lay persons in need of a thrill. Their presence seems to be rather +resented as a note of frivolity, a discord in the solemnity of the +function, even a possible distraction for the judge and jury. I am not +a lawyer, nor a professionally solemn person, and I cannot work myself +up into a state of indignation against the interlopers. I am, indeed, +one of them myself. And I am worse than one of them. I do not merely go +to this or that court on this or that special occasion. I frequent the +courts whenever I have nothing better to do. And it is rarely that, as +one who cares to study his fellow-creatures, I have anything better to +do. I greatly wonder that the courts are frequented by so few other +people who have no special business there. +</P> + +<P> +I can understand the glamour of the theatre. You find yourself in a +queerly-shaped place, cut off from the world, with plenty of gilding +and red velvet or blue satin. An orchestra plays tunes calculated to +promote suppressed excitement. Presently up goes a curtain, revealing +to you a mimic world, with ladies and gentlemen painted and padded to +appear different from what they are. It is precisely the people most +susceptible to the glamour of the theatre who are the greatest +hindrances to serious dramatic art. They will stand anything, no matter +how silly, in a theatre. Fortunately, there seems to be a decline in +the number of people who are acutely susceptible to the theatre's +glamour. I rather think the reason for this is that the theatre has +been over-exploited by the press. Quite old people will describe to you +their early playgoings with a sense of wonder, an enthusiasm, +which—leaving a wide margin for the charm that past things must always +have—will not be possible to us when we babble to our grandchildren. +Quite young people, people ranging between the ages of four and five, +who have seen but one or two pantomimes, still seem to have the glamour +of the theatre full on them. But adolescents, and people in the prime +of life, do merely, for the most part, grumble about the quality of the +plays. Yet the plays of our time are somewhat better than the plays +that were written for our elders. Certainly the glamour of the theatre +has waned. And so much the better for the drama's future. +</P> + +<P> +It is a matter of concern, that future, to me who have for so long a +time been a dramatic critic. A man soon comes to care, quite +unselfishly, about the welfare of the thing in which he has +specialised. Of course, I care selfishly too. For, though it is just as +easy for a critic to write interestingly about bad things as about good +things, he would rather, for choice, be in contact with good things. It +is always nice to combine business and pleasure. But one regrets, even +then, the business. If I were a forensic critic, my delight in +attending the courts would still be great; but less than it is in my +irresponsibility. In the courts I find satisfied in me just those +senses which in the theatre, nearly always, are starved. Nay, I find +them satisfied more fully than they ever could be, at best, in any +theatre. I do not merely fall back on the courts, in disgust of the +theatre as it is. I love the courts better than the theatre as it +ideally might be. And, I say again, I marvel that you leave me so much +elbow-room there. +</P> + +<P> +No artificial light is needed, no scraping of fiddles, to excite or +charm me as I pass from the echoing corridor, through the swing-doors, +into the well of this or that court. It matters not much to me what +case I shall hear, so it be of the human kind, with a jury and with +witnesses. I care little for Chancery cases. There is a certain +intellectual pleasure in hearing a mass of facts subtly wrangled over. +The mind derives therefrom something of the satisfaction that the eye +has in watching acrobats in a music-hall. One wonders at the ingenuity, +the agility, the perfect training. Like acrobats, these Chancery +lawyers are a relief from the average troupe of actors and actresses, +by reason of their exquisite alertness, their thorough mastery +(seemingly exquisite and thorough, at any rate, to the dazzled layman). +And they have a further advantage in their material. The facts they +deal with are usually dull, but seldom so dull as facts become through +the fancies of the average playwright. It is seldom that an evening in +a theatre can be so pleasantly and profitably spent as a day in a +Chancery court. But it is ever into one or another of the courts of +King's Bench that I betake myself, for choice. Criminal trials, of +which I have seen a few, I now eschew absolutely. I cannot stomach +them. I know that it is necessary for the good of the community that +such persons as infringe that community's laws should be punished. But, +even were the mode of punishment less barbarous than it is, I should +still prefer not to be brought in sight of a prisoner in the dock. +Perhaps because I have not a strongly developed imagination, I have +little or no public spirit. I cannot see the commonweal. On the other +hand, I have plenty of personal feeling. And I have enough knowledge of +men and women to know that very often the best people are guilty of the +worst things. Is the prisoner in the dock guilty or not guilty of the +offence with which he is charged? That is the question in the mind of +the court. What sort of man is he? That is the question in my own mind. +And the answer to the other question has no bearing whatsoever on the +answer to this one. The English law assumes the prisoner innocent until +he shall have been proved guilty. And, seeing him there a prisoner, a +man who happens to have been caught, while others (myself included) are +pleasantly at large after doing, unbeknown, innumerable deeds worse in +the eyes of heaven than the deed with which this man is charged—deeds +that do not prevent us from regarding our characters as quite fine +really—I cannot but follow in my heart the example of the English law +and assume (pending proof, which cannot be forthcoming) that the +prisoner in the dock has a character at any rate as fine as my own. The +war that this assumption wages in my breast against the fact that the +man will perhaps be sentenced is too violent a war not to discommode +me. Let justice be done. Or rather, let our rough-and-ready, well-meant +endeavours towards justice go on being made. But I won't be there to +see, thank you very much. +</P> + +<P> +It is the natural wish of every writer to be liked by his readers. But +how exasperating, how detestable, the writer who obviously touts for +our affection, arranging himself for us in a mellow light, and inviting +us, with gentle persistence, to note how lovable he is! Many essayists +have made themselves quite impossible through their determination to +remind us of Charles Lamb—'St. Charles,' as they invariably call him. +And the foregoing paragraph, though not at all would-be-Lamb-like in +expression, looks to me horribly like a blatant bid for your love. I +hasten to add, therefore, that no absolutely kind-hearted person could +bear, as I rejoice, to go and hear cases even in the civil courts. If +it be true that the instinct of cruelty is at the root of our pleasure +in theatrical drama, how much more is there of savagery in our going to +look on at the throes of actual litigation—real men and women +struggling not in make-believe, but in dreadful earnest! I mention this +aspect merely as a corrective to what I had written. I do not pretend +that I am ever conscious, as I enter a court, that I am come to gratify +an evil instinct. I am but conscious of being glad to be there, on +tiptoe of anticipation, whether it be to hear tried some particular +case of whose matter I know already something, or to hear at hazard +whatever case happen to be down for hearing. I never tire of the aspect +of a court, the ways of a court. Familiarity does but spice them. I +love the cold comfort of the pale oak panelling, the +scurrying-in-and-out of lawyers' clerks, the eagerness and ominousness +of it all, the rustle of silk as a K.C. edges his way to his seat and +twists his head round for a quick whispered parley with his junior, +while his client, at the solicitors' table, twists his head round to +watch feverishly the quick mechanical nods of the great man's wig—the +wig that covers the skull that contains the brain that so awfully much +depends on. I love the mystery of those dark-green curtains behind the +exalted Bench. One of them will anon be plucked aside, with a +stentorian 'Silence!' Thereat up we jump, all of us as though worked by +one spring; and in shuffles swiftly My Lord, in a robe well-fashioned +for sitting in, but not for walking in anywhere except to a bath-room. +He bows, and we bow; subsides, and we subside; and up jumps some +grizzled junior—'My Lord, may I mention to your Lordship the case of +"Brown v. Robinson and Another"?' It is music to me ever, the cadence +of that formula. I watch the judge as he listens to the application, +peering over his glasses with the lack-lustre eyes that judges have, +eyes that stare dimly out through the mask of wax or parchment that +judges wear. My Lord might be the mummy of some high tyrant revitalised +after centuries of death and resuming now his sway over men. Impassive +he sits, aloof and aloft, ramparted by his desk, ensconced between +curtains to keep out the draught—for might not a puff of wind scatter +the animated dust that he consists of? No creature of flesh and blood +could impress us quite as he does, with a sense of puissance quite so +dispassionate, so supernal. He crouches over us in such manner that we +are all of us levelled one with another, shorn of aught that elsewhere +differentiates us. The silk-gownsmen, as soon as he appears, fade to +the semblance of juniors, of lawyers' clerks, of jurymen, of oneself. +Always, indeed, in any public place devoted to some special purpose, +one finds it hard to differentiate the visitors, hard to credit them +with any private existence. Cast your eye around the tables of a cafe': +how subtly similar all the people seem! How like a swarm of gregarious +insects, in their unity of purpose and of aspect! Above all, how +homeless! Cast your eye around the tables of a casino's gambling-room. +What an uniform and abject herd, huddled together with one despondent +impulse! Here and there, maybe, a person whom we know to be vastly +rich; yet we cannot conceive his calm as not the calm of inward +desperation; cannot conceive that he has anything to bless himself with +except the roll of bank-notes that he has just produced from his +breast-pocket. One and all, the players are levelled by the invisible +presence of the goddess they are courting. Well, the visible presence +of the judge in a court of law oppresses us with a yet keener sense of +lowliness and obliteration. He crouches over us, visible symbol of the +majesty of the law, and we wilt to nothingness beneath him. And when I +say 'him' I include the whole judicial bench. Judges vary, no doubt. +Some are young, others old, by the calendar. But the old ones have an +air of physical incorruptibility—are 'well-preserved,' as by swathes +and spices; and the young ones are just as mummified as they. Some of +them are pleased to crack jokes; jokes of the sarcophagus, that twist +our lips to obsequious laughter, but send a chill through our souls. +There are 'strong' judges and weak ones (so barristers will tell you). +Perhaps—who knows?—Minos was a strong judge, and Aeacus and +Rhadamanthus were weak ones. But all three seem equally terrible to us. +And so seem, in virtue of their position, and of the manner and aspect +it invests them with, all the judges of our own high courts. +</P> + +<P> +I hearken in awe to the toneless murmur in which My Lord comments on +the application in the case of 'Brown v. Robinson and Another.' He says +something about the Court of Crown Cases Reserved... Ah, what place on +this earth bears a name so mystically majestic? Even in the commonest +forensic phrases there is often this solemnity of cadence, always a +quaintness, that stirs the imagination... The grizzled junior dares +interject something 'with submission,' and is finally advised to see +'my learned brother in chambers.' 'As your Lordship pleases.'... We +pass to the business of the day. I settle myself to enjoy the keenest +form of aesthetic pleasure that is known to me. +</P> + +<P> +Aesthetic, yes. In the law-courts one finds an art-form, as surely as +in the theatre. What is drama? Its theme is the actions of certain +opposed persons, historical or imagined, within a certain period of +time; and these actions, these characters, must be shown to us in a +succinct manner, must be so arranged that we know just what in them is +essential to our understanding of them. Very similar is the art-form +practised in the law-courts. The theme of a law-suit is the actions of +certain actual opposed persons within a certain period of time; and +these actions, these characters, must be set forth succinctly, in +such-wise that we shall know just as much as is essential to our +understanding of them. In drama, the presentment is, in a sense, more +vivid. It is not—not usually, at least—retrospective. We see the +actions being committed, hear the words as they are uttered. But how +often do we have an illusion of their reality? Seldom. It is seldom +that a masterpiece in drama is performed perfectly by an ideal cast. In +a law-court, on the other hand, it is always in perfect form that the +matter is presented to us. First the outline of the story, in the +speech for the plaintiff; then this outline filled in by the +examination of the plaintiff himself; then the other side of the story +adumbrated by his cross-examination. Think of the various further +stages of a law-suit, culminating in the judge's summing up; and you +will agree with me that the whole thing is a perfect art-form. Drama, +at its best, is clumsy, arbitrary, unsatisfying, by comparison. But +what makes a law-suit the most fascinating, to me, of all art-forms, is +that not merely its material, but the chief means of its expression, is +life itself. Here, cited before us, are the actual figures in the +actual story that has been told to us. Here they are, not as images to +be evoked through the medium of printed page, or of painted canvas, or +of disinterested ladies and gentlemen behind footlights. Actual, +authentic, they stand before us, one by one, in the harsh light of day, +to be made to reveal all that we need to know of them. +</P> + +<P> +The most interesting witnesses, I admit, are they who are determined +not to accommodate us—not to reveal themselves as they are, but to +make us suppose them something quite different. All witnesses are more +or less interesting. As I have suggested, there is no such thing as a +dull law-suit. Nothing that has happened is negligible. And, even so, +every human being repays attention—especially so when he stands forth +on his oath. The strangeness of his position, and his consciousness of +it, suffice in themselves to make him interesting. But it is +disingenuousness that makes him delightful. And the greatest of all +delights that a law-court can give us is a disingenuous witness who is +quick-minded, resourceful, thoroughly master of himself and his story, +pitted against a counsel as well endowed as himself. The most vivid and +precious of my memories is of a case in which a gentleman, now dead, +was sued for breach of promise, and was cross-examined throughout a +whole hot day in midsummer by the late Mr. Candy. The lady had averred +that she had known him for many years. She called various witnesses, +who testified to having seen him repeatedly in her company. She +produced stacks of letters in a handwriting which no expert could +distinguish from his. The defence was that these letters were written +by the defendant's secretary, a man who was able to imitate exactly his +employer's handwriting, and who was, moreover, physically a replica of +his employer. He was dead now; and the defendant, though he was a very +well-known man, with many friends, was unable to adduce any one who had +seen that secretary dead or alive. Not a soul in court believed the +story. As it was a complicated story, extending over many years, to +demolish it seemed child's play. Mr. Candy was no child. His +performance was masterly. But it was not so masterly as the +defendant's; and the suit was dismissed. In the light of common sense, +the defendant hadn't a leg to stand on. Technically, his case was +proved. I doubt whether I shall ever have a day of such acute mental +enjoyment as was the day of that cross-examination. +</P> + +<P> +I suppose that the most famous cross-examination in our day was Sir +Charles Russell's of Pigott. It outstands by reason of the magnitude of +the issue, and the flight and suicide of the witness. Had Pigott been +of the stuff to stand up to Russell, and make a fight of it, I should +regret far more keenly than I do that I was not in court. As it is, my +regret is keen enough. I was reading again, only the other day, the +verbatim report of Pigott's evidence, in one of the series of little +paper volumes published by The Times; and I was revelling again in the +large perfection with which Russell accomplished his too easy task. +Especially was I amazed to find how vividly Russell, as I remember him, +lived again, and could be seen and heard, through the medium of that +little paper volume. It was not merely as though I had been in court, +and were now recalling the inflections of that deep, intimidating +voice, the steadfast gaze of those dark, intimidating eyes, and were +remembering just at what points the snuff-box was produced, and just +how long the pause was before the pinch was taken and the bandana came +into play. It was almost as though these effects were proceeding before +my very eyes—these sublime effects of the finest actor I have ever +seen. Expressed through a perfect technique, his personality was +overwhelming. 'Come, Mr. Pigott,' he is reported as saying, at a +crucial moment, 'try to do yourself justice. Remember! you are face to +face with My Lords.' How well do I hear, in that awful hortation, +Russell's pause after the word 'remember,' and the lowered voice in +which the subsequent words were uttered slowly, and the richness of +solemnity that was given to the last word of all, ere the thin lips +snapped together—those lips that were so small, yet so significant, a +feature of that large, white, luminous and inauspicious face. It is an +hortation which, by whomsoever delivered, would tend to dispirit the +bravest and most honest of witnesses. The presence of a judge is +always, as I have said, oppressive. The presence of three is trebly so. +Yet not a score of them serried along the bench could have outdone in +oppressiveness Sir Charles Russell. He alone, among the counsel I have +seen, was an exception to the rule that by a judge every one in court +is levelled. On the bench, in his last years, he was not notably more +predominant than he ever had been. And the reason of his predominance +at the Bar was not so much in the fact that he had no rival in +swiftness, in subtlety, in grasp, as in the passionate strength of his +nature, the intensity that in him was at the root of the grand manner. +</P> + +<P> +In the courts, as in parliament and in the theatre, the grand manner is +a thing of the past. Mr. Lloyd-George is not, in style and method, more +remote from Gladstone, nor Mr. George Alexander from Macready, than is +Mr. Rufus Isaacs, the type of modern advocate, from Russell. Strength, +passion, sonorousness, magnificence of phrasing, are things which the +present generation vaguely approves in retrospect; but it would titter +at a contemporary demonstration of them. While I was reading Pigott's +cross-examination, an idea struck me; why do not the managers of our +theatres, always querulous about the dearth of plays, fall back on +scenes from famous trials? A trial-scene in a play, though usually +absurd, is almost always popular. Why not give us actual trial-scenes? +They could not, of course, be nearly so exciting as the originals, for +the simple reason that they would not be real; but they would certainly +be more exciting than the average play. Thus I mused, hopefully. But I +was brought up sharp by the reflection that it were hopeless to look +for an actor who could impersonate Russell—could fit his manner to +Russell's words, or indeed to the words of any of those orotund +advocates. To reproduce recent trials would be a hardly warrantable +thing. The actual participators in them would have a right to object +(delighted though many of them would be). Vain, then, is my dream of +theatres invigorated by the leavings of the law-courts. On the other +hand, for the profit of the law-courts, I have a quite practicable +notion. They provide the finest amusement in London, for nothing. Why +for nothing? Let some scale of prices for admission be drawn +up—half-a-guinea, say, for a seat in the well of the court, a shilling +for a seat in the gallery, five pounds for a seat on the bench. Then, +I dare swear, people would begin to realise how fine the amusement is. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="harlequin"></A> +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +WORDS FOR PICTURES +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'HARLEQUIN' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A SIGN-BOARD, PAINTED ON COPPER, SIGNED<BR> + 'W. EVANS, LONDON' CIRCA 1820<BR> +</H3> + +<P> +Harlequin dances, and, over the park he dances in, surely there is +thunder brooding. His figure stands out, bright, large, and fantastic. +But all around him is sultry twilight, and the clouds, pregnant with +thunder, lower over him as he dances, and the elms are dim with unusual +shadow. There is a tiny river in the dim distance. Under one of the +nearest elms you may descry a square tomb, topped with an urn. What +lord or lady underlies it? I know not. Harlequin dances. Sheathed in +his gay suit of red and green and yellow lozenges, he ambles lightly +over the gravel. At his feet lie a tambourine and a mask. Brown ferns +fringe his pathway. With one hand he clasps the baton to his hip, with +the other he points mischievously to his forehead. He wears a flat, +loose cap of yellow. There is a ruff about his neck, and a pair of fine +buckles to his shoes, and he always dances. He has his back to the +thunderclouds, but there is that in his eyes which tells us that he has +seen them, and that he knows their presage. He is afraid. Yet he +dances. Never, howsoever slightly, swerves he, see! from his right +posture, nor fail his feet in their pirouette. All a' merveille! Nor +fades the smile from his face, though he smiles through the tarnished +air of a sultry twilight, under the shadow of impending storm. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="garden"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'THE GARDEN OF LOVE' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + A PAINTING BY RUBENS, IN THE PRADO<BR> +</H3> + +<P> +Here they are met. +</P> + +<P> +Here, by the balustrade, these lords and lusty ladies are met to romp +and wanton in the fulness of love, under the solstice of a noon in +midsummer. Water gushes in fantastic arcs from the grotto, making a +cold music to the emblazoned air, while a breeze swells the sun-shot +satin of every lady's skirt, and tosses the ringlets that hang like +bunches of yellow grapes on either side of her brow, and stirs the +plumes of her gallant. But the very breeze is laden with heat, and the +fountain's noise does but whet the thirst of the grass, the flowers, +the trees. The earth sulks under the burden of the unmerciful sun. Love +itself, one had said, would be languid here, pale and supine, and, +faintly sighing for things past or for future things, would sink into +siesta. But behold! these are no ordinary lovers. The gushing fountains +are likelier to run dry there in the grotto than they to falter in +their redundant energy. These sanguine lords and ladies crave not an +instant's surcease. They are tyrants and termagants of love. +</P> + +<P> +If they are thus at noon, here under the sun's rays, what, one wonders, +must be their manner in the banqueting hall, when the tapers gleam +adown the long tables, and the fruits are stripped of their rinds, and +the wine brims over the goblets, all to the music of the viols? +Somehow, one cannot imagine them anywhere but in this sunlight. To it +they belong. They are creatures of Nature, pagans untamed, lawless and +unabashed. For all they are robed in crimson and saffron, and are with +such fine pearls necklaced, these dames do exhale from their exuberant +bodies the essence of a quite primitive and simple era; but for the +ease of their deportment in their frippery, they might be Maenads in +masquerade. They have nothing of the coyness that civilisation fosters +in women, are as fearless and unsophisticated as men. A 'wooing' were +wasted on them, for they have no sense of antagonism, and seek not by +any means to elude men. They meet men even as rivers meet the sea. Even +as, when fresh water meets salt water in the estuary, the two tides +revolve in eddies and leap up in foam, so do these men and women laugh +and wrestle in the rapture of concurrence. How different from the first +embrace which marks the close of a wooing! that moment when the man +seeks to conceal his triumph under a semblance of humility, and the +woman her humiliation under a pretty air of patronage. Here, in the +Garden of Love, they have none of those spiritual reservations and +pretences. Nor is here any savour of fine romance. Nothing is here but +the joy of satisfying a physical instinct—a joy that expresses itself +not in any exaltation of words or thoughts, but in mere romping. See! +Some of the women are chasing one another through the grotto. They are +rushing headlong under the fountain. What though their finery be +soaked? Anon they will come out and throw themselves on the grass, and +the sun will quickly dry them. +</P> + +<P> +Leave them, then, to their riot. Look upon these others who sit and +stand here in a voluptuous bevy, hand in hand under the brazen sun, or +flaunt to and fro, lolling in one another's arms and laughing in one +another's faces. And see how closely above them hover the winged loves! +One, upside down in the air, sprinkles them with rose-leaves; another +waves over them a blazing torch; another tries to frighten them with +his unarrowed bow. Another yet has dared to descend into the group; he +nestles his fat cheek on a lady's lap, and is not rebuked. These little +chubby Cythareans know they are privileged to play any pranks here. +Doubtless they love to be on duty in this garden, for here they are +patted and petted, and have no real work to do. At close of day, when +they fly back to their mother, there is never an unmated name in the +report they bring her; and she, belike, being pleased with them, allows +them to sit up late, and to have each a slice of ambrosia and a sip of +nectar. But elsewhere they have hard work, and often fly back in dread +of Venus' anger. At that other balustrade, where Watteau, remembering +this one, painted for us the 'Plaisirs du Bal,' how often they have +lain in ambush, knowing that were one of them to show but the tip of +his wings those sedate and migniard masqueraders would faint for very +shame; yet ever hoping that they might, by their unseen presence, turn +that punctilio of flirtation into love. And always they have flown back +from Dulwich unrequited for all the pains they had taken, and pouting +that Venus should ever send them on so hard an errand. But a day in +this garden is always for them a dear holiday. They live in dread lest +Venus discover how superfluous they are here. And so, knowing that the +hypocrite's first dupe must be himself, they are always pretending to +themselves that they are of some use. See that child yonder, perched on +the balustrade, reading aloud from a scroll the praise of love as +earnestly as though his congregation were of infidels. And that other, +to the side, pushing two lovers along as though they were the veriest +laggarts. The torch-bearer, too, and the archer, and the sprinkler of +the rose-leaves—they are all, after their kind, trying to persuade +themselves that they are needed. All but he who leans over and nestles +his fat cheek on a lady's lap, as fondly and confidingly as though she +were his mother... And truly, the lady is very like his mother. So, +indeed, are all the other ladies. Strange! In all their faces is an +uniformity of divine splendour. Can it be that Venus, impatient of mere +sequences of lovers, has obtained leave of Jove to multiply herself, +and that to-day by a wild coincidence her every incarnation has trysted +an adorer to this same garden? Look closely! It must be so... +</P> + +<P> +Hush! Let us keep her secret. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="ariane"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'ARIANE ET DIONYSE' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PAINTING BY PAUL BERGERON, 1740 +</H3> + +<P> +PAUVRETTE! no wonder she is startled. All came on her so suddenly. A +moment since, she was alone on this island. Theseus had left her. Her +lover had crept from her couch as she lay sleeping, and had sailed away +with his comrades, noiselessly, before the sun rose and woke her. +</P> + +<P> +From the top of yonder hillock she had seen the last sail of his argosy +fading over the sea-line. Vainly she had waved her arms, and vainly her +cries had echoed through all the island. She had run distraught through +the valleys, the goats scampering before her to their own rocks. She +had strayed, wildly weeping, along the shore, and the very sky had +seemed to mock her. At length, spent with sorrow and wan with her +tears, she had lain upon the sand. Above her the cliff sloped gently +down to the shore, and all around her was the hot noontide, and no +sound save the rustling of the sea over the sand. Theseus had left her. +The sea had taken him from her. Let the sea take her in its tide.... +Suddenly—what was that?—she leapt up and listened. Voices, voices, +the loud clash of cymbals! She looked round for some place to hide in. +Too late! Some man (goat or man) came bounding towards her down the +cliff. Another came after him. Then others, a whole company, and with +them many naked, abominable women, laughing and shrieking and waving +leafy wands, as they rushed down towards her. And in their midst, in a +brazen chariot drawn by panthers, sped one whose yellow hair streamed +far behind him in the wind. And from his chariot he sprang and stood +before her. +</P> + +<P> +But she shrinks from his smile. She shrinks from the riot and ribaldry +that encompass her. She is but a young bride whom the bridegroom has +betrayed, and she would fain be alone in the bitterness of her anguish +and her humiliation. Why have they come, these creatures who are +stamping and reeling round her, these flushed women who clap the +cymbals, and these wild men with the hoofs and the horns of goats? How +should they comfort her? She is not of their race; no! nor even of +their time. She stands among them, just as Bergeron saw her, a +delicate, timid figurine du dix-huitie'me sie'cle. With her powdered +hair and her hooped skirt and her stiff bodice of rose silk, she seems +more fit for the consolations of some old Monsignore than for the +homage of these frenzied Pagans and the amorous regard of their master. +At him, pressing her shut fan to her lips, she is gazing across her +shoulder. With one hand she seems to ward him from her. Her whole body +is bent to flight, but she is 'affear'd of her own feet.' She is well +enough educated to know that he who smiles at her is no mortal, but +Bacchus himself, the very lord of Naxos. He stands before her, the +divine debauchee racemiferis frontem circumdatus uvis; and all around +her, a waif on his territory, are the symbols of his majesty and his +power. It is in his honour that the ivy trails down the cliff, and are +not the yews and the firs and the fig-trees that overshadow the cliff's +edge all sacred to him? and the vines beyond, are they not all his? His +four panthers are clawing the sand, and four tipsy Satyrs hold them, +the impatient beasts, by their bridles. Another Satyr drags to +execution a goat that he has caught cropping the vine; and in his +slanted eyes one can see thirst for the blood of his poor cousin. The +Maenads are dancing in one another's arms, and their tresses are coiled +and crowned with tiny serpents. One of them kneels apart, sucking a +great wine-skin. And yonder, that old cupster, Silenus, that horrible +old favourite, wobbles along on a donkey, and would tumble off, you may +be sure, were he not upheld by two fairly sober Satyrs. But the eyes of +Ariadne are fixed only on the smooth-faced god. See how he smiles back +at her with that lascivious condescension which is all that a god's +love can be for a mortal girl! In his hand he holds a long thyrsus. +Behind him is borne aloft a chaplet of seven gold stars. +</P> + +<P> +Ariadne is but a little waif in the god's power. Not Theseus himself +could protect her. One tap of the god's wand, and, lo! she, too, would +be filled with the frenzy of worship, and, with a wild cry, would join +the dancers, his for ever. But the god is not unscrupulous. He would +fain win her by gentle and fair means, even by wedlock. That chaplet of +seven stars is his bridal offering. Why should not she accept it? Why +should she be coy of his desire? It is true that he drinks. But in +time, may be, a wife might be able to wean him from the wine-skin, and +from the low company he affects. That will be for time to show. And, +meanwhile, how brilliant a match! Not even Pasiphae, her mother, ever +contemplated for her such splendour. In her great love, Ariadne risked +her whole future by eloping with Theseus. For her—the daughter of a +far mightier king than Aegeus, and, on the distaff side, the +granddaughter of Apollo—even marriage with Theseus would have been a +me'salliance. And now, here is a chance, a chance most marvellous, of +covering her silly escapade. She will be sensible, I think, though she +is still a little frightened. She will accept this god's suit, if only +to pique Theseus—Theseus, who, for all his long, tedious anecdotes of +how he slew Procrustes and the bull of Marathon and the sow of Cromyon, +would even now lie slain or starving in her father's labyrinth, had she +not taken pity on him. Yes, it was pity she felt for him. She never +loved him. And then, to think that he, a mere mortal, dared to cast her +off—oh, it is too absurd, it is too monstrous! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="peter"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'PETER THE DOMINICAN' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PAINTING BY GIOVANNI BELLINI, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY +</H3> + +<P> +'Credo in Dominum' were the words this monk wrote in the dust of the +high-road, as he lay a-dying there of Cavina's dagger; and they, +according to the Dominican record, were presently washed away by his +own blood—'rapida profusio sui sanguinis delevit professionem suoe +fidei.' Yet they had not been written in vain. On Cavina himself their +impression was less delible, for did he not submit himself to the +Church, and was he not, after absolution, received into that monastery +which his own victim had founded? Here, before this picture by Bellini, +one looks instinctively for the three words in the dust. They are not +yet written there; for scarcely, indeed, has the dagger been planted in +the Saint's breast. But here, to the right, on this little scroll of +parchment that hangs from a fence of osiers, there are some words +written, and one stoops to decipher them... JOANNES BELLINUS FECIT. +</P> + +<P> +Now, had the Saint and his brother Dominican not been waylaid on their +journey, they would have passed by this very fence, and would have +stooped, as we do, to decipher the scroll, and would have very much +wondered who was Bellinus, and what it was that he had done. The +woodmen and the shepherd in the olive-grove by the roadside, the +cowherds by the well, yonder—they have seen the scroll, I dare say, +but they are not scholars enough to have read its letters. Cavina and +his comrade in arms, lying in wait here, probably did not observe it, +so intent were they for that pious and terrible Inquisitor who was to +pass by. How their hearts must have leapt when they saw him, at length, +with his companion, coming across that little arched bridge from the +town—a conspicuous, unmistakable figure, clad in the pied frock of his +brotherhood and wearing the familiar halo above his closely-shorn pate. +</P> + +<P> +Cavina stands now over the fallen Saint, planting the short dagger in +his heart. The other Dominican is being chased by Cavina's comrade, his +face wreathed in a bland smile, his hands stretched childishly before +him. Evidently he is quite unconscious how grave his situation is. He +seems to think that this pursuit is merely a game, and that if he touch +the wood of the olive-trees first, he will have won, and that then it +will be his turn to run after this man in the helmet. Or does he know +perhaps that this is but a painting, and that his pursuer will never be +able to strike him, though the chase be kept up for many centuries? In +any case, his smile is not at all seemly or dramatic. And even more +extraordinary is the behaviour of the woodmen and the shepherd and the +cowherds. Murder is being done within a yard or two of them, and they +pay absolutely no attention. How Tacitus would have delighted in this +example of the 'inertia rusticorum'! It is a great mistake to imagine +that dwellers in quiet districts are more easily excited by any event +than are dwellers in packed cities. On the contrary, the very absence +of 'sensations' produces an atrophy of the senses. It is the constant +supply of 'sensations' which creates a real demand for them in cities. +Suppose that in our day some specially unpopular clergyman were +martyred 'at the corner of Fenchurch Street,' how the 'same old crush' +would be intensified! But here, in this quiet glade 'twixt Milan and +Como, on this quiet, sun-steeped afternoon in early Spring, with a +horrible outrage being committed under their very eyes, these callous +clowns pursue their absurd avocations, without so much as resting for +one moment to see what is going on. +</P> + +<P> +Cavina plants the dagger methodically, and the Inquisitor himself is +evidently filled with that intense self-consciousness which sustains +all martyrs in their supreme hour and makes them, it may be, insensible +to actual pain. One feels that this martyr will write his motto in the +dust with a firm hand. His whole comportment is quite exemplary. What +irony that he should be unobserved! Even we, posterity, think far less +of St. Peter than of Bellini when we see this picture; St. Peter is no +more to us than the blue harmony of those little hills beyond, or than +that little sparrow perched on a twig in the foreground. After all, +there have been so many martyrs—and so many martyrs named Peter—but +so few great painters. The little screed on the fence is no mere vain +anachronism. It is a sly, rather malicious symbol. PERIIT PETRUS: +BILLINUS FECIT, as who should say. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="oiseau"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'L'OISEAU BLEU' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PAINTING ON SILK BY CHARLES CONDER +</H3> + +<P> +Over them, ever over them, floats the Blue Bird; and they, the +ennuye'es and the ennuyants, the ennuyantes and the ennuye's, these +Parisians of 1830, are lolling in a charmed, charming circle, whilst +two of their order, the young Duc de Belhabit et Profil-Perdu with the +girl to whom he has but recently been married, move hither or thither +vaguely, their faces upturned, making vain efforts to lure down the +elusive creature. The haze of very early morning pervades the garden +which is the scene of their faint aspiration. One cannot see very +clearly there. The ladies' furbelows are blurred against the foliage, +and the lilac-bushes loom through the air as though they were white +clouds full of rain. One cannot see the ladies' faces very clearly. One +guesses them, though, to be supercilious and smiling, all with the +curved lips and the raised eyebrows of Experience. For, in their time, +all these ladies, and all their lovers with them, have tried to catch +this same Blue Bird, and have been full of hope that it would come +fluttering down to them at last. Now they are tired of trying, knowing +that to try were foolish and of no avail. Yet it is pleasant for them +to see, as here, others intent on the old pastime. Perhaps—who +knows?—some day the bird will be trapped... Ah, look! Monsieur Le Duc +almost touched its wing! Well for him, after all, that he did not more +than that! Had he caught it and caged it, and hung the gilt cage in the +boudoir of Madame la Duchesse, doubtless the bird would have turned out +to be but a moping, drooping, moulting creature, with not a song to its +little throat; doubtless the blue colour is but dye, and would soon +have faded from wings and breast. And see! Madame la Duchesse looks a +shade fatigued. She must not exert herself too much. Also, the magic +hour is all but over. Soon there will be sunbeams to dispel the dawn's +vapour; and the Blue Bird, with the sun sparkling on its wings, will +have soared away out of sight. Allons! The little rogue is still at +large. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="macbeth"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'MACBETH AND THE WITCHES' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PAINTING BY COROT, IN THE HERTFORD HOUSE COLLECTION +</H3> + +<P> +Look! Across the plain yonder, those three figures, dark and gaunt +against the sky.... Who are they? What are they? One of them is +pointing with rigid arm towards the gnarled trees that from the +hillside stretch out their storm-broken boughs and ragged leaves +against the sky. Shifting thither, my eye discerns through the shadows +two horsemen, riding slowly down the incline. Hush! I hold up a warning +finger to my companion, lest he move. On what strange and secret tryst +have we stumbled? They must not know they are observed. Could we creep +closer up to them? Nay, the plain is so silent: they would hear us; and +so barren: they would surely see us. Here, under cover of this rock, we +can crouch and watch them.... We discern now more clearly those three +expectants. One of them has a cloak of faded blue; it is fluttering in +the wind. Women or men are they? Scarcely human they seem: inauspicious +beings from some world of shadows, magically arisen through that +platform of broken rock whereon they stand. The air around, even the +fair sky above, is fraught by them with I know not what of subtle bale. +One would say they had been waiting here for many days, motionless, +eager but not impatient, knowing that at this hour the two horsemen +would come. And we—it is strange—have we not ere now beheld them +waiting? In some waking dream, surely, we have seen them, and now dimly +recognise them. And the two horsemen, forcing their steeds down the +slope—them, too, we have seen, even so. The light through a break in +the trees faintly reveals them to us. They are accoutred in black +armour. They seem not to be yet aware of the weird figures confronting +them across the plain. But the horses, with some sharper instinct, are +aware and afraid, straining, quivering. One of them throws back its +head, but dares not whinny. As though under some evil spell, all nature +seems to be holding its breath. Stealthily, noiselessly, I turn the +leaves of my catalogue... 'Macbeth and the Witches.' Why, of course! +</P> + +<P> +Of the two horsemen, which is Macbeth, which Banquo? Though we peer +intently, we cannot in those distant shadows distinguish which is he +that shall be king hereafter, which is he that shall merely beget +kings. It is mainly in virtue of this very vagueness and mystery of +manner that the picture is so impressive. An illustration should stir +our fancy, leaving it scope and freedom. Most illustrations, being +definite, do but affront us. Usually, Shakespeare is illustrated by +some Englishman overawed by the poet's repute, and incapable of +treating him, as did Corot, vaguely and offhand. Shakespeare expressed +himself through human and superhuman characters; therefore in England +none but a painter of figures would dare illustrate him. Had Corot been +an Englishman, this landscape would have had nothing to do with +Shakespeare. Luckily, as an alien, he was untrammelled by piety to the +poet. He could turn Shakespeare to his own account. In this picture, +obviously, he was creating, and only in a secondary sense illustrating. +For him the landscape was the thing. Indeed, the five little figures +may have been inserted by him as an afterthought, to point and balance +the composition. Vaguely he remembered hearing of Macbeth, or reading +it in some translation. Ce Sac-espe're...un beau talent...ne' +romantique. Hugo he would not have attempted to illustrate. But +Sac-espe're—why not? And so the little figures came upon the canvas, +dim sketches. Charles Lamb disliked theatrical productions of +Shakespeare's plays, because of the constraint thus laid on his +imagination. But in the theatre, at least, we are diverted by movement, +recompensed by the sound of the poet's words and (may be) by human +intelligence interpreting his thoughts; whereas from a definite +painting of Shakespearean figures we get nothing but an equivalent for +the mimes' appearance: nothing but the painter's bare notion (probably +quite incongruous with our notion) of what these figures ought to look +like. Take Macbeth as an instance. From a definite painting of him what +do we get? At worst, the impression of a kilted man with a red beard +and red knees, brandishing a claymore. At best, a sombre barbarian +doing nothing in particular. In either case, all the atmosphere, all +the character, all the poetry, all that makes Macbeth live for us, is +lost utterly. If these definite illustrations of Shakespeare's human +figures affront us, how much worse is it when an artist tries his hand +at the figures that are superhuman! Imagine an English illustrator's +projection of the weird sisters—with long grey beards duly growing on +their chins, and belike one of them duly holding in her hand a pilot's +thumb. It is because Corot had no reverence for Shakespeare's +text—because he was able to create in his own way, with scarcely a +thought of Shakespeare, an independent masterpiece—that this picture +is worthy of its theme. The largeness of the landscape in proportion to +the figures seems to show us the tragedy in its essential relation to +the universe. We see the heath lying under infinity, under true sky and +winds. No hint of the theatre is there. All is as the poet may have +conceived it in his soul. And for us Corot's brush-work fills the place +of Shakespeare's music. Time has tessellated the surface of the canvas; +but beauty, intangible and immortal, dwells in its depths +safely—dwells there even as it dwells in the works of Shakespeare, +though the folios be foxed and seared. +</P> + +<P> +The longer we gaze, the more surely does the picture illude us and +enthral us, steeping us in that tragedy of 'the fruitless crown and +barren sceptre.' We forget all else, watching the unkind witches as +they await him whom they shall undo, driving him to deeds he dreams not +of, and beguiling him, at length, to his doom. Against 'the set of sun' +they stand forth, while he who shall be king hereafter, with the +comrade whom he shall murder, rides down to them, guileless of aught +that shall be. Privy to his fate, we experience a strange compassion. +Anon the fateful colloquy will begin. 'All hail, Macbeth' the unearthly +voices will be crying across the heath. Can nothing be done? Can we +stand quietly here while... Nay, hush! We are powerless. These witches, +if we tried to thwart them, would swiftly blast us. There are things +with which no mortal must meddle. There are things which no mortal must +behold. Come away! +</P> + +<P> +So, casting one last backward look across the heath, we, under cover of +the rock, steal fearfully away across the parquet floor of the gallery. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="carlotta"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'CARLOTTA GRISI' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A COLOURED PRINT +</H3> + +<P> +It is not among the cardboard glades of the King's Theatre, nor, +indeed, behind any footlights, but in a real and twilit garden that +Grisi, gimp-waisted sylphid, here skips for posterity. To her right, +the roses on the trellis are not paper roses—one guesses them quite +fragrant. And that is a real lake in the distance; and those delicate +pale trees around it, they too are quite real. Yes! surely this is the +garden of Grisi's villa at Uxbridge; and her guests, quoting Lord +Byron's 'al fresco, nothing more delicious,' have tempted her to a +daring by-show of her genius. To her left there is a stone cross, which +has been draped by one of the guests with a scarf bearing the legend +GISELLE. It is Sunday evening, I fancy, after dinner. Cannot one see +the guests, a group entranced by its privilege—the ladies with +bandeaux and with little shawls to ward the dew from their shoulders; +the gentlemen, D'Orsayesque all, forgetting to puff the cigars which +the ladies, 'this once,' have suffered them to light? One sees them +there; but they are only transparent phantoms between us and Grisi, not +interrupting our vision. As she dances—the peerless Grisi!—one +fancies that she is looking through them at us, looking across the ages +to us who stand looking back at her. Her smile is but the formal +Cupid's-bow of the ballerina; but I think there is a clairvoyance of +posterity in the large eyes, and, in the pose, a self-consciousness +subtler than merely that of one who, dancing, leads all men by the +heart-strings. A something is there which is almost shyness. Clearly, +she knows it to be thus that she will be remembered; feels this to be +the moment of her immortality. Her form is all but in profile, swaying +far forward, but her face is full-turned to us. Her arms float upon the +air. Below the stark ruff of muslin about her waist, her legs are as a +tilted pair of compasses; one point in the air, the other impinging the +ground. One tiptoe poised ever so lightly upon the earth, as though the +muslin wings at her shoulders were not quite strong enough to bear her +up into the sky! So she remains, hovering betwixt two elements; a +creature exquisitely ambiguous, being neither aerial nor of the earth. +She knows that she is mortal, yet is conscious of apotheosis. She knows +that she, though herself must perish, is imperishable; for she sees us, +her posterity, gazing fondly back at her. She is touched. And we, a +little envious of those who did once see Grisi plain, always shall find +solace in this pretty picture of her; holding it to be, for all the +artificiality of its convention, as much more real as it is prettier +than the stringent ballet-girls of Degas. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="hotei"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'HO-TEI' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A COLOURED DRAWING BY HOKUSAI +</H3> + +<P> +What monster have we here? Who is he that sprawls thus, ventrirotund, +against the huge oozing wine-skin? Wide his nose, narrowly-slit his +eyes, and with little teeth he smiles at us through a beard of bright +russet—a beard soft as the russet coat of a squirrel, and sprouting in +several tiers according to the several chins that ascend behind it from +his chest. Nude he is but for a few dark twists of drapery. One dimpled +foot is tucked under him, the other cocked before him. With a +bifurcated fist (such is his hand) he pillows the bald dome of his +head. He seems to be very happy, sprawling here in the twilight. The +wine oozes from the wine-skin; but he, replete, takes no heed of it. On +the ground before him are a few almond-blossoms, blown there by the +wind. He is snuffing their fragrance, I think. +</P> + +<P> +Who is he? 'Ho-Tei,' you tell me; 'god of increase, god of the +corn-fields and rice-fields, patron of all little children in Japan—a +blend of Dionysus and Santa Claus.' So? Then his look belies him. He is +far too fat to care for humanity, too gross to be divine. I suspect he +is but some self-centred sage, whom Hokusai beheld with his own eyes in +a devious corner of Yedo. A hermit he is, surely; one not more affable +than Diogenes, yet wiser than he, being at peace with himself and +finding (as it were) the honest man without emerging from his own tub; +a complacent Diogenes; a Diogenes who has put on flesh. Looking at him, +one is reminded of that over-swollen monster gourd which to young Nevil +Beauchamp and his Marquise, as they saw it from their river-boat, +'hanging heavily down the bank on one greenish yellow cheek, in +prolonged contemplation of its image in the mirror below,' so +sinisterly recalled Monsieur le Marquis. But to us this 'self-adored, +gross bald Cupid' has no such symbolism, and we revel as +whole-heartedly as he in his monstrous contours. 'I am very beautiful,' +he seems to murmur. And we endorse the boast. At the same time, we +transfer to Hokusai the credit which this glutton takes all to himself. +It is Hokusai who made him, delineating his paunch in that one soft +summary curve, and echoing it in the curve of the wine-skin that swells +around him. Himself, as a living man, were too loathsome for words; but +here, thanks to Hokusai, he is not less admirable than Pheidias' +Hermes, or the Discobolus himself. Yes! Swathed in his abominable +surplusage of bulk, he is as fair as any statue of astricted god or +athlete that would suffer not by incarnation... +</P> + +<P> +Presently, we forget again that he is unreal. He seems alive to us, and +somehow he is still beautiful. 'It is a beauty,' like that of Mona +Lisa, 'wrought out from within upon the flesh, the' adipose 'deposit, +little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and +exquisite passions.' It is the beauty of real fatness—that fatness +which comes from within, and reacts on the soul that made it, until +soul and body are one deep harmony of fat; that fatness which gave us +the geniality of Silenus, of the late Major O'Gorman; which soothes all +nerves in its owner, and creates the earthy, truistic wisdom of Sancho +Pauza, of Francisque Sarcey; which makes a man selfish, because there +is so much of him, and venerable because he seems to be a knoll of the +very globe we live on, and lazy inasmuch as the form of government +under which he lives is an absolute gastrocracy—the belly tyrannising +over the members whom it used to serve, and wielding its power as +unscrupulously as none but a promoted slave could. +</P> + +<P> +Such is the true fatness. It is not to be confounded with mere +stoutness. Contrast with this Japanese sage that orgulous hidalgo who, +in black velvet, defies modern Prussia from one of Velasquez's canvases +in Berlin. Huge is that other, and gross; and, so puffed his cheeks are +that the light, cast up from below, strives vainly to creep over them +to his eyes, like a tourist vainly striving to creep over a boulder on +a mountainside. Yet is he not of the hierarchy of true fatness. He +bears his bulk proudly, and would sit well any charger that were strong +enough to bear him, and, if such a steed were not in stables, would +walk the distance swingingly. He is a man of action, a fighter, an +insolent dominator of men and women. In fact, he is merely a stout +man—uniform with Porthos, and Arthur Orton, and Sir John Falstaff; +spiced, like them, with charlatanism and braggadocio, and not the less +a fine fellow for that. Indeed, such bulk as his and theirs is in the +same kind as that bulk which, lesser in degree, is indispensable to +greatness in practical affairs. No man, as Prince Bismarck declared, is +to be trusted in state-craft until he can show a stomach. A lack of +stomach betokens lack of mental solidity, of humanity, of capacity for +going through with things; and these three qualities are essential to +statesmanship. Poets and philosophers can afford to be thin—cannot, +indeed, afford to be otherwise; inasmuch as poetry and philosophy +thrive but in the clouds aloft, and a stomach ballasts you to earth. +Such ballast the statesman must have. Thin statesmen may destroy, but +construct they cannot; have achieved chaos, but cosmos never. +</P> + +<P> +But why prate history, why evoke phantoms of the past, when we can gaze +on this exquisitely concrete thing—this glad and simple creature of +Hokusai? Let us emulate his calm, enjoy his enjoyment as he sprawls +before us—pinguis, iners, placidus—in the pale twilight. Let us not +seek to identify him as god or mortal, nor guess his character from his +form. Rather, let us take him as he is; for all time the perfect type +of fatness. +</P> + +<P> +Lovely and excessive monster! Monster immensurable! What belt could +inclip you? What blade were long enough to prick the heart of you? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="visit"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'THE VISIT' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PAINTING BY GEORGE MORLAND, IN THE HERTFORD HOUSE COLLECTION +</H3> + +<P> +Never, I suppose, was a painter less maladif in his work than Morland, +that lover of simple and sun-bright English scenes. Probably, this +picture of his is all cheerful in intention. Yet the effect of it is +saddening. +</P> + +<P> +Superficially, the scene is cheerful enough. Our first impression is of +a happy English home, of childish high-spirits and pretty manners. We +note how genial a lady is the visitor, and how eager the children are +to please. One of them trips respectfully forward—a wave of yellow +curls fresh and crisp from the brush, a rustle of white muslin fresh +and crisp from the wash. She is supported on one side by her grown-up +sister, on the other by her little brother, who displays the nectarine +already given to him by the kind lady. Splendid in far-reaching +furbelows, that kind lady holds out both her hands, beaming +encouragement. On her ample lap is a little open basket with other ripe +nectarines in it—one for every child. +</P> + +<P> +Modest, demure, the girl trips forward as though she were dancing a +quadrille. In the garden, just beyond the threshold, stand two smaller +sisters, shyly awaiting their turn. They, too, are in their +Sunday-best, and on the tiptoe of excitement—infant coryphe'es, in +whom, as they stand at the wings, stage-fright is overborne by the +desire to be seen and approved. I fancy they are rehearsing under their +breath the 'Yes, ma' am,' and the 'No, ma'am,' and the 'I thank you, +ma'am, very much,' which their grown-up sister has been drilling into +them during the hurried toilet they have just been put through in +honour of this sudden call. +</P> + +<P> +How anxious their mother is during the ceremony of introduction! How +keenly, as she sits there, she keeps her eyes fixed on the visitor's +face! Maternal anxiety, in that gaze, seems to be intensified by social +humility. For this is no ordinary visitor. It is some great lady of the +county, very rich, of high fashion, come from a great mansion in a +great park, bringing fruit from one of her own many hot-houses. That +she has come at all is an act of no slight condescension, and the +mother feels it. Even so did homely Mrs. Fairchild look up to Lady +Noble. Indeed, I suspect that this visitor is Lady Noble herself, and +that the Fairchilds themselves are neighbours of this family. These +children have been coached to say 'Yes, my lady,' and 'No, my lady,' +and 'I thank you, my lady, very much'; and their mother has already +been hoping that Mrs. Fairchild will haply pass through the lane and +see the emblazoned yellow chariot at the wicket. But just now she is +all maternal—'These be my jewels.' See with what pride she fingers the +sampler embroidered by one of her girls, knowing well that 'spoilt' +Miss Augusta Noble could not do such embroidery to save her life—that +life which, through her Promethean naughtiness in playing with fire, +she was so soon to lose. +</P> + +<P> +Other exemplary samplers hang on the wall yonder. On the mantelshelf +stands a slate, with an ink-pot and a row of tattered books, and other +tokens of industry. The schoolroom, beyond a doubt. Lady Noble has +expressed a wish to see the children here, in their own haunt, and her +hostess has led the way hither, somewhat flustered, gasping many +apologies for the plainness of the apartment. A plain apartment it is: +dark, bare-boarded, dingy-walled. And not merely a material gloom +pervades it. There is a spiritual gloom, also—the subtly oppressive +atmosphere of a room where life has not been lived happily. +</P> + +<P> +Though these children are cheerful now, it is borne in on us by the +atmosphere (as preserved for us by Morland's master-hand) that their +life is a life of appalling dismalness. Even if we had nothing else to +go on, this evidence of our senses were enough. But we have other +things to go on. We know well the way in which children of this period +were brought up. We remember the life of 'The Fairchild Family,' those +putative neighbours of this family—in any case, its obvious +contemporaries; and we know that the life of those hapless little prigs +was typical of child-life in the dawn of the nineteenth century. Depend +on it, this family (whatever its name may be: the Thompsons, I +conjecture) is no exception to the dismal rule. In this schoolroom, +every day is a day of oppression, of forced endeavour to reach an +impossible standard of piety and good conduct—a day of tears and +texts, of texts quoted and tears shed, incessantly, from morning unto +evening prayers. After morning prayers (read by Papa), breakfast. The +bread-and-butter of which, for the children, this meal consists, must +be eaten (slowly) in a silence by them unbroken except with prompt +answers to such scriptural questions as their parents (who have +ham-and-eggs) may, now and again, address to them. After breakfast, the +Catechism (heard by Mamma). After the Catechism, a hymn to be learnt. +After the repetition of this hymn, arithmetic, caligraphy, the use of +the globes. At noon, a decorous walk with Papa, who for their benefit +discourses on the General Depravity of Mankind in all Countries after +the Fall, occasionally pausing by the way to point for them some moral +of Nature. After a silent dinner, the little girls sew, under the +supervision of Mamma, or of the grown-up sister, or of both these +authorities, till the hour in which (if they have sewn well) they reap +permission to play (quietly) with their doll. A silent supper, after +which they work samplers. Another hymn to be learnt and repeated. +Evening prayers. Bedtime: 'Good-night, dear Papa; good-night, dear +Mamma.' +</P> + +<P> +Such, depend on it, is the Thompsons' curriculum. What a painful +sequence of pictures a genre-painter might have made of it! Let us be +thankful that we see the Thompsons only in this brief interlude of +their life, tearless and unpinafored, in this hour of strange +excitement, glorying in that Sunday-best which on Sundays is to them +but a symbol of intenser gloom. +</P> + +<P> +But their very joy is in itself tragic. It reveals to us, in a flash, +the tragedy of their whole existence. That so much joy should result +from mere suspension of the usual re'gime, the sight of Lady Noble, the +anticipation of a nectarine! For us there is no comfort in the +knowledge that their present degree of joy is proportionate to their +usual degree of gloom, that for them the Law of Compensation drops into +the scale of these few moments an exact counter-weight of joy to the +misery accumulated in the scale of all their other moments. We, who do +not live their life, who regard Lady Noble as a mere Hecuba, and who +would accept one of her nectarines only in sheer politeness, cannot +rejoice with them that do rejoice thus, can but pity them for all that +has led up to their joy. We may reflect that the harsh system on which +they are reared will enable them to enjoy life with infinite gusto when +they are grown up, and that it is, therefore, a better system than the +indulgent modern one. We may reflect, further, that it produces a finer +type of man or woman, less selfish, better-mannered, more capable and +useful. The pretty grown-up daughter here, leading her little sister by +the hand, so gracious and modest in her mien, so sunny and +affectionate, so obviously wholesome and high-principled—is she not a +walking testimonial to the system? Yet to us the system is not the less +repulsive in itself. Its results may be what you please, but its +practice were impossible. We are too tender, too sentimental. We have +not the nerve to do our duty to children, nor can we bear to think of +any one else doing it. To children we can do nothing but 'spoil' them, +nothing but bless their hearts and coddle their souls, taking no +thought for their future welfare. And we are justified, maybe, in our +flight to this opposite extreme. Nobody can read one line ahead in the +book of fate. No child is guaranteed to become an adult. Any child may +die to-morrow. How much greater for us the sting of its death if its +life shall not have been made as pleasant as possible! What if its +short life shall have been made as unpleasant as possible? Conceive the +remorse of Mrs. Thompson here if one of her children were to die +untimely—if one of them were stricken down now, before her eyes, by +this surfeit of too sudden joy! +</P> + +<P> +However, we do not fancy that Mrs. Thompson is going to be thus +afflicted. We believe that there is a saving antidote in the cup of her +children's joy. There is something, we feel, that even now prevents +them from utter ecstasy. Some shadow, even now, hovers over them. What +is it? It is not the mere atmosphere of the room, so oppressive to us. +It is something more definite than that, and even more sinister. It +looms aloft, monstrously, like one of those grotesque actual shadows +which a candle may cast athwart walls and ceiling. Whose shadow is it? +we wonder, and, wondering, become sure that it is Mr. +Thompson's—Papa's. +</P> + +<P> +The papa of Georgian children! We know him well, that awfully massive +and mysterious personage, who seemed ever to his offspring so remote +when they were in his presence, so frighteningly near when they were +out of it. In Mrs. Turner's Cautionary Stories in Verse he occurs again +and again. Mr. Fairchild was a perfect type of him. Mr. Bennet, when +the Misses Lizzie, Jane and Lydia were in pinafores, must have been +another perfect type: we can reconstruct him as he was then from the +many fragments of his awfulness which still clung to him when the girls +had grown up. John Ruskin's father, too, if we read between the lines +of Praeterita, seems to have had much of the authentic monster about +him. He, however, is disqualified as a type by the fact that he was 'an +entirely honest merchant.' For one of the most salient peculiarities in +the true Georgian Papa was his having apparently no occupation +whatever—his being simply and solely a Papa. Even in social life he +bore no part: we never hear of him calling on a neighbour or being +called on. Even in his own household he was seldom visible. Except at +their meals, and when he took them for their walk, and when they were +sent to him to be reprimanded, his children never beheld him in the +flesh. Mamma, poor lady, careful of many other things, superintended +her children unremittingly, to keep them in the thorny way they should +go. Hers the burden and heat of every day, hers to double the roles of +Martha and Cornelia, that her husband might be left ever calmly aloof +in that darkened room, the Study. There, in a high armchair, with one +stout calf crossed over the other, immobile throughout the long hours +sate he, propping a marble brow on a dexter finger of the same +material. On the table beside him was a vase of flowers, daily +replenished by the children, and a closed volume. It is remarkable that +in none of the many woodcuts in which he has been handed down to us do +we see him reading; he is always meditating on something he has just +read. Occasionally, he is fingering a portfolio of engravings, or +leaning aside to examine severely a globe of the world. That is the +nearest he ever gets to physical activity. In him we see the static +embodiment of perfect wisdom and perfect righteousness. We take him at +his own valuation, humbly. Yet we have a queer instinct that there was +a time when he did not diffuse all this cold radiance of good example. +Something tells us that he has been a sinner in his day—a rattler of +the ivories at Almack's, and an ogler of wenches in the gardens of +Vauxhall, a sanguine backer of the Negro against the Suffolk Bantam, +and a devil of a fellow at boxing the watch and wrenching the knockers +when Bow Bells were chiming the small hours. Nor do we feel that he is +a penitent. He is too Olympian for that. He has merely put these things +behind him—has calmly, as a matter of business, transferred his +account from the worldly bank to the heavenly. He has seen fit to +become 'Papa.' As such, strong in the consciousness of his own +perfection, he has acquired, gradually, quasi-divine powers over his +children. Himself invisible, we know that he can always see them. +Himself remote, we know that he is always with them, and that always +they feel his presence. He prevents them in all their ways. The Mormon +Eye is not more direly inevitable than he. Whenever they offend in word +or deed, he knows telepathically, and fixes their punishment, long +before they are arraigned at his judgment-seat. +</P> + +<P> +At this moment, as at all others, Mr. Thompson has his inevitable eye +on his children, and they know that it is on them. He is well enough +pleased with them at this moment. But alas! we feel that ere the sun +sets they will have incurred his wrath. Presently Lady Noble will have +finished her genial inspection, and have sailed back, under convoy of +the mother and the grown-up daughter, to the parlour, there to partake +of that special dish of tea which is even now being brewed for her. +When the children are left alone, their pent excitement will overflow +and wash them into disgrace. Belike, they will quarrel over the +nectarines. There will be bitter words, and a pinch, and a scratch, and +a blow, screams, a scrimmage. The rout will be heard afar in the +parlour. The grown-up sister will hasten back and be beheld suddenly, a +quelling figure, on the threshold: 'For shame, Clara! Mary, I wonder at +you! Henry, how dare you, sir? Silence, Ethel! Papa shall hear of +this.' Flushed and rumpled, the guilty four will hang their heads, +cowed by authority and by it perversely reconciled one with another. +Authority will bid them go upstairs 'this instant,' there to shed their +finery and resume the drab garb of every day. From the bedroom-windows +they will see Lady Noble step into her yellow chariot and drive away. +Envy—an inarticulate, impotent envy—will possess their hearts: why +cannot they be rich, and grown-up, and bowed to by every one? When the +chariot is out of sight, envy will be superseded by the play-instinct. +Silently, in their hearts, the children will play at being Lady +Noble.... Mamma's voice will be heard on the stairs, rasping them back +to the realities. Sullenly they will go down to the schoolroom, and +resume their tasks. But they will not be able to concentrate their +unsettled minds. The girls will make false stitches in the pillow-slips +which they had been hemming so neatly when the yellow chariot drove up +to the front-door; and Master Harry will be merely dazed by that page +of the Delectus which he had almost got by heart. Their discontent will +be inspissated by the knowledge that they are now worse-off than +ever—are in dire disgrace, and that even now the grown-up sister is +'telling Papa' (who knows already, and has but awaited the formal +complaint). Presently the grown-up sister will come into the +schoolroom, looking very grave: 'Children, Papa has something to say to +you.' In the Study, to which, quaking, they will proceed, an endless +sermon awaits them. The sin of Covetousness will be expatiated on, and +the sins of Discord and Hatred, and the eternal torment in store for +every child who is guilty of them. All four culprits will be in tears +soon after the exordium. Before the peroration (a graphic description +of the Lake of Fire) they will have become hysterical. They will be +sent supperless to bed. On the morrow they will have to learn and +repeat the chapter about Cain and Abel. A week, at least, will have +elapsed before they are out of disgrace. Such are the inevitable +consequences of joy in a joyless life. It were well for these children +had 'The Visit' never been paid. +</P> + +<P> +Morland, I suppose, discerned naught of all this tragedy in his +picture. To him, probably, the thing was an untainted idyll, was but +one of those placid homely scenes which he loved as dearly as could +none but the brawler and vagabond that he was. And yet... and yet... +perhaps he did intend something of what we discern here. He may have +been thinking, bitterly, of his own childhood, and of the home he ran +away from. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="yetagain"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +'YET AGAIN' +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SOME CRITICISMS OF THE FIRST EDITION +</H3> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. Edmund Gosse, in THE WORLD: 'We may find it hard to realise that +Max may become a classic, but I see no other essayist who seems to have +more chance of it.... There is no question of "reserved places" on +Parnassus, but it is my individual conviction that where La Bruye're +and Addison and Stevenson are, there Max will be.... It is perhaps his +final charm as an essayist that, underneath a ceremonious style, an +exquisite demeanour and advance, a low voice, a graceful hearing, a +polished cadence, there exists a powerful, sometimes what almost seems +a furious independence of character.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE TIMES: 'So few men can trifle without being silly or be intimate +without being tiresome, so few have either the mental power or the +unity of vision necessary for a decent transition from mood to mood, +that essayists fit to be ranked with Steele, Addison, Stevenson, are +still few. Mr. Max Beerbohm has proved his title.... There, where every +idea is the author's, and every phrase is scrupulously adapted to the +best expression by the author of his own idea, we get the true +originality in art. Through all the play of fancy, the wit and humour, +the swift transitions, the caprice and jesting, that ultimate sincerity +shines; and it is that which lights Mr. Beerbohm's fine taste and +knowledge of his craft to beauty.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: 'As an artist whose medium is the essay, Mr. Max +Beerbohm should stand for this generation as Lamb stands for the first +generation of the nineteenth century.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE DAILY NEWS: 'He has wit, and charm, and good humour—and these are +the qualities which characterise this completely delightful volume of +essays.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE MORNING LEADER: 'Max sees himself in a hundred different ways. In +any capacity he is unique. He remains our best essayist.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE OBSERVER: 'Charles Lamb a' la Max is never obtrusive. It is only +the ghost of him that stalks in and about. We soon fall away from the +reminiscence; and the caricaturist becomes a personality.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. Sidney Dark in THE DAILY EXPRESS: 'Max is always delightful in his +dainty, leisurely tolerance of everybody and everything. No other +living writer could have produced "Yet Again." It is individual—and +thoroughly good to read.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE EVENING STANDARD: 'Mr. Beerbohm is always in holiday mood; and this +we gradually catch from him. We begin by enjoying him; we end by +enjoying life and ourselves.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE NATION: 'Blessed are they who possess the gift of extracting +sunbeams from cucumbers.... The simplicity of Mr. Beerbohm's themes +serves but to enhance the elegance of his mind.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. G. S. Street in THE ENGLISHWOMAN: 'I trust sincerely I shall not +damage his reputation if I say that the play of his fancy is never +inconsistent with two strong qualities of his mind and temperament, a +sound judgment and a kindly heart.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. W. H. Chesson in THE DAILY CHRONICLE: 'He is undoubtedly one of our +benefactors. He excels in the humour which creates humour.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE GLOBE: 'In their different ways, all these essays will delight the +appreciative reader, and we can only bid him or her buy, beg, borrow, +or steal Max's latest volume immediately.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Mr. James Douglas in LONDON OPINION: 'The style of these essays is not +eccentric, and yet it is dyed with the hues of a personality as rich +and rare as Elia's own, There is no contemporary prose which is so +uncorrupted by current influences, and which is so sure to defy the +corrosion of time. In a hundred years it will not be a dated or +derelict thing. Its colour and its cadence will delight the connoisseur +then as the colour and cadence of Lamb's prose delights him now.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +THE MORNING POST: 'He is naturally gifted with something that is called +talent in life and genius after death.' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Yet Again, by Max Beerbohm + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YET AGAIN *** + +***** This file should be named 2292-h.htm or 2292-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/9/2292/ + +Produced by Tom Weiss. 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