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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: The Vagabond in Literature + + +Author: Arthur Rickett + + + +Release Date: August 5, 2010 [eBook #33356] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGABOND IN LITERATURE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1906 J. M. Dent & Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0ab.jpg"> +<img alt= +"William Hazlitt. From a crayon drawing by W. Bewick executed in +1822" +title= +"William Hazlitt. From a crayon drawing by W. Bewick executed in +1822" +src="images/p0as.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>THE VAGABOND<br /> +IN LITERATURE</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +ARTHUR RICKETT</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0bb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative device" +title= +"Decorative device" +src="images/p0bs.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">with</span><br +/> +<span class="smcap">six portraits</span></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">1906<br /> +<span class="smcap">london</span><br /> +J. M. DENT & CO.<br /> +29 & 30 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page iv--><a +name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iv</span><i>All Rights +Reserved</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page v--><a +name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. v</span><span +class="smcap">to</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">my friend</span><br /> +ALFRED E. FLETCHER</p> +<h2><!-- page vii--><a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>FOREWORD</h2> +<p>In the introductory paper to this volume an attempt is made to +justify the epithet “Vagabond” as applied to writers +of a certain temperament. This much may be said here: the +term Vagabond is used in no derogatory sense. +Etymologically it signifies a wanderer; and such is the meaning +attached to the term in the following pages. Differing +frequently in character and in intellectual power, a basic +similarity of temperament gives the various writers discussed a +remarkable spiritual affinity. For in each one the +wandering instinct is strong. Sometimes it may take a +physical, sometimes an intellectual expression—sometimes +both. But always it shows itself, and always it is opposed +to the routine and conventions of ordinary life.</p> +<p>These papers are primarily studies in temperament; and the +literary aspects have been subordinated to the personal +element. In fact, they are studies of certain forces in +modern literature, viewed from a special standpoint. And +the standpoint adopted may, it is hoped, prove suggestive, though +it does not pretend to be exhaustive.</p> +<p>If the papers on Hazlitt and De Quincey are more fragmentary +than the others, it is because these writers have been already +discussed by the author in a previous volume. It has been +thought unnecessary to repeat the points raised there, and these +studies may be regarded therefore as at once supplementary and +complementary.</p> +<p><!-- page viii--><a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>My cordial thanks are due to Mr. +Theodore Watts-Dunton, who has taken so kindly and friendly an +interest in this little volume. He was good enough to read +the proofs, and to express his appreciation, especially of the +Borrow and Thoreau articles, in most generous terms. I had +hoped, indeed, that he would have honoured these slight studies +by a prefatory note, and he had expressed a wish to do so. +Unhappily, prior claims upon his time prevented this. The +book deals largely, it will be seen, with those “Children +of the Open Air” about whom the eloquent author of +<i>Aylwin</i> so often has written. I am especially glad, +therefore, to quote (with Mr. Watts-Dunton’s permission) +his fine sonnet, where the “Vagabond” spirit in its +happiest manifestation is expressed.</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“A TALK ON +WATERLOO BRIDGE<br /> +<span class="smcap">“the last sight of george +borrow</span></p> +<p>“We talked of ‘Children of the Open Air,’<br +/> +Who once on hill and valley lived aloof,<br /> +Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproof<br /> +Of storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair,<br /> +Till, on a day, across the mystic bar<br /> +Of moonrise, came the ‘Children of the Roof,’<br /> +Who find no balm ’neath evening’s rosiest woof,<br /> +Nor dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.<br /> +We looked o’er London, where men wither and choke,<br /> +Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,<br /> +And lore of woods and wild wind prophecies,<br /> +Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:<br /> +And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smoke<br /> +Leave never a meadow outside Paradise.” <a +name="citation0"></a><a href="#footnote0" +class="citation">[0]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right">A. R.</p> +<p>London, <i>October</i>, 1906</p> +<h2><!-- page ix--><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">INTRODUCTION<br /> +<span class="smcap">the vagabond element in modern +literature</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Explanation of the term Vagabond</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>First note of the Vagabond +temperament—restlessness</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>Second note of the Vagabond temperament—a passion +for the Earth</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare this with a passion for Nature</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Browning—William Morris—George Meredith</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>Third note of the Vagabond temperament—the note of +aloofness</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustrate from Borrow, Thoreau, Walt Whitman</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>Bohemianism—its relation to Vagabondage</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page8">8</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Charles Lamb—a Bohemian rather than a Vagabond</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The decadent movement in Verlaine, Baudelaire</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Russian Vagabond—Tolstoy, Gorky</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Gothic Revival and Vagabondage</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI</p> +</td> +<td><p>Robert Browning and his “Vagabond moods”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tennyson and William Morris compared</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII</p> +</td> +<td><p>Effect of the Vagabond temperament upon Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">I<br /> +WILLIAM HAZLITT</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Discussion of the term “complexity”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustration from Herbert Spencer, showing that complexity +is of two kinds: (1) Complexity—the result of degeneration, +e.g. cancer in the body; (2) Complexity—the consequent of a +higher organism, e.g. dog more complex than dog-fish</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><!-- page x--><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>Complexity and the Vagabond—Neuroticism and +Genius</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Genius not necessarily morbid because it may have sprung +from a morbid soil. Illustrate from Hazlitt</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>Two opposing tendencies in Hazlitt’s +temperament:</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>(1) The austere, individualistic, Puritan strain;</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>(2) The sensuous, voluptuous strain. Illustrations +of each</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Inquisitiveness of Hazlitt</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>No patience with readers who will not quit their own small +back gardens. He is for ranging “over the hills and +far away”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Hazlitt and the Country—Country people—Walking +tours</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>The joyfulness of Hazlitt</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The joyfulness of the Vagabond a fundamental quality</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p>The styles of Hazlitt and De Quincey compared</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The tonic wisdom of Hazlitt</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">II<br /> +THOMAS DE QUINCEY</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>The call of the Earth and the call of the Town</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare De Quincey, Charles Dickens, and Elia</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The veil of phantasy in De Quincey’s writings seemed +to shut him off from the outside world</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>Merits and defects of his style. Not a plastic +style, but in the delineation of certain moods supremely +excellent</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare De Quincey and Oscar Wilde</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Our Ladies of Sorrow</i> and <i>De Profundis</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>The intellectual grip behind the shifting phantasies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>De Quincey as critic and historian</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><!-- page xi--><a +name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>The humour of De Quincey—not very genuine page</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Witty rather than humorous</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Humour not characteristic of the Vagabond</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p>De Quincey—Mystic and Logician</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The fascination of his personality</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">III<br /> +GEORGE BORROW</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Dreamers in Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Romantic autobiography and <i>Lavengro</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Borrow on the subject of autobiography</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Celt and the Saxon in Borrow</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His egotism</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Little objective feeling in his friendships</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>A self-absorbed and self-contained nature</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Isopel Berners episode discussed</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The coldness of Borrow</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>His faculty for seizing on the picturesque and picaresque +elements in the world about him</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustrations from <i>The Bible in Spain</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustrations from <i>Lavengro</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>Borrow and the Gypsies</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Watts-Dunton’s tribute to Borrow</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Petulengro</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Borrow’s faculty for characterization</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“How to manage a horse on a journey”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>Borrow and Thomas Hardy compared</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Both drawn to characters not “screened by +convention”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Differences in method of presentment</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Borrow’s greater affinity with Charles Reade</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His distinctive originality</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The spacious freshness of his writings</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In his company always “a wind on the +heath”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><!-- page xii--><a +name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xii</span>IV<br /> +HENRY D. THOREAU</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau and his critics</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Saxon attitude towards him</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Walden episode</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Too much has been made of it</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>He went to Walden not to escape ordinary life, but to fit +himself for ordinary life</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>His indebtedness to Emerson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His poetic appreciation of Nature</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau on “Walking”—compare with +Hazlitt</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“Emersonitis”—examples</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau and the Indians</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Indians were to Thoreau what the Gypsies were to +Borrow. But he lacked the picturesque vigour of Borrow</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His utterances on the Indian character considered</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau and civilization</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Swagger and Vagabondage</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau as a thinker</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His Orientalism</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“Donatello” (?)</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His power over animals</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau and children—his fondness for them</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>This <i>not</i> an argument in favour of sociability</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Lewis Carroll</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The “unsociability” of the Vagabond in +general, and Thoreau in particular</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Thoreau and George Meredith</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Similarity in attitude towards the Earth</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">V<br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Romance—what is it?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Its twofold character</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><!-- page xiii--><a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>Romanticism analysed</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The elfish character of Stevenson’s work</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>The “Ariel” element in Stevenson +predominant</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The “unreality” of his fiction</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Light but little heat</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Romantic and the Artist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Blake—Shelley—Keats—Tennyson</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His ideal as an artist</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His courageous gaiety</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>His captivating grace</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The essays discussed—their merits and defects</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His indebtedness to Hazlitt, Lamb, Montaigne</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His “private bravado”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p>The artist exemplified in three ways: (1) The maker of +phrases; (2) The limner of pictures; (3) The painter of +character. Illustrations</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Dickens, Browning, and Stevenson—their love of the +grotesque</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Treatment of Nature in fiction from the days of Mrs. +Radcliffe to the present day</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Scott—the Brontës—Kingsley—Thomas +Hardy</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Stevenson moralizes</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI</p> +</td> +<td><p>Is the “Shorter Catechist” element a +weakness?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Edgar Allan Poe and Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">VI<br /> +RICHARD JEFFERIES</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>Jefferies, Borrow, and Thoreau</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page141">141</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The neuroticism of Jefferies</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Distinction between susceptibility and passion</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>Jefferies as an artist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>He loved the Earth with every nerve of his body</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His acute sense of touch</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare with Keats</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><!-- page xiv--><a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>Illustrations</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His writings, studies, and tactile sensation</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Their sensuous charm</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>His mysticism</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustration</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare with Tennyson</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mysticism and hysteria</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The psychology of hysteria</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“Yoga” and the Sufis</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Oriental ecstasies and the trances of Jefferies</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Max Nordau—Professor William James</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>De Quincey and Jefferies compared</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>Differences between Thoreau and Jefferies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Praise and desire alternate in Jefferies’ +writings</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His joy in the beauty and in the plenitude of the +Earth</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p>Jefferies as a thinker</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“All things seem possible in the open air”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Defect in his Nature creed</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His attitude towards the animal creation</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“Good sport”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His democratic sympathies—influence of Ruskin</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His stoicism</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His pride and reserve</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Our indebtedness to him</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">VII<br /> +WALT WHITMAN</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p>The supreme example of the Vagabond in Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Swinburne’s verdict</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman the pioneer of a new order</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>No question about a “Return to Nature” with +Whitman</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>He never left it. A spiritual native of the woods +and heath</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Yet wild only so far as he is cosmic</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><!-- page xv--><a name="pagexv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xv</span>His songs no mere pæans of +rustic solitudes; they are songs of the crowded streets as well +as of the country roads; of the men and women of every type, no +less than of the fields and streams</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>No quarrel with civilisation as such</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His “rainproof coat” and “good +shoes”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compare with Borrow’s big green gamp</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s attitude towards Art</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Two essentials of Art—Sincerity and Beauty</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s allegiance to Sincerity</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Why he has chosen the better part</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His occasional failure to seize essentials</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustrations of his powers as an artist</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“On the Beach at +Night”—“Reconciliation”—“When +lilacs last on the dooryard bloomed”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s utterances on Death</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s rude nonchalance deliberate, not due to +carelessness</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“I furnish no specimens”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s treatment of sea</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The question of outspokenness in Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Swinburne’s dictum</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Stevenson’s criticism—“A Bull in a China +Shop”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“The Children of Adam”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Merits and defects of his Sex Cycle</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and Browning</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The poetry of animalism</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman, William Morris, and Byron</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. Burroughs’ eulogy of Whitman discussed</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The treatment of love in modern poetry</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>On the whole the defects of Whitman’s sex poems +typical of his defects as a writer generally</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Characteristics of Whitman’s style</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s attitude towards Humanity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His faith in the “powerful uneducated +person”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Poet of Democracy</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and Victor Hugo</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><!-- page xvi--><a name="pagexvi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvi</span>His affection comprehensive rather +than deep</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. William Clarke’s eulogy discussed</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The psychology of the social reformer</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and the average man</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His egotism—emptied of condescension</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman no demagogue—his plain speaking</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Conservatism and conventionality of the masses</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Illustration from Mr. Barrie’s <i>Admirable +Crichton</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Democratic poets other than Whitman—Ebenezer +Elliott, Thomas Hood, and Mrs. Browning</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s larger utterance</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and William Morris compared</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Affinity with Tolstoy</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman’s attitude towards Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page198">198</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>No moralist—but a philosophy of a kind</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The value of “messages” in Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and Browning compared</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and culture</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Whitman and science</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Compares here with Tennyson and Browning</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tonic influence of his writings</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>“I shall be good health to you”</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>His big, genial sanity</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><!-- page xvii--><a name="pagexvii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvii</span>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">William Hazlitt</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>Photogravure +Frontispiece</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a crayon drawing by W. Bewick, executed +in 1822</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Thomas de Quincey</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From an engraving by W. H. More</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George Borrow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a portrait in the possession of Mr. John +Murray. Reproduced by kind permission of Mr. Murray</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a woodcut by R. Bryden</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Richard Jefferies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a photograph. Reproduced by kind +permission of the London Stereoscopic Company</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Walt Whitman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a woodcut by R. Bryden</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><!-- page 1--><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>INTRODUCTION<br /> +<span class="smcap">the vagabond element in modern +literature</span></h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 2--><a name="page2"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 2</span>“There’s night and day, +brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all +sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the +heath.”—<i>Lavengro</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>I</h3> +<p>There are some men born with a vagrant strain in the blood, an +unsatiable inquisitiveness about the world beyond their +doors. Natural revolutionaries they, with an ingrained +distaste for the routine of ordinary life and the conventions of +civilization. The average common-sense Englishman distrusts +the Vagabond for his want of sympathy with established law and +order. Eccentricity and unconventionality smack to him +always of moral obliquity. And thus it is that the literary +Vagabond is looked at askance. One is reminded of Mr. +Pecksniff: “Pagan, I regret to state,” observed that +gentleman of the Sirens on one occasion. Unhappily no one +pointed out to this apostle of purity that the naughtiness of the +Sirens was not necessarily connected with paganism, and that the +siren disposition has been found even “in choirs and places +where they sing.”</p> +<p>Restlessness, then, is one of the notes of the Vagabond +temperament.</p> +<p>Sometimes the Vagabond is a physical, sometimes only an +intellectual wanderer; but in any case there is <!-- page 4--><a +name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>about him +something of the primal wildness of the woods and hills.</p> +<p>Thus it is we find in the same spiritual brotherhood men so +different in genius and character as Hazlitt, De Quincey, +Thoreau, Whitman, Borrow, Jefferies, Stevenson.</p> +<p>Thoreau turned his back on civilization, and found a new joy +of living in the woods at Maine. ’Tis the Open Road +that inspired Whitman with his rude, melodic chants. Not +the ways of men and women, but the flaunting “pageant of +summer” unlocked the floodgates of Jefferies’ +heart. Hazlitt was never so gay, never wrote of books with +such relish, as when he was recounting a country walk. +There are few more beautiful passages than those where he +describes the time when he walked between Wrexham and Llangollen, +his imagination aglow with some lines of Coleridge. De +Quincey loved the shiftless, nomadic life, and gloried in +uncertainties and peradventures. A wandering, open-air life +was absolutely indispensable to Borrow’s happiness; and +Stevenson had a schoolboy’s delight in the make-believe of +Romance.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Another note now discovers itself—a passion for the +Earth. All these men had a passion for the Earth, an +intense joy in the open air. This feeling differs from the +Nature-worship of poets like Wordsworth and Shelly. It is +less romantic, more realistic. The attitude is not so much +that of the devotee as that of the lover. There <!-- page +5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>is +nothing mystical or abstract about it. It is direct, +personal, intimate. I call it purposely a passion for the +Earth rather than a passion for Nature, in order to distinguish +it from the pronounced transcendentalism of the romantic +poets.</p> +<p>The poet who has expressed most nearly the attitude of these +Vagabonds towards Nature—more particularly that of Thoreau, +Whitman, Borrow, and Jefferies—is Mr. George Meredith.</p> +<p>Traces of it may be found in Browning with reference to the +“old brown earth,” and in William Morris, who +exclaimed—</p> +<blockquote><p>“My love of the earth and the worship of +it!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>but Mr. Meredith has given the completest expression to this +Earth-worship.</p> +<p>One thinks of Thoreau and Jefferies when reading +Melampus—</p> +<blockquote><p>“With love exceeding a simple love of the +things<br /> +That glide in grasses and rubble of woody wreck;<br /> +Or change their perch on a beat of quivering wings<br /> +From branch to branch, only restful to pipe and peck;<br /> +Or, bristled, curl at a touch their snouts in a ball;<br /> +Or, cast their web between bramble and thorny hook;<br /> +The good physician Melampus, loving them all,<br /> +Among them walked, as a scholar who reads a book.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>While that ripe oddity, “Juggling Jerry,” would +have delighted the “Romany”-loving Borrow.</p> +<p>Indeed the Nature philosophy of Mr. Meredith, with its virile +joy in the rich plenitude of Nature and its touch of wildness has +more in common with Thoreau, with Jefferies, with Borrow, and +with Whitman than with <!-- page 6--><a name="page6"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 6</span>Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, or +even with Tennyson—the first of our poets to look upon the +Earth with the eyes of the scientist.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>But a passion for the Earth is not sufficient of itself to +admit within the charmed circle of the Vagabond; for there is no +marked restlessness about Mr. Meredith’s genius, and he +lacks what it seems to me is the third note of the genuine +literary Vagabond—the note of aloofness, of personal +detachment. This it is which separates the Vagabond from +the generality of his fellows. No very prolonged scrutiny +of the disposition of Thoreau, Jefferies, and Borrow is needed to +reveal a pronounced shyness and reserve. Examine this trait +more closely, and it will exhibit a certain emotional coldness +towards the majority of men and women. No one can overlook +the chill austerity that marks Thoreau’s attitude in social +converse. Borrow, again, was inaccessible to a degree, save +to one or two intimates; even when discovered among congenial +company, with the gipsies or with companions of the road like +Isopel Berners, exhibiting, to me, a genial bleakness that is +occasionally exasperating.</p> +<p>It was his constitutional reserve that militated against the +success of Jefferies as a writer. He was not easy to get on +with, not over fond of his kind, and rarely seems quite at ease +save in the solitude of the fields.</p> +<p>Whitman seems at first sight an exception. Surely here +was a friendly man if ever there was one. Yet an <!-- page +7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>examination of his life and writings will compel us to +realize a lack of deep personal feeling in the man. He +loves the People rather than the people. Anyone who will go +along with him is a welcome comrade. This catholic spirit +of friendliness is delightful and attractive in many ways, but it +has its drawbacks; it is not possible perhaps to have both +extensity and intensity of emotion. There is the impartial +friendliness of the wind and sun about his salutations. He +loves all men—because they are a part of Nature; but it is +the common human element in men and women themselves that +attracts him. There was less of the Ishmaelite about +Whitman than about Thoreau, Borrow, or Jefferies; but the man +whose company he really delighted in was the “powerful, +uneducated man”—the artisan and the mechanic. +Those he loved best were those who had something of the elemental +in their natures—those who lived nearest to the +earth. Without denying for a moment that Whitman was +capable of genuine affection, I cannot help feeling, from the +impression left upon me by his writings, and by accounts given by +those who knew him, that what I must call an absence of human +<i>passion</i>—not necessarily affection—which seems +to characterize more or less the Vagabond generally, may be +detected in Whitman, no less than in Thoreau and Borrow. It +would seem that the passion for the earth, which made +them—to use one of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s happy +phrases—“Children of the Open Air,” took the +place of a passion for human kind.</p> +<p>In the papers dealing with these writers these points are +discussed at greater length. For the present <!-- page +8--><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>reference is made to them in order to illustrate the +characteristics of the Vagabond temperament, and to vindicate my +generic title.</p> +<p>The characteristics, then, which I find in the Vagabond +temperament are (1) Restlessness—the wandering instinct; +this expresses itself mentally as well as physically. (2) A +passion for the Earth—shown not only in the love of the +open air, but in a delight in all manifestations of life. +(3) A constitutional reserve whereby the Vagabond, though +rejoicing in the company of a few kindred souls, is put out of +touch with the majority of men and women. This is a +temperamental idiosyncrasy, and must not be confounded with +misanthropy.</p> +<p>These characteristics are not found in equal degree among the +writers treated of in these pages. Sometimes one +predominates, sometimes another. That is to be +expected. But to some extent all these characteristics +prevail.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>There is a certain type of Vagabondage which may be covered by +the term “Bohemianism.” But ’tis of a +superficial character mostly, and is in the nature of a town-made +imitation. Graces and picturesqueness it may have of a +kind, but it lacks the rough virility, the sturdy grit, which is +the most attractive quality of the best Vagabond.</p> +<p>Bohemianism indeed is largely an attitude of dress; +Vagabondage an attitude of spirit. At heart the Bohemian is +not really unconventional; he is not nomadic by instinct as is +the Vagabond.</p> +<p><!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>Take the case of Charles Lamb. There was a man +whose habits of life were pleasantly Bohemian, and whose sympathy +with the Vagabond temperament has made some critics over-hastily +class him temperamentally with writers like Hazlitt and De +Quincey. He was not a true Vagabond at all. He was a +Bohemian of the finer order, and his graces of character need no +encomium to-day. But he was certainly not a Vagabond. +At heart he was devoted to convention. When released from +his drudgery of clerkship he confessed frankly how potent an +influence routine had been and still was in his life. This +is not the tone of the Vagabond. Even Elia’s +wanderings on paper are more apparent than real, and there is a +method in his quaintest fantasies. His discursive essays +are arabesques observing geometrical patterns, and though +seemingly careless, follow out cunningly preconceived +designs. He only appears to digress; but all his bypaths +lead back into the high road. Hazlitt, on the other hand, +was a genuine digressionalist; so was De Quincey; so was +Borrow. There is all the difference between their literary +mosaic and the arabesques of Lamb. And should one still +doubt how to classify Elia, one could scarcely place him among +the “Children of the Open Air.” Make what +allowance you like for his whimsical remarks about the country, +it is certain that no passion for the Earth possessed him.</p> +<p>One characteristic, however, both the Bohemian and the +Vagabond have in common—that is, restlessness. And +although there is a restlessness which is the outcome of +superabundant nervous energy—the restlessness <!-- page +10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>of +Dickens in his earlier years, for instance—yet it must be +regarded as, for the most part, a pathological sign. One of +the legacies of the Industrial Revolution has been the neurotic +strain which it has bequeathed to our countrymen. The +stress of life upon the nervous system in this era of +commercialism has produced a spirit of feverish unrest which, +permeating society generally, has visited a few souls with +special intensity. It has never been summed up better than +by Ruskin, when, in one of his scornful flashes, he declared that +our two objects in life were: whatever we have, to get more; and +wherever we are, to go somewhere else. Nervous instability +is very marked in the case of Hazlitt and De Quincey; and there +was a strain of morbidity in Borrow, Jefferies, and +Stevenson.</p> +<p>Far more pronounced in its neurotic character is Modern +Bohemianism—as I prefer to call the “town +Vagabond.” The decadent movement in literature has +produced many interesting artistic figures, but they lack the +grit and the sanity of outlook which undoubtedly marks the +Vagabond. In France to-day morbidity and Vagabondage are +inseparable.</p> +<p>Gallic Vagabonds, such as Verlaine and Baudelaire, interesting +as they are to men of letters and students of psychology, do not +engage our affections as do the English Vagabonds. We do +not take kindly to their personalities. It is like passing +through the hot streets after inhaling the scent of the +woodland. There is something stifling and unhealthy about +the atmosphere, and one turns with relief to the vagabondage of +men like Whitman, who are “enamoured of growth out of +doors.”</p> +<p><!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>Of profounder interest is the Russian Vagabond. In +Russian Literature the Vagabond seems to be the rule, not the +exception.</p> +<p>Every great Russian writer has more or less of the Vagabond +about him. Tolstoy, it is true, wears the robe of the +Moralist, and Tolstoy the Ascetic cries down Tolstoy the +Artist. But I always feel that the most enduring part of +Tolstoy’s work is the work of the Vagabond temperament that +lurks beneath the stern preacher. Political and social +exigencies have driven him to take up a position which is +certainly not in harmony with many traits in his nature.</p> +<p>In the case of Gorky, of course, we have the Vagabond naked +and unashamed. His novels are fervent defences of the +Vagabond. What could be franker than this?—“I +was born outside society, and for that reason I cannot take in a +strong dose of its culture, without soon feeling forced to get +outside it again, to wipe away the infinite complications, the +sickly refinements, of that kind of existence. I like +either to go about in the meanest streets of towns, because, +though everything there is dirty, it is all simple and sincere; +or else to wander about in the high roads and across the fields, +because that is always interesting; it refreshes one morally, and +needs no more than a pair of good legs to carry one.” +Racial differences mark off in many ways the Russian Vagabond +from his English brother; a strange fatalism, a fierce +melancholy, and a nature of greater emotional intensity; but in +the passage quoted how much in common they have also.</p> +<h3><!-- page 12--><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>V</h3> +<p>There were literary Vagabonds in England before the nineteenth +century. Many interesting and picturesque +figures—Marlowe’s, for instance—arrest the +attention of the student, and to some extent the characteristics +noted may be traced in these. But every century, no less +than every country, has its psychological atmosphere, and the +modern literary Vagabond is quite a distinctive individual. +Some I know are inclined to regard Goldsmith as one of the +Vagabond band; but, although a charming Vagabond in many ways, he +did not express his Vagabondage in his writings. The spirit +of his time was not conducive to Vagabond literature. The +spirit of the succeeding age especially favoured the Vagabond +strain.</p> +<p>The Gothic Revival, and the newly-awakened interest in +medievalism, warmed the imaginations of verse men and prose men +alike. The impulse to wander, to scale some “peak in +Darien” for the joy of a “wild surmise,” seized +every artist in letters—poet, novelist, essayist. A +longing for the mystic world, a passion for the unknown, surged +over men’s minds with the same power and impetuosity as it +had done in the days of the Renaissance. Ordinary life had +grown uglier, more sordid; life seemed crushed in the thraldom of +mechanism. Men felt like schoolboys pent up in a narrow +whitewashed room who look out of the windows at the smiling and +alluring world beyond the gates. Small wonder that some who +hastened to escape should enter more <!-- page 13--><a +name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>thoroughly +than more cautious souls into the unconventional and the +changeful.</p> +<p>The swing of the pendulum was sure to come, and it is not +surprising that the mid-century furnishes fewer instances of +literary Vagabonds and of Vagabond moods. But with the +pre-Raphaelite Movement an impulse towards Vagabondage +revived. And the era which started with a De Quincey closed +with a Stevenson.</p> +<h3>VI</h3> +<p>Many writers who cannot be classed among the Vagabonds gave +occasional expression to the Vagabond moods which sweep across +every artist’s soul at some time or other. It would +be beside my purpose to dwell at length upon these Vagabond +moods, for my chief concern is with the thorough-going +wanderer. Mention may be made in passing, however, of +Robert Browning, whose cordial detestation of Bohemianism is so +well known. Outwardly there was far less of the Vagabond +about him than about Tennyson. However the romantic spirit +may have touched his boyhood and youth, there looked little of it +in the staid, correctly dressed, middle-aged gentleman who +attended social functions and cheerfully followed the life +conventional. One recalls his disgust with George Sand and +her Bohemian circle, his hatred for spiritualism, his almost +Philistine horror of the shiftless and lawless elements in +life. At the same time I feel that Mr. Chesterton, in his +brilliant monograph of the poet, has overstated the case when he +says that “neither all his liberality nor all his learning +<!-- page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>ever made him anything but an Englishman of the middle +class.” He had mixed blood in his veins, and the fact +that his grandmother was a Creole is not to be lightly brushed +aside by a Chestertonian paradox. For the Southern blood +shows itself from time to time in an unmistakable manner. +It is all very well to say that “he carried the prejudices +of his class (i.e. the middle class) into eternity!” +But we have to reckon with the hot passion of “Time’s +Revenges,” the daring unconventionality of “Fifine at +the Fair,” and the rare sympathy and discernment of the +gipsy temperament in “The Flight of the +Duchess.” Conventional prejudices Browning +undoubtedly had, and there was a splendid level-headedness about +the man which kept in check the extravagances of Vagabondage.</p> +<p>But no poet who has studied men and women as he had studied +them, pondering with loving care the curious, the complex, the +eccentric, could have failed to break away at times from the +outlook of the middle-class Englishman.</p> +<p>Tennyson, on the other hand, looking the handsome Vagabond to +the life, living apart from the world, as if its conventions and +routine were distasteful to him, had scarcely a touch of the +Vagabond in his temperament. That he had no Vagabond moods +I will not say; for the poet who had no Vagabond moods has yet to +be born. But he frowned them down as best he could, and in +his writings we can see the typical, cultured, middle-class +Englishman as we certainly fail to see in Browning. A great +deal of Tennyson is merely Philistinism made musical. The +romantic temper scarcely touches him at <!-- page 15--><a +name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>all; and in +those noble poems—“Lucretius,” +“Ulysses,” “Tithonus”—where his +special powers find their happiest expression, the attitude of +mind has nothing in common with that of the Vagabond. It +was classic art, not romantic art, that attracted Tennyson.</p> +<p>Compare the “Guinevere” of Tennyson with the +“Guenevere” of Morris, and you realize at once the +vast difference that separates Sentimentalism from +Romanticism. And Vagabondage can be approached only through +the gateway of Romanticism.</p> +<h3>VII</h3> +<p>In looking back upon these discursive comments on the Vagabond +element in modern literature, one cannot help asking what is the +resultant effect of the Vagabond temperament upon life and +thought. As psychologists no doubt we are content to +examine its peculiarities and extravagances without troubling to +ask how far it has made for sanity and sweetness.</p> +<p>Yet the question sooner or later rises to our lips. This +Vagabond temperament—is its charm and attractiveness merely +superficial? I cannot think so. I think that on the +whole its effect upon our literature has been salutary and +beneficial.</p> +<p>These more eager, more adventurous spirits express for us the +holiday mood of life. For they are young at heart, inasmuch +as they have lived in the sunshine, and breathed in the fresh, +untainted air. They have indeed scattered “a new +roughness and gladness” among men and women, for they have +spoken to us of the simple magic of the Earth.</p> +<h2><!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>I<br /> +WILLIAM HAZLITT</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 18</span>“He that is weary, let him +sit,<br /> + My soul would stir<br /> +And trade in courtesies and wit,<br /> + Quitting the fur<br /> +To cold complexions needing it.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">George +Herbert</span>.</p> +<p>“Men of the world, who know the world like men,<br /> +Who think of something else beside the pen.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Byron</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>I</h3> +<p>It is not unusual to hear the epithet “complex” +flung with a too ready alacrity at any character who evinces +eccentricity of disposition. In olden days, when regularity +of conduct, and conformity even in small particulars were +regarded as moral essentials, the eccentric enjoyed short +shrift. The stake, the guillotine, or the dungeons of the +Inquisition speedily put an end to the eccentricities. A +slight measure of nonconformity was quite enough to earn the +appellation of witch or wizard. One stood no chance as an +eccentric unless the eccentricity was coupled with unusual force +of character.</p> +<p>Alienists assure us that insanity is on the increase, and it +is certain that modern conditions of life have favoured nervous +instabilities of temperament, which express themselves in +eccentricities of conduct. But nervous instability is one +thing, complexity another. The fact that they may co-exist +affords us no excuse for confusing them. We speak of a +man’s personality, whereas it would be more correct to +speak of his personalities.</p> +<p>Much has been written of late years about multi-personalities, +until the impression has spread that the <!-- page 20--><a +name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>possession of +a number of differing personalities is a special form of +insanity. This is quite wrong. The sane, no less than +the insane man has a number of personalities, and the difference +between them lies in the power of co-ordination. The sane +man is like a skilful driver who is able to control his team of +horses; whereas the insane man has lost control of his steeds, +and allows first one and then the other to get the mastery of +him.</p> +<p>The personalities are no more numerous than before, only we +are made aware of their number.</p> +<p>In a sense, therefore, every human being is complex. +Inheritance and environment have left distinctive +characteristics, which, if the power of co-ordination be +weakened, take possession of the individual as opportunity may +determine. We usually apply the term personality to the +resulting blend of the various personalities in his nature. +In the case of sane men and women the personality is a very +composite affair. What we are thinking of frequently when +we apply the epithet “complex” is a certain +contradictoriness of temperament, the result of opposing strains +of blood. It is the quality, not the quantities, of the +personalities that affects us. If not altogether happy, the +expression may in these cases pass as a rough indication of the +opposing element in their nature. But when used, as it +often is, merely to indicate an eccentricity, the epithet assumes +a restricted significance. A may be far more complex than +B; but his power of co-ordination, what we call his will, is +strong, whereas that of B is weak, so we reserve the term complex +for the weaker individual. But why reserve the term complex +for a few literary decadents <!-- page 21--><a +name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>who have lost +the power of co-ordination, and not apply it to a mind like +Shakespeare’s, who was certainly as complex a personality +as ever lived?</p> +<p>Now I do not deny that it is wrong to apply the term +complexity to men of unstable, nervous equilibrium. What I +do deny is the right to apply the term to these men only, thus +disseminating the fallacy—too popular nowadays—that +genius and insanity are inseparable.</p> +<p>As a matter of fact, if we turn to Spencer’s exposition +of the evolutionary doctrine we shall find an illustration ready +at hand to show that complexity is of two kinds. Evolution, +as he tells us, is a change from homogeneity to heterogeneity, +from a simple to a complex. Thus a dog is more complex than +a dog-fish, a man than a dog, a Shakespeare greater than a +Shaw. But complexity, though a law of Evolution, is not +<i>the</i> law of Evolution. Mere complexity is not +necessarily a sign of a higher organism. It may be induced +by injury, as, for instance, the presence of a marked growth such +as cancer. Here we have a more complex state, but +complexity of this kind is on the road to dissolution and +disintegration. Cancer, in fact, in the body is like +disaffection in an army. The unity is disturbed and +differences are engendered. Thus, given a measure of +nervous instability, a complexity may be induced, a +disintegration of the composite personality into the various +separate personalities, that bespeaks a lower, not a higher +organism. <a name="citation21"></a><a href="#footnote21" +class="citation">[21]</a></p> +<p>Now all this may seem quite impertinent to our subject, but I +have discussed the point at length because <!-- page 22--><a +name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>complexity is +certainly one of the marks of the Vagabond, and it is important +to make quite clear what is connoted by that term.</p> +<p>Recognizing, then, the two types of complexity, the type of +complexity with which I am concerned especially in these papers +is the higher type. I have not selected these writers +merely on account of their eccentricities or deviations from the +normal. Mere eccentricity has a legitimate interest for the +scientist, but for the psychologist it is of no particular +moment. Hazlitt is not interesting <i>because</i> he was +afflicted with a morbid egotism; or Borrow <i>because</i> he +suffered from fits of melancholia; or De Quincey <i>because</i> +he imagined he was in debt when he had plenty of money. It +was because these neurotic signs were associated with powerful +intellects and exceptional imaginations, and therefore gave a +peculiar and distinctive character to their writings—in +short, because they happened to be men of genius, men of higher +complex organisms than the average individual—that they +interest so strongly.</p> +<p>It seems to me a kind of inverted admiration that is attracted +to what is bizarre and out of the way, and confounds peculiarity +with cleverness and eccentricity with genius.</p> +<p>The real claim that individuals have upon our appreciation and +sympathy is mental and moral greatness; and the sentimental +weakness with the “oddity” is no more rational, no +more to be respected, than a sympathy which extends to physical +monstrosities and sees nothing to admire in a normal, healthy +body.</p> +<p>It may be urged, of course, by some that I have admitted <!-- +page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>to a neurotic strain affecting more or less all the +Vagabonds treated of in this volume, and this being so, it is +clear that the morbid tendencies in their temperament must have +conditioned the distinctive character of their genius.</p> +<p>Now it is quite true that the soil whence the flower of their +genius sprung was in several cases not without a taint; but it +does not follow that the flower itself is tainted. And here +we come upon the fallacy that seems to me to lie at the basis of +the doctrine which makes genius itself a kind of disease. +The soil of the rose garden may be manured with refuse that +Nature uses in bringing forth the lovely bloom of the rose. +But the poisonous character of the refuse has been chemically +transformed in giving vitality to the roses. And so from +unhealthy stock, from temperaments affected by disease, have +sprung the roses of genius—transformed by the mysterious +alchemy of the imagination into pure and lovely things. +There are, of course, poisonous flowers, just as there is a type +of genius—not the highest type—that is morbid. +But this does not affect my contention that genius is not +necessarily morbid because it may have sprung from a morbid +soil. Hazlitt is a case in point. His temperament was +certainly not free from morbidity, and this morbidity may be +traced in his writings. The most signal instance is the +<i>Liber Amoris</i>—an unfortunate chapter of sentimental +autobiography which did irreparable mischief to his +reputation. But there is nothing morbid in Hazlitt at his +best; and let it be added that the bulk of Hazlitt’s +writings displays a noble sanity.</p> +<p><!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>Much has been written about his less pleasing +idiosyncrasies, and no writer has been called more frequently to +account for deficiencies. It is time surely that we should +recall once more the tribute of Lamb: “I think William +Hazlitt to be in his natural and healthy state one of the wisest +and finest spirits breathing.”</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>The complexity of Hazlitt’s temperament was especially +emphasized by the two strong, opposing tendencies that called for +no ordinary power of co-ordination. I mean the austere, +individualistic, Puritan strain that came from his Presbyterian +forefathers; and a sensuous, voluptuous strain that often ran +athwart his Puritanism and occasioned him many a mental +struggle. The general effect of these two dements in his +nature was this: In matters of the intellect the Puritan was +uppermost; in the realm of the emotions you felt the dominant +presence of the opposing element.</p> +<p>In his finest essays one feels the presence at once of the +Calvinist and the Epicurean; not as two incompatibles, but as +opposing elements that have blent together into a noble unity; +would-be rivals that have co-ordinated so that from each the good +has been extracted, and the less worthy sides eliminated. +Thus the sweetness of the one and the strength of the other have +combined to give more distinction and power to the utterance.</p> +<p>Take this passage from one of his lectures:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The poet of nature is one who, from the +elements of <!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 25</span>beauty, of power, and of passion in +his own breast, sympathises with whatever is beautiful, and +grand, and impassioned in nature, in its simple majesty, in its +immediate appeal to the senses, to the thoughts and hearts of all +men; so that the poet of nature, by the truth, and depth, and +harmony of his mind, may be said to hold communion with the very +soul of nature; to be identified with, and to foreknow, and to +record, the feelings of all men, at all times and places, as they +are liable to the same impressions; and to exert the same power +over the minds of his readers that nature does. He sees +things in their eternal beauty, for he sees them as they are; he +feels them in their universal interest, for he feels them as they +affect the first principles of his and our common nature. +Such was Homer, such was Shakespeare, whose works will last as +long as nature, because they are a copy of the indestructible +forms and everlasting impulses of feature, welling out from the +bosom as from a perennial spring, or stamped upon the senses by +the hand of their Maker. The power of the imagination in +them is the representative power of all nature. It has its +centre in the human soul, and makes the circuit of the +universe.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And this:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The child is a poet, in fact, when he first +plays at hide-and-seek, or repeats the story of Jack the +Giant-killer; the shepherd boy is a poet when he first crowns his +mistress with a garland of flowers; the countryman when he stops +to look at the rainbow; the city apprentice when he gazes after +the Lord Mayor’s show; the miser when he hugs his gold; the +courtier who builds his hopes upon a smile; the savage who paints +his idol <!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>with blood; the slave who worships a +tyrant, or the tyrant who fancies himself a god; the vain, the +ambitious, the proud, the choleric man, the hero and the coward, +the beggar and the king, the rich and the poor, the young and the +old, all live in a world of their own making; and the poet does +no more than describe what all the others think and +act.”</p> +<p>“Poetry is not a branch of authorship; it is the stuff +of which our life is made.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The artist is speaking in Hazlitt, but beneath the full, rich +exuberance of the artist, you can detect an under-note of +austerity.</p> +<p>Then again, his memorable utterance about the Dissenting +minister from one of his essays on “Court +Influence.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“A Dissenting minister is a character not so +easily to be dispensed with, and whose place cannot be well +supplied. It is a pity that this character has worn itself +out; that that pulse of thought and feeling has ceased almost to +beat in the heart of a nation, who, if not remarkable for +sincerity and plain downright well-meaning, are remarkable for +nothing. But we have known some such, in happier days, who +had been brought up and lived from youth to age in the one +constant belief in God and of His Christ, and who thought all +other things but dross compared with the glory hereafter to be +revealed. Their youthful hopes and vanity had been +mortified in them, even in their boyish days, by the neglect and +supercilious regards of the world; and they turned to look into +their own minds for something else to build their hopes and +confidence upon. They were <!-- page 27--><a +name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>true +priests. They set up an image in their own minds—it +was truth; they worshipped an idol there—it was +justice. They looked on man as their brother, and only +bowed the knee to the Highest. Separate from the world, +they walked humbly with their God, and lived in thought with +those who had borne testimony of a good conscience, with the +spirits of just men in all ages. . . . Their sympathy was +not with the oppressors, but the oppressed. They cherished +in their thoughts—and wished to transmit to their +posterity—those rights and privileges for asserting which +their ancestors had bled on scaffolds, or had pined in dungeons, +or in foreign climes. Their creed, too, was ‘Glory to +God, peace on earth, goodwill to man.’ This creed, +since profaned and rendered vile, they kept fast through good +report and evil report. This belief they had, that looks at +something out of itself, fixed as the stars, deep as the +firmament; that makes of its own heart an altar to truth, a place +of worship for what is right, at which it does reverence with +praise and prayer like a holy thing, apart and content; that +feels that the greatest Being in the universe is always near it; +and that all things work together for the good of His creatures, +under His guiding hand. This covenant they kept, as the +stars keep their courses; this principle they stuck by, for want +of knowing better, as it sticks by them to the last. It +grows with their growth, it does not wither in their decay. +It lives when the almond-tree flourishes, and is not bowed down +with the tottering knees. It glimmers with the last feeble +eyesight, smiles in the faded cheek like infancy, and lights a +path before them to the grave!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Here is a man of Puritan lineage speaking; but is it the +voice of Puritanism only? Surely it is a Puritanism +softened and refined, a Puritanism which is free of those harsh +and unpleasing elements that have too often obscured its finer +aspects. I know of no passage in his writings which for +spacious eloquence, nobleness of thought, beauty of expression, +can rival this. It was written in 1818, when Hazlitt was +forty years old, and in the plenitude of his powers.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>But the power of co-ordination was not always exerted; perhaps +not always possible. Had it been so, then Hazlitt would not +take his place in this little band of literary Vagabonds.</p> +<p>There are times when the Puritan element disappears; and it is +Hazlitt the eager, curious taster of life that is presented to +us. For there was the restless inquisitiveness of the +Vagabond about him. This gives such delightful piquancy to +many of his utterances. He ranges far and wide, and is +willing to go anywhere for a fresh sensation that may add to the +interest of his intellectual life. He has no patience with +readers who will not quit their own small back gardens. He +is for ranging “over the hills and far away.”</p> +<p>No sympathy he with the readers who take timid constitutionals +in literature, choosing only the well-worn paths. He is a +true son of the road; the world is before him, and high roads and +byways, rough paths and smooth paths, are equally acceptable, +provided they add to his zest and enjoyment.</p> +<p><!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>Not that he cares for the new merely because it is +new. The essay on “Reading Old Books” is proof +enough of that. A literary ramble must not merely be novel, +it must have some element of beauty about it, or he will revisit +the old haunts of whose beauty he has full cognizance.</p> +<p>The passion for the Earth which was noted as one of the +Vagabond’s characteristics is not so pronounced in Hazlitt +and De Quincey as with the later Vagabonds. But it is +unmistakable all the same. There are, he says, “only +three pleasures in life pure and lasting, and all derived from +inanimate things—books, pictures, and the face of +Nature.” The somewhat curious use of the word +“inanimate” here as applied to the “face of +Nature” scarcely does justice to his intense, vivid +appreciation of the life of the open air; but at any rate it +differentiates his attitude towards Nature from that of +Wordsworth and his school. It is a feeling more direct, +more concrete, more personal.</p> +<p>He has no special liking for country people. On the +contrary, he thinks them a dull, heavy class of people.</p> +<p>“All country people hate one another,” he +says. “They have so little comfort that they envy +their neighbours the smallest pleasure and advantage, and nearly +grudge themselves the necessaries of life. From not being +accustomed to enjoyment, they become hardened and averse to +it—stupid, for want of thought, selfish, for want of +society.”</p> +<p>No; it is the sheer joy of being in the open, and learning +what Whitman called the “profound lesson of <!-- page +30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>reception,” that attracted Hazlitt. +“What I like best,” he declares, “is to lie +whole mornings on a sunny bank on Salisbury Plain, without any +object before me, neither knowing nor caring how time passes, and +thus, ‘with light-winged toys and feathered idleness, to +melt down hours to moments.’” A genuine +Vagabond mood this.</p> +<p>Hazlitt, like De Quincey, had felt the glamour of the city as +well as the glamour of the country; not with the irresistibility +of Lamb, but for all that potently. But an instinct for the +open, the craving for pleasant spaces, and the longing of the +hard-driven journalist for the gracious leisure of the country, +these things were paramount with both Hazlitt and De Quincey.</p> +<p>In Hazlitt’s case there is a touch of wildness, a more +primal delight in the roughness and solitude of country places +than we find in De Quincey.</p> +<p>“One of the pleasantest things,” says Hazlitt, in +true Vagabond spirit, “is going on a journey; but I like to +go by myself.”</p> +<p>The last touch is not only characteristic of Hazlitt, it +touches that note of reserve verging on anti-social sentiment +that was mentioned as characteristic of the Vagabond.</p> +<p>He justifies his feeling thus with an engaging frankness: +“The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to +think, feel. Do just as one pleases. We go a journey +chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; +to leave ourselves behind; much more to get rid of others. . . +. It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone +heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I <!-- page 31--><a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>sing for +joy. From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge into +my past being, and revel there, as the sunburnt Indian plunges +headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. +Then long-forgotten things, like ‘sunken wrack and sunless +treasures,’ burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, +think, and be myself again.”</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>Taken on the whole, the English literary Vagabond is a man of +joy, not necessarily a cheerful man. There is a deeper +quality about joy than about cheerfulness. Cheerfulness +indeed is almost entirely a physical idiosyncrasy. It lies +on the surface. A man, serious and silent, may be a joyful +man; he can scarcely be a cheerful man. Moody as he was at +times, sour-tempered and whimsical as he could be, yet there was +a fine quality of joy about Hazlitt. It is this quality of +joy that gives the sparkle and relish to his essays. He +took the same joy in his books as in his walks, and he +communicates this joy to the reader. He appears +misanthropic at times, and rages violently at the world; but +’tis merely a passing gust of feeling, and when over, it is +easy to see how superficial it was, so little is his general +attitude affected by it.</p> +<p>The joyfulness of the Vagabond is no mere light-hearted, +graceful spirit. It is of a hardy and virile nature—a +quality not to be crushed by misfortune or sickness. +Outwardly, neither the lives of Hazlitt nor De Quincey were what +we would call happy. Both had to fight hard against adverse +fates for many years; both <!-- page 32--><a +name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>had delicate +constitutions, which entailed weary and protracted periods of +feeble health.</p> +<p>But there was a fundamental serenity about them. At the +end of a hard and fruitless struggle with death, Hazlitt +murmured, “Well, I’ve had a happy life.” +De Quincey at the close of his long and varied life showed the +same tranquil stoicism that had carried him through his many +difficulties.</p> +<p>Joyfulness permeates Thoreau’s philosophy of life; and +until his system was shattered by a painful and incurable +complaint, Jefferies had the same splendid capacity for +enjoyment, a huge satisfaction in noting the splendour and rich +plenitude of the Earth. Whitman’s fine optimism +defied every attack from without and within; and the deliberate +happiness of Stevenson, when temptation to despondency was so +strong, is one of his most attractive characteristics.</p> +<p>Yet the characteristic belongs to the English race, and it is +quite other with the Russian. Melancholy in his cast of +thought, and pessimistic in his philosophy, the Russian Vagabond +presents a striking contrast in this particular.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>Comparing the styles of Hazlitt and De Quincey, one is struck +with the greater fire and vigour of Hazlitt.</p> +<p>Indeed, the term which De Quincey applied to certain of his +writings—“impassioned prose”—is really +more applicable to many of Hazlitt’s essays. The +dream fugues of De Quincey are delicately imaginative, but <!-- +page 33--><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>real passion is absent from them. The silvery, +far-away tones of the opium-eater do not suggest passion.</p> +<p>Besides, an elaborate, involved style such as his does not +readily convey passion of any kind. It moves along too +slowly, at too leisurely a pace. On the other hand, the +prose of Hazlitt was very frequently literally +“impassioned.” It was sharp, concise, the +sentences rang out resolutely and clearly. And no veil of +phantasy hung at these times between himself and the object of +his description, as with De Quincey, muffling the voice and +blurring the vision. Defects it had, which there is no +necessity to dwell on here, but there was a passion in +Hazlitt’s nature and writings which we do not find in his +contemporary.</p> +<p>Trying beyond doubt as was the wayward element in +Hazlitt’s disposition, to his friends it is not without its +charm as a literary characteristic. His bitterness against +Coleridge in his later years leads him to dwell the longer upon +the earlier meetings, upon the Coleridge of Wem and Nether +Stowey, and thus his very prejudices leave his readers frequently +as gainers.</p> +<p>A passing whim, a transient resentment, will be the occasion +of some finely discursive essay on abstract virtues and +vices. And, after all, there is at bottom such noble +enthusiasm in the man, and where his subjects were not living +people, and his judgment is not blinded by some small prejudices, +how fair, how just, how large and admirable his view. His +faults and failings were of such a character as to bring upon the +owner their own retribution. He paid heavily for his +mistakes. His splenetic moods and his violent dislikes +arose not from <!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 34</span>a want of sensibility, but from an +excess of sensibility. So I do not think they need +seriously disturb us. After all, the dagger he uses as a +critic is uncommonly like a stage weapon, and does no serious +damage.</p> +<p>Better even than his brilliant, suggestive, if capricious, +criticisms are his discursive essays on men and things. +These abound in a tonic wisdom, a breadth of imagination as +welcome as they are rare.</p> +<h2><!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>II<br /> +THOMAS DE QUINCEY</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>“In thoughts from the visions +of the night when deep sleep falleth on men.”—<span +class="smcap">Job</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>I</h3> +<p>Although a passion for the Earth is a prevalent note in the +character of the literary Vagabond, yet while harking to the call +of the country, he is by no means deaf to the call of the +town. With the exception of Thoreau, who seemed to have +been insensible to any magic save that of the road and woodland, +our literary Vagabonds have all felt and confessed to the spell +of the city. It was not, as in the case of Lamb and +Dickens, the one compelling influence, but it was an influence of +no small potency.</p> +<p>The first important event in De Quincey’s life was the +roaming life on the hillside of North Wales; the second, the +wanderings in “stony-hearted Oxford Street.” +Later on the spell of London faded away, and a longing for the +country possessed him once more. But the spell of London +was important in shaping his literary life, and must not be +under-estimated. Mention has been made of Lamb and Dickens, +to whom the life of the town meant so much, and whose inspiration +they could not forgo without a pang. But these men were not +attracted in the same way as De Quincey. What drew De +Quincey to London was its mystery; whereas it was the stir and +colour of the crowded streets that <!-- page 38--><a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>stirred the +imagination of the two Charles’s. We scarcely realize +as we read of those harsh experiences, those bitter struggles +with poverty and loneliness, that the man is writing of his life +in London, is speaking of some well-known thoroughfares. It +is like viewing a familiar scene in the moonlight, when all looks +strange and weird. A faint but palpable veil of phantasy +seemed to shut off De Quincey from the outside world. In +his most poignant passages the voice has a ghostly ring; in his +most realistic descriptions there is a dreamlike unreality. +A tender and sensitive soul in his dealings with others, there +are no tears in his writings. One has only to compare the +early recorded struggles of Dickens with those of De Quincey to +feel the difference between the two temperaments. The one +passionately concrete, the other dispassionately abstract. +De Quincey will take some heartfelt episode and deck it out in so +elaborate a panoply of rhetoric that the human element seems to +have vanished. Beautiful as are many of the passages +describing the pathetic outcast Ann, the reader is too conscious +of the stylist and the full-dress stylist.</p> +<p>That he feels what he is writing of, one does not doubt; but +he does not suit his manner to his matter. For expressing +subtle emotions, half shades of thought, no writer is more +wonderfully adept than De Quincey. But when the episode +demands simple and direct treatment his elaborate cadences feel +out of place.</p> +<p>When he pauses in his description to apostrophize, then the +disparity affects one far less; as, for instance, in this +apostrophe to “noble-minded” Ann after recalling how +on one occasion she had saved his life.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p38b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Thomas de Quincey" +title= +"Thomas de Quincey" +src="images/p38s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 39--><a name="page39"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 39</span>“O youthful benefactress! how +often in succeeding years, standing in solitary places, and +thinking of thee with grief of heart and perfect love—how +often have I wished that, as in ancient times the curse of a +father was believed to have a supernatural power, and to pursue +its object with a fatal necessity of self-fulfilment, even so the +benediction of a heart oppressed with gratitude might have a like +prerogative; might have power given it from above to chase, to +haunt, to waylay, to pursue thee into the central darkness of a +London brothel, or (if it were possible) even into the darkness +of the grave, there to awaken thee with an authentic message of +peace and forgiveness, and of final reconciliation!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Perhaps the passage describing how he befriended the small +servant girl in the half-deserted house in Greek Street is among +the happiest, despite a note of artificiality towards the +close:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Towards nightfall I went down to Greek +Street, and found, on taking possession of my new quarters, that +the house already contained one single inmate—a poor, +friendless child, apparently ten years old; but she seemed +hunger-bitten; and sufferings of that sort often make children +look older than they are. From this forlorn child I learned +that she had slept and lived there alone for some time before I +came; and great joy the poor creature expressed when she found +that I was in future to be her companion through the hours of +darkness. The house could hardly be called large—that +is, it was not large on each separate storey; but, having four +storeys in all, it was large enough to impress vividly the sense +of its echoing loneliness; and, from the want <!-- page 40--><a +name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>of furniture, +the noise of the rats made a prodigious uproar on the staircase +and hall; so that, amidst the real fleshly ills of cold and +hunger, the forsaken child had found leisure to suffer still more +from the self-created one of ghosts. Against these enemies +I could promise her protection; human companionship was in itself +protection; but of other and more needful aid I had, alas! little +to offer. We lay upon the floor, with a bundle of law +papers for a pillow, but with no other covering than a large +horseman’s cloak; afterwards, however, we discovered in a +garret an old sofa-cover, a small piece of rug, and some +fragments of other articles, which added a little to our +comfort. The poor child crept close to me for warmth, and +for security against her ghostly enemies. . . . Apart from +her situation, she was not what would be called an interesting +child. She was neither pretty, nor quick in understanding, +nor remarkably pleasing in manners. But, thank God! even in +those years I needed not the embellishments of elegant +accessories to conciliate my affections. Plain human +nature, in its humblest and most homely apparel, was enough for +me; and I loved the child because she was my partner in +wretchedness.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>I cannot agree with Mr. H. S. Salt when, in the course of a +clever and interesting biographical study of De Quincey, <a +name="citation40"></a><a href="#footnote40" +class="citation">[40]</a> he says: “It (in <i>re</i> style) +conveys precisely the sense that is intended, and attains its +effect far less by <!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 41</span>rhetorical artifice than by an almost +faultless instinct in the choice and use of words.”</p> +<p>In the delineation of certain moods he is supremely +excellent. But surely the style is not a plastic style; and +its appeal to the ear rather than to the pictorial faculty limits +its emotional effect upon the reader. Images pass before +his eyes, and he tries to depict them by cunningly devised +phrases; but the veil of phantasy through which he sees those +images has blurred their outline and dimmed their +colouring. The phrase arrests by its musical cadences, by +its solemn, mournful music. Even some of his most admirable +pieces—the dream fugues, leave the reader dissatisfied, +when they touch poignant realities like sorrow. Despite its +many beauties, that dream fugue, “Our Ladies of +Sorrow,” seems too misty, too ethereal in texture for the +intense actuality of the subject. Compare some of its +passages with passages from another prose-poet, Oscar Wilde, +where no veil of phantasy comes between the percipient and the +thing perceived, and it will be strange if the reader does not +feel that the later writer has a finer instinct for the choice +and use of words.</p> +<p>It would be untrue to say that Wilde’s instinct was +faultless. A garish artificiality spoils much of his work; +but this was through wilful perversity. Even in his earlier +work—in that wonderful book, <i>Dorian Gray</i>, he +realized the compelling charm of simplicity in style. His +fairy stories, <i>The Happy Prince</i>, for instance, are little +masterpieces of simple, restrained writing, and in the last +things that came from his pen there is a growing appreciation of +the value of simplicity.</p> +<p><!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>De Quincey never realized this; he recognized one form +of art—the decorative. And although he became a +master of that form, it was inevitable that at times this mode of +art should fail in its effect.</p> +<p>Here is a passage from <i>Levana and Our Ladies of +Sorrow</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The eldest of the three is named Mater +Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and +day raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She stood +in Rama, where a voice was heard of lamentation—Rachel +weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted. She +it was that stood in Bethlehem on the night when Herod’s +sword swept its nurseries of Innocents, and the little feet were +stiffened for ever which were heard at times as they trotted +along floors overhead, woke pulses of love in household hearts +that were not unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are sweet and +subtle; wild and sleepy by turns; often times rising to the +clouds, often times challenging the heavens. She wears a +diadem round her head. And I knew by childish memories that +she could go abroad upon the winds, when she heard the sobbing of +litanies or the thundering of organs, and when she beheld the +mustering of summer clouds.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And here is Oscar Wilde in <i>De Profundis</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Prosperity, pleasure, and success, may be +rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most +sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that +stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not +vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. . . . It is a +wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love <!-- page +43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not +in pain. Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament +coarse, hard, and callous. But behind sorrow there is +always sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. +Truth in Art is . . . no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more +than it is a silver well of water in the valley that shows the +moon to the moon, and Narcissus to Narcissus. Truth in Art +is the unity of a thing with itself—the soul made +incarnate, the body instinct with spirit. For this reason +there is no truth comparable to sorrow. There are times +when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. Other things +may be illusions of the eye or the appetite made to blind the one +and clog the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, +and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I have not quoted these passages in order to pit one style +against another; for each writer sets himself about a different +task. A “dream fugue” demands a treatment other +than the simpler, more direct treatment essential for +Wilde’s purpose. It is not because De Quincey the +artist chose this especial form for once in order to portray a +mood that the passage merits consideration; but because De +Quincey always treated his emotional experiences as “dream +fugues.” Of suffering and privation, of pain and +anguish bodily and mental, he had experiences more than the +common lot. But when he tries to show this bleeding reality +to us a mist invariably arises, and we see things “as in a +glass darkly.”</p> +<p>There is a certain passage in his Autobiography which affords +a key to this characteristic of his work.</p> +<p><!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>When quite a boy he had constituted himself imaginary +king of an imaginary kingdom of Gombrom. Speaking of this +fancy he writes: “O reader! do not laugh! I lived for +ever under the terror of two separate wars and two separate +worlds; one against the factory boys in a real world of flesh and +blood, of stones and brickbats, of flight and pursuit, that were +anything but figurative; the other in a world purely aerial, +where all the combats and the sufferings were absolute +moonshine. And yet the simple truth is that for anxiety and +distress of mind the reality (which almost every morning’s +light brought round) was as nothing in comparison of that Dream +Kingdom which rose like a vapour from my own brain, and which +apparently by the fiat of my will could be for ever +dissolved. Ah, but no! I had contracted obligations +to Gombrom; I had submitted my conscience to a yoke; and in +secret truth my will had no autocratic power. Long +contemplation of a shadow, earnest study for the welfare of that +shadow, sympathy with the wounded sensibilities of that shadow +under accumulated wrongs; these bitter experiences, nursed by +brooding thought, had gradually frozen that shadow into a region +of reality far denser than the material realities of brass or +granite.”</p> +<p>This confession is a remarkable testimony to the reality of De +Quincey’s imaginative life. “I had contracted +obligations to Gombrom.” Yes, despite his practical +experiences with the world, it was Gombrom, “the +moonlight” side of things, that appealed to him. The +boys might fling stones and brickbats, just as the world did +later—but though he felt the onslaught, it <!-- page +45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>moved +him far less than did the phantasies of his imagination.</p> +<p>There is no necessity to weigh Wilde’s experiences of +“Our Ladies of Sorrow” beside those of De +Quincey. All we need ask is which impresses us the more +keenly with the actuality of sorrow. And I think there can +be no doubt that it is not De Quincey.</p> +<p>“The Dream Kingdom that rose like a vapour” from +his brain, this it was—this Vagabond imagination of +his—that was the one great reality in life. It is a +mistake to assume, as some have done, that this faculty for +daydreaming was a legacy of the opium-eating. The opium +gave an added brilliance to the dream-life, but it did not create +it. He was a dreamer from his birth—a far more +thorough-going dreamer than was ever Coleridge. There was a +strain of insanity about him undoubtedly, and it says much for +his intellectual activity and moral power that the Dream Kingdom +did not disturb his mental life more than it did. Had he +never touched opium to relieve his gastric complaint, he would +have been eccentric—that is, if he had lived. Without +some narcotic it is doubtful whether his highly sensitive +organization would have survived the attacks of disease. As +it was, the opium not only eased the pain, but lifted his +imagination above the ugly realities of life, and afforded a +solace in times of loneliness and misery.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>Intellectually he was a man of a conservative turn of mind, +with an ingrained respect for the conventions of <!-- page +46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>life, +but temperamentally he was a restless Vagabond, with a total +disregard for the amenities of civilization, asking for nothing +except to live out his own dream-life. Dealing with him as +a writer, you found a shrewd, if wayward critic, with no little +of “John Bull” in his composition. Deal with +him as a man, you found a bright, kindly, nervous little man in a +chronic state of shabbiness, eluding the attention of friends so +far as possible, and wandering about town and country as if he +had nothing in common with the rest of mankind. His +Vagabondage is shown best in his purely imaginative work, and in +the autobiographical sketches.</p> +<p>Small and insignificant in appearance to the casual observer, +there was something arresting, fascinating about the man that +touched even the irascible Carlyle. Much of his work, one +can well understand, seemed to this lover of facts “full of +wire-drawn ingenuities.” But with all his contempt +for phantasy, there was a touch of the dreamer in Carlyle, and +the imaginative beauty, apart from the fanciful prettiness in De +Quincey’s work, would have appealed to him. For there +was power, intellectual grip, behind the shifting fancies, and +both as a critic and historian he has left behind him memorable +work. As critic he has been taken severely to task for his +judgments on French writers and on many lights of +eighteenth-century thought. Certainly De Quincey’s +was not the type of mind we should go to for an interpretative +criticism of the eighteenth century. Yet we must not forget +his admirable appreciation of Goldsmith. At his best, as in +his criticism of Milton and <!-- page 47--><a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Wordsworth, +he shows a fine, delicate, analytical power, which it is hard to +overpraise.</p> +<p>“Obligations to Gombrom” do not afford the best +qualification for the historian. One can imagine the hair +rising in horror on the head of the late Professor Freeman at the +idea of the opium-eater sitting down seriously to write +history.</p> +<p>Yet he had, like Froude, the power of seizing upon the +spectacular side of great movements which many a more accurate +historian has lacked. Especially striking is his <i>Revolt +of the Tartars</i>—the flight eastward of a Tartar nation +across the vast steppes of Asia, from Russia to Chinese +territory. Ideas impressed him rather than facts, and +episodes rather than a continuous chain of events. But when +he was interested, he had the power of describing with +picturesque power certain dramatic episodes in a nation’s +history.</p> +<p>A characteristic of the literary Vagabond is the eager +versatility of his intellectual interests. He will follow +any path that promises to be interesting, not so much with the +scholar’s patient investigation as with the +pedestrian’s delight in “fresh woods and pastures +new.”</p> +<p>A prolific writer for the magazines, it is inevitable that +there should be a measure that is ephemeral in De Quincey’s +voluminous writings. But it is impossible not to be struck +by the wide range of his intellectual interests. A mind +that is equally at home in the economics of Ricardo and the +transcendentalism of Wordsworth; that can turn with undiminished +zest from Malthus to Kant; that could deal lucidly with the +“Logic of Political Economy,” despite the dream-world +that finds expression <!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 48</span>in the “impassioned +prose”; that could delight in such broadly farcical +absurdities as “<i>Sortilege and Astrology</i>,” and +such delicately suggestive studies as “On the Knocking at +the Gate in Macbeth,” a mind of this adventurous and varied +type is assuredly a very remarkable one. That he should +touch every subject with equal power was not to be expected, but +the analytic brilliance that characterizes even his mystical +writings enabled him to treat such subjects as political economy +with a sureness of touch and a logical grasp that has astonished +those who had regarded him as merely an inconsequential dreamer +of dreams.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>I cannot agree with Dr. Japp <a name="citation48"></a><a +href="#footnote48" class="citation">[48]</a> when, in the course +of some laudatory remarks on De Quincey’s humour, he says: +“It is precisely here that De Quincey parts company, alike +from Coleridge and from Wordsworth; neither of them had +humour.”</p> +<p>In the first place De Quincey’s humour never seems to me +very genuine. He could play with ideas occasionally in a +queer fantastic way, as in his elaborate gibe on Dr. Andrew +Bell.</p> +<blockquote><p>“First came Dr. Andrew Bell. We knew +him. Was he dull? Is a wooden spoon dull? Fishy +were his eyes, torpedinous was his manner; and his main idea, out +of two which he really had, related to the moon—from which +you infer, perhaps, that he was lunatic. <!-- page 49--><a +name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>By no +means. It was no craze, under the influence of the moon, +which possessed him; it was an idea of mere hostility to the +moon. . . . His wrath did not pass into lunacy; it produced +simple distraction; and uneasy fumbling with the idea—like +that of an old superannuated dog who longs to worry, but cannot +for want of teeth.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A clever piece of analytical satire, if you like, but not +humorous so much as witty. Incongruity, unexpectedness, +belongs to the essence of humour. Here there is that +cunning display of congruity between the old dog and the Doctor +which the wit is so adroit in evolving.</p> +<p>Similarly in the essay on “Murder considered as one of +the Fine Arts,” the style of clever extravaganza adopted in +certain passages is witty, certainly, but lacks the airy +irresponsibility characterizing humour. Sometimes he +indulges in pure clowning, which is humorous in a heavy-handed +way. But grimacing humour is surely a poor kind of +humour.</p> +<p>Without going into any dismal academic discussion on Wit and +Humour, I think it is quite possible to differentiate these two +offsprings of imagination, making Wit the intellectual brother of +the twain. Analytical minds naturally turn to wit, by +preference: Impressionistic minds to humour. Dickens, who +had no gift for analysis, and whose writings are a series of +delightful unreflective, personal impressions, is always +humorous, never witty. Reflective writers like George Eliot +or George Meredith are more often witty than humorous.</p> +<p>I do not rate De Quincey’s wit very highly, though it +<!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>is agreeably diverting at times, but it was preferable +to his humour.</p> +<p>The second point to be noted against Dr. Japp is his reference +to Coleridge. No one would claim Wordsworth as a humorist, +but Coleridge cannot be dismissed with this comfortable +finality. Perhaps he was more witty than humorous; he also +had an analytic mind of rarer quality even than De +Quincey’s, and his <i>Table Talk</i> is full of delightful +flashes. But the amusing account he gives of his early +journalistic experiences and the pleasant way in which he pokes +fun at himself, can scarcely be compatible with the assertion +that he had “no humour.”</p> +<p>Indeed, it was this quality, I think, which endeared him +especially to Lamb, and it was the absence of this quality which +prevented Lamb from giving that personal attachment to Wordsworth +which he held for both Coleridge and Hazlitt.</p> +<p>But the comparative absence of humour in De Quincey is another +characteristic of Vagabondage. Humour is largely a product +of civilization, and the Vagabond is only half-civilized. I +can see little genuine humour in either Hazlitt or De +Quincey. They had wit to an extent, it is true, but they +had this despite, not because, of their Vagabondage. +Thoreau, notwithstanding flashes of shrewd American wit, can +scarcely be accounted a humorist. Whitman was entirely +devoid of humour. A lack of humour is felt as a serious +deficiency in reading the novels of Jefferies; and the airy wit +of Stevenson is scarcely full-bodied enough to rank him among the +humorists.</p> +<p><!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>This deficiency of humour may be traced to the +characteristic attitude of the Vagabond towards life, which is +one of eager curiosity. He is inquisitive about its many +issues, but with a good deal of the child’s eagerness to +know how a thing happened, and who this is, and what that +is. Differing in many ways, as did Borrow and De Quincey, +we find the same insatiable curiosity; true, it expressed itself +differently, but there is a basic similarity between the impulse +that took Borrow over the English highways and gave him that zest +for travel in other countries, and the impulse that sent De +Quincey wandering over the various roads of intellectual and +emotional inquiry. Thoreau’s main reason for his two +years’ sojourn in the woods was one of curiosity. He +“wanted to know” what he could find out by +“fronting” for a while the essential facts of life, +and he left, as he says, “for as good a reason as I went +there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more +lives to live.” In other words, inquisitiveness +inspired the experiment, and inquisitiveness as to other +experiments induced him to terminate the Walden episode.</p> +<p>Now, in his own way, De Quincey was possibly the most +inquisitive of all the Vagabonds. The complete absence of +the imperative mood in his writings has moved certain moralists +like Carlyle to impatience with him. There is a fine moral +tone about his disposition, but his writings are engagingly +unmoral (quite different, of course, from immoral). He has +called himself “an intellectual creature,” and this +happy epithet exactly describes him. He collected facts, as +an enthusiast collects curios, for purposes of decoration. +He observed them, <!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 52</span>analysed their features, but almost +always with a view to æsthetic comparisons.</p> +<p>And to understand De Quincey aright one must follow him in his +multitudinous excursions, not merely rest content with a few +fragments of “impassioned prose,” and the avowedly +autobiographic writings. For the autobiography extends +through the sixteen volumes of his works. The writings, no +doubt, vary in quality; in many, as in the criticism of German +and French writers, acute discernment and astounding prejudices +jostle one another. But this is no reason for turning +impatiently away. Indeed, it is an additional incentive to +proceed, for they supply such splendid psychological material for +illustrating the temperament and tastes of the writer. And +this may confidently be said: There is “fundamental +brainwork” in every article that De Quincey has +written.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>What gives his works their especial attraction is not so much +the analytic faculty, interesting as it is, or the mystical turn +of mind, as in the piquant blend of the two. Thus, while he +is poking fun at Astrology or Witchcraft, we are conscious all +the time that he retains a sneaking fondness for the +occult. He delights in dreams, omens, and +coincidences. He reminds one at times of the lecturer on +“Superstitions,” who, in the midst of a brilliant +analysis of its futility and absurdity, was interrupted by a +black cat walking on to the platform, and was so disturbed by +this portent that he brought his lecture to an abrupt +conclusion.</p> +<p><!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>On the whole the Mystic trampled over the +Logician. His poetic imagination impresses his work with a +rich inventiveness, while the logical faculty, though subsidiary, +is utilized for giving form and substance to the visions.</p> +<p>It is curious to contrast the stateliness of De +Quincey’s literary style, the elaborate full-dress manner, +with the extreme simplicity of the man. One might be +tempted to add, surely here the style is <i>not</i> the +man. His friends have testified that he was a gentle, +timid, shrinking little man, and abnormally sensitive to giving +offence; and to those whom he cared for—his family, for +instance—he was the incarnation of affection and +tenderness.</p> +<p>Yet in the writings we see another side, a considerable +sprinkle of sturdy prejudices, no little self-assertion and +pugnacity. But there is no real disparity. The style +is the man here as ever. When roused by opposition he could +even in converse show the claws beneath the velvet. Only +the militant, the more aggressive side of the man is expressed +more readily in his writings. And the gentle and amiable +side more readily in personal intimacy. Both the life and +the writings are wanted to supply a complete picture.</p> +<p>In one respect the records of his life efface a suspicion that +haunts the reader of his works. More than once the reader +is apt to speculate as to how far the arrogance that marks +certain of his essays is a superficial quality, a literary trick; +how far a moral trait. The record of his conversations +tends to show that much of this was merely surface. Unlike +Coleridge, unlike Carlyle, he was as willing to listen as to +talk; and he said many of his best things with a delightful +unconsciousness that <!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 54</span>they were especially good. He +never seemed to have the least wish to impress people by his +cleverness or aptness of speech.</p> +<p>But when all has been said as to the personality of the man as +expressed in his writings—especially his +<i>Confessions</i>, and to his personality as interpreted by +friends and acquaintances—there remains a measure of +mystery about De Quincey. This is part of his fascination, +just as it is part of the fascination attaching to +Coleridge. The frank confidences of his <i>Confessions</i> +hide from view the inner ring of reserve, which gave a strange +impenetrability to his character, even to those who knew and +loved him best. A simple nature and a complex +temperament.</p> +<p>Well, after all, such personalities are the most interesting +of all, for each time we greet them it is with a note of +interrogation.</p> +<h2><!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>III<br /> +GEORGE BORROW</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 56</span>“The common sun, the air, the +skies,<br /> +To him are opening Paradise.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Gray</span>.</p> +<p>“He had an English look; that is was square<br /> +In make, of a complexion white and ruddy.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Byron</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>I</h3> +<p>Why is it that almost as soon as we can toddle we eagerly +demand a story of our elders? Why is it that the most +excitable little girl, the most incorrigible little boy can be +quieted by a teaspoonful of the jam of fiction? Why is it +that “once upon a time” can achieve what moral +strictures are powerless to effect?</p> +<p>It is because to most of us the world of imagination is the +world that matters. We live in the “might +be’s” and “peradventures.” Fate may +have cast our lot in prosaic places; have predetermined our lives +on humdrum lines; but it cannot touch our dreams. There we +are princes, princesses—possessed of illimitable wealth, +wielding immeasurable power. Our bodies may traverse the +same dismal streets day after day; but our minds rove luxuriantly +through all the kingdoms of the earth.</p> +<p>Those wonderful eastern stories of the “Flying +Horse” and the “Magic Carpet,” symbolize for us +the matter-of-fact world and the matter-of-dream world. +Nay, is there any sound distinction between facts and +dreams? After all—</p> + +<blockquote><p> “We +are such stuff<br /> +As dreams are made on, and our little life<br /> +Is rounded with a sleep.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>But there are dreams and dreams—dreams by +moonlight and dreams by sunlight. Literature can boast of +many fascinating moonlight dreams—Ancient Mariners and +Christabels, Wonder Books and Tanglewood Tales. And the +fairies and goblins, the witches and wizards, were they not born +by moonlight and nurtured under the glimmer of the stars?</p> +<p>But there are dreams by sunlight and visions at noonday +also. Such dreams thrill us in another but no less +unmistakable way, especially when the dreamer is a Scott, a +William Morris, a Borrow.</p> +<p>And dreamers like Borrow are not content to see visions and +dream dreams, their bodies must participate no less than their +minds. They must needs set forth in quest of the +unknown. Hardships and privations deter them not. +Change, variety, the unexpected, these things are to them the +very salt of life.</p> +<p>This untiring restlessness keeps a Richard Burton rambling +over Eastern lands, turns a Borrow into the high-road and +dingle. This bright-eyed Norfolk giant took more kindly to +the roughnesses of life than did Hazlitt and De Quincey. +Quite as neurotic in his way, his splendid physique makes us +think of him as the embodiment of fine health. Illness and +Borrow do not agree. We think of him swinging along the +road like one of Dumas’ lusty adventurers, exhibiting his +powers of horsemanship, holding his own with well-seasoned +drinkers—especially if the drink be Norfolk +ale—conversing with any picturesque rag-tag and bob-tail he +might happen upon. There is plenty of fresh air in his +pages. No thinker like Hazlitt, no dreamer like De <!-- +page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>Quincey; but a shrewd observer with the most amazing +knack of ingratiating himself with strangers.</p> +<p>No need for this romancer to seek distant lands for +inspiration. Not even the villages of Spain and Portugal +supplied him with such fine stuff for romance as Mumper’s +Dingle. He would get as strange a story out of a London +counting-house or an old apple-woman on London Bridge as did many +a teller of tales out of lonely heaths and stormy seas.</p> +<p><i>Lavengro</i> and <i>The Romany Rye</i> are fine specimens +of romantic autobiography. His life was varied enough, +abounding in colour; but the Vagabond is never satisfied with +things that merely happen. He is equally concerned with the +things that might happen, with the things that ought to +happen. And so Borrow added to his own personal record from +the storehouse of dreams. Some have blamed him for not +adhering to the actual facts. But does any autobiographer +adhere to actual facts? Can any man, even with the most +sensitive feeling for accuracy, confine himself to a record of +what happened?</p> +<p>Of course not. The moment a man begins to write about +himself, to delve in the past, to ransack the storehouse of his +memory; then—if he has anything of the literary artist +about him, and otherwise his book will not be worth the paper it +is written on—he will take in a partner to assist +him. That partner’s name is Romance.</p> +<p>As a revelation of temperament, the <i>Confessions</i> of +Rousseau and the <i>Mémoires</i> of Casanova are, one +feels, delightfully trustworthy. But no sane reader ever +<!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>imagines that he is reading an accurate transcript from +the life of these adventurous gentlemen. The difference +between the editions of De Quincey’s <i>Opium Eater</i> is +sufficient to show how the dreams have expanded under popular +approbation.</p> +<p>Borrow himself suggests this romantic method when he says, +“What is an autobiography? Is it a mere record of a +man’s life, or is it a picture of the man +himself?” Certainly, no one carried the romantic +colouring further than he did. When he started to write his +own life in <i>Lavengro</i> he had no notion of diverging from +the strict line of fact. But the adventurer Vagabond moved +uneasily in the guise of the chronicler. He wanted more +elbow-room. He remembered all that he hoped to encounter, +and from hopes it was no far cry to actualities.</p> +<p>Things might have happened so! Ye gods, they <i>did</i> +happen so! And after all it matters little to us the exact +proportion of fact and fiction. What does matter is that +the superstructure he has raised upon the foundation of fact is +as strange and unique as the palace of Aladdin.</p> +<p>However much he suggested the typical Anglo-Saxon in real +life, there was the true Celt whenever he took pen in hand.</p> +<p>A stranger blend of the Celt and the Saxon indeed it would be +hard to find. The Celtic side is not uppermost in his +temperament—this strong, assertive, prize-fighting, +beer-loving man (a good drinker, but never a drunkard) seems far +more Saxon than anything else. De Quincey had no small +measure of the John Bull in +<a href="images/p60.jpg"> +<img class='clearcenter' alt= +"George Borrow" +title= +"George Borrow" +src="images/p60.jpg" /> +</a><!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>his temperament, and Borrow had a great deal more. +The John Bull side was very obvious. Yet a Celt he was by +parentage, and the Celtic part was unmistakable, though below the +surface. If the East Anglian in him had a weakness for +athleticism, boiled mutton and caper sauce, the Celt in him +responded quickly to the romantic associates of Wales.</p> +<p>Readers of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s charming romance +<i>Aylwin</i> will recall the emphasis laid on the passionate +love of the Welsh for a tiny strip of Welsh soil. Borrow +understood all this; he had a rare sympathy with the Cymric +Celt. You can trace the Celt in his scenic descriptions, in +his feeling for the spell of antiquity, his restlessness of +spirit. And yet in his appearance there was little to +suggest the Celt. Small wonder that many of his friends +spoke of this white-haired giant of six foot three as if he was +first and foremost an excellent athlete.</p> +<p>Certainly he had in full measure an Englishman’s delight +and proficiency in athletics—few better at running, +jumping, wrestling, sparring, and swimming.</p> +<p>In many respects indeed Borrow will not have realized the +fancy picture of the Englishman as limned by Hawthorne’s +fancy—the big, hearty, self-opiniated, beef-eating, +ale-drinking John Bull. Save to a few intimates like Mr. +Watts-Dunton and Dr. Hake he seems to have concealed very +effectually the Celtic sympathies in his nature. But no +reader of his books can be blind to this side of his character; +and then again, as in all the literary Vagabonds, it is the +complexity of the man’s temperament that attracts and +fascinates.</p> +<p>The man who can delight in the garrulous talk of a <!-- page +62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>country inn, understand the magic of big solitudes; who +can keenly appraise the points of a horse and feel the impalpable +glamour of an old ruin; who will present an impenetrable reserve +to the ordinary stranger and take the fierce, moody gypsy to his +heart; who will break almost every convention of civilization, +yet in the most unexpected way show a sturdy element of +conventionality; a man, in short, of so many bewildering +contradictions and strangely assorted qualities as Borrow cannot +but compel interest.</p> +<p>Many of the contradictory traits were not, as they seemed, the +inconsequential moods of an irresponsible nature, but may be +traced to the fierce egotism of the man. The Vagabond is +always an egotist; the egotism may be often amusing, and is +rarely uninteresting. But the personal point of view, the +personal impression, has for him the most tremendous +importance. It makes its possessor abnormally sensitive to +any circumstances, any environment, that may restrict his +independence or prevent the full expression of his personal +tastes and whims. Among our Vagabonds the two most +pronounced egotists are Borrow and Whitman. The secret of +their influence, their merits, and their deficiencies lies in +this intense concentration of self. An appreciation of this +quality leads us to comprehend a good deal of Borrow’s +attitude towards men and women. Reading <i>Lavengro</i> and +<i>The Romany Rye</i> the reader is no less struck by the +remarkable interest that Borrow takes in the +people—especially the rough, uncultured people—whom +he comes across, as in the cheerful indifference with which he +loses sight of them and passes on to fresh <!-- page 63--><a +name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>characters. There is very little objective feeling +in his friendships; as flesh and blood personages with +individualities of their own—loves, hopes, faiths of their +own—he seems to regard them scarcely at all. They +exist chiefly as material for his curiosity and +inquisitiveness. Hence there is a curious selfishness about +him—not the selfishness of a passionate, capricious nature, +but the selfishness of a self-absorbed and self-contained +nature. Perhaps there was hidden away somewhere in his +nature a strain of tenderness, of altruistic affection, which was +reserved for a few chosen souls. But the warm human touch +is markedly absent from his writings, despite their undeniable +charm.</p> +<p>Take the Isopel Berners episode. Whether Isopel Berners +was a fiction of the imagination or a character in real life +matters not for my purpose. At any rate the episode, his +friendship with this Anglo-Saxon girl of the road, is one of the +distinctive features of both <i>Lavengro</i> and <i>The Romany +Rye</i>. The attitude of Borrow towards her may safely be +regarded as a clear indication of the man’s character.</p> +<p>A girl of fine physical presence and many engaging qualities +such as were bound to attract a man of Borrow’s type, who +had forsaken her friends to throw in her lot with this +fellow-wanderer on the road. Here were the ready elements +of a romance—of a friendship that should burn up with the +consuming power of love the baser elements of self in the +man’s disposition, and transform his nature.</p> +<p>And what does he do?</p> +<p>He accepts her companionship, just as he might have <!-- page +64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>accepted the companionship of one of his landlords or +ostlers; spends the time he lived with her in the Dingle in +teaching her Armenian, and when at last, driven to desperation by +his calculating coldness, she comes to take farewell of him, he +makes her a perfunctory offer of marriage, which she, being a +girl of fine mettle as well as of strong affection, naturally +declines. She leaves him, and after a few passages of +philosophic regret, he passes on to the next adventure.</p> +<p>Now Borrow, as we know, was not physically drawn towards the +ordinary gypsy type—the dark, beautiful Celtic women; and +it was in girls of the fair Saxon order such as Isopel Berners +that he sought a natural mate.</p> +<p>Certainly, if any woman was calculated by physique and by +disposition to attract Borrow, Isopel Berners was that +woman. And when we find that the utmost extent of his +passion is to make tea for her and instruct her in Armenian, it +is impossible not to be disagreeably impressed by the unnatural +chilliness of such a disposition. Not even Isopel could +break down the barrier of intense egoism that fenced him off from +any profound intimacy with his fellow-creatures.</p> +<p>Perhaps Dr. Jessop’s attack upon him errs in severity, +and is to an extent, as Mr. Watts-Dunton says, +“unjust”; but there is surely an element of truth in +his remarks when he says: “Of anything like animal passion +there is not a trace in all his many volumes. Not a hint +that he ever kissed a woman or even took a little child upon his +knee.” Nor do I think that the anecdote which Mr. +Watts-Dunton relates about the beautiful gypsy, to whom Borrow +read Arnold’s poem, goes far to dissipate the <!-- page +65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>impression of Borrow’s insensibility to a +woman’s charm.</p> +<p>A passing tribute to the looks of an extraordinarily beautiful +girl is quite compatible with a comparative insensibility to +feminine beauty and feminine graces. That Borrow was devoid +of animal passion I do not believe—nor indeed do his books +convey that impression; that he had no feeling for beauty either +would be scarcely compatible with the Celtic element in his +nature. I think it less a case—as Dr. Jessop seems to +think—of want of passion as of a tyrannous egotism that +excluded any element likely to prove troublesome. He would +not admit a disturbing factor—such as the presence of the +self-reliant Isopel—into his life.</p> +<p>No doubt he liked Isopel well enough in his fashion. +Otherwise certainly he would not have made up his mind to marry +her. But his own feelings, his own tastes, his own fancies, +came first. He would marry her—oh yes!—there +was plenty of time later on. For the present he could study +her character, amuse himself with her idiosyncrasies, and as a +return for her devotion and faithful affection teach her +Armenian. Extremely touching!</p> +<p>But the episode of Isopel Berners is only one illustration, +albeit a very significant one, of Borrow’s calculating +selfishness. No man could prove a more interesting +companion than he; but one cannot help feeling that he was a +sorry kind of friend.</p> +<p>It may seem strange at first sight, finding this wanderer of +the road in the pay of the Bible Society, and a zealous servant +in the cause of militant Protestantism. But <!-- page +66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>the +violent “anti-Popery” side of Borrow is only another +instance of his love of independence. The brooding egotism +that chafed at the least control was not likely to show any +sympathy with sacerdotalism.</p> +<p>There was no trace of philosophy in Borrow’s frankly +expressed views on religious subjects. They were honest and +straightforward enough, with all the vigorous unreflective +narrowness of ultra-Protestantism.</p> +<p>It says much for the amazing charm of Borrow’s writing +that <i>The Bible in Spain</i> is very much better than a +glorified tract. It must have come as a surprise to many a +grave, pious reader of the Bible Society’s +publications.</p> +<p>And the Bible Society made the Vagabond from the literary +point of view. Borrow’s book—<i>The +Zincali</i>—or an account of the gypsies of Spain, +published in 1841, had brought his name before the public. +But <i>The Bible in Spain</i> (1843) made him +famous—doubtless to the relief of “glorious John +Murray,” the publisher, who was doubtful about the +book’s reception.</p> +<p>It is a fascinating book, and if lacking the unique flavour of +the romantic autobiographies, <i>Lavengro</i> and <i>The Romany +Rye</i>, has none the less many of the characteristics that give +all his writings their distinctive attraction.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Can we analyse the charm that Borrow’s books and +Borrow’s personality exercise over us, despite the presence +of unpleasing traits which repel?</p> +<p>In the first place he had the faculty for seizing upon <!-- +page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>the picturesque and picaresque elements in the world +about him. He had the ready instinct of the discursive +writer for what was dramatically telling. Present his +characters in dramatic form he could not; one and all pass +through the crucible of his temperament before we see them. +We feel that they are genuinely observed, but they are +Borrovized. They speak the language of Borrow. While +this is quite true, it is equally true that he knows exactly how +to impress and interest the reader with the personages.</p> +<p>Take this effective little introduction to one of the +characters in <i>The Bible in Spain</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“At length the moon shone out faintly, when +suddenly by its beams I beheld a figure moving before me at a +slight distance. I quickened the pace of the burra, and was +soon close at its side. It went on, neither altering its +pace nor looking round for a moment. It was the figure of a +man, the tallest and bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in Spain, +dressed in a manner strange and singular for the country. +On his head was a hat with a low crown and broad brim, very much +resembling that of an English waggoner; about his body was a long +loose tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse ticken, open in front, +so as to allow the interior garments to be occasionally seen; +these appeared to consist of a jerkin and short velveteen +pantaloons. I have said that the brim of the hat was broad, +but broad as it was, it was insufficient to cover an immense bush +of coal-black hair, which, thick and curly, projected on either +side; over the left shoulder was flung a kind of satchel, and in +the right hand was held a long staff or pole.</p> +<p><!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>“There was something peculiarly strange about the +figure, but what struck me the most was the tranquillity with +which it moved along, taking no heed of me, though, of course, +aware of my proximity, but looking straight forward along the +road, save when it occasionally raised a huge face and large eyes +towards the moon, which was now shining forth in the eastern +quarter.</p> +<p>“‘A cold night,’ said I at last. +‘Is this the way to Talavera?’</p> +<p>“‘It is the way to Talavera, and the night is +cold.’</p> +<p>“‘I am going to Talavera,’ said I, ‘as +I suppose you are yourself.’</p> +<p>“‘I am going thither, so are you, +<i>Bueno</i>.’</p> +<p>“The tones of the voice which delivered these words were +in their way quite as strange and singular as the figure to which +the voice belonged; they were not exactly the tones of a Spanish +voice, and yet there was something in them that could hardly be +foreign; the pronunciation also was correct, and the language, +though singular, faultless. But I was most struck with the +manner in which the last word, <i>bueno</i>, was spoken. I +had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by +no means remember. A pause now ensued; the figure stalking +on as before with the most perfect indifference, and seemingly +with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.</p> +<p>“‘Are you not afraid,’ said I at last, +‘to travel these roads in the dark? It is said that +there are robbers abroad.’</p> +<p>“‘Are you not rather afraid,’ replied the +figure, ‘to <!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 69</span>travel these roads in the +dark—you who are ignorant of the country, who are a +foreigner, an Englishman!’</p> +<p>“‘How is it that you know me to be an +Englishman?’ demanded I, much surprised.</p> +<p>“‘That is no difficult matter,’ replied the +figure; ‘the sound of your voice was enough to tell me +that.’</p> +<p>“‘You speak of voices,’ said I; +‘suppose the tone of your own voice were to tell me who you +are?’</p> +<p>“‘That it will not do,’ replied my +companion; ‘you know nothing about me—you can know +nothing about me.’</p> +<p>“‘Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted +with many things of which you have little idea.’</p> +<p>“‘Por exemplo,’ said the figure.</p> +<p>“‘For example,’ said I, ‘you speak two +languages.’</p> +<p>“The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment, and +then said slowly, ‘<i>Bueno</i>.’</p> +<p>“‘You have two names,’ I continued; +‘one for the house and the other for the street; both are +good, but the one by which you are called at home is the one +which you like best.’</p> +<p>“The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner +as he had previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking +the bridle of the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I +had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge +features and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my +dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in +the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he +said—</p> +<p>“‘Are you then one of us?’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>An admirable sketch, adroitly conceived and executed <!-- page +70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>beyond doubt, but as a fragment of dialogue remarkable +for its literary skill rather than for its characterization.</p> +<p>His instinct for the picturesque never fails him. This +is one of the reasons why, despite his astounding garrulousness, +the readers of his books are never wearied.</p> +<p>Whether it be a ride in the forest, a tramp on foot, an +interview with some individual who has interested him, the +picturesque side is always presented, and never is he at better +advantage than when depicting some scene of gypsy life.</p> +<p>Opening <i>The Bible in Spain</i> at random I happen on this +description of a gypsy supper. It is certainly not one of +the best or most picturesque, but as an average sample of his +scenic skill it will serve its purpose well.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat +crouching over the brasero, from which, by this time, all warmth +had departed; the glow had long since disappeared, and only a few +dying sparks were to be distinguished. The room or hall was +now involved in utter darkness; the women were motionless and +still; I shivered and began to feel uneasy. ‘Will +Antonio be here to-night?’ at length I demanded.</p> +<p>“‘<i>No tenga usted cuidao</i>, my London +Caloro,’ said the gypsy mother, in an unearthly tone; +‘Pepindorio <a name="citation70"></a><a href="#footnote70" +class="citation">[70]</a> has been here some time.’</p> +<p>“I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape +from the house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in +a moment I heard the voice of Antonio.</p> +<p><!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>“‘Be not afraid, ’tis I, brother; we +will have a light anon, and then supper.’</p> +<p>“The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, +cheese, and olive. Antonio, however, produced a leathern +bottle of excellent wine; we dispatched these viands by the light +of an earthern lamp which was placed upon the floor.</p> +<p>“‘Now,’ said Antonio to the youngest female, +‘bring me the pajandi, and I will sing a +gachapla.’</p> +<p>“The girl brought the guitar, which with some difficulty +the gypsy tuned, and then, strumming it vigorously, he +sang—</p> +<p>“I stole a plump and bonny fowl,<br /> + But ere I well had dined,<br /> +The master came with scowl and growl,<br /> + And me would captive bind.</p> +<p>“My hat and mantle off I threw,<br /> + And scour’d across the lea,<br /> +Then cried the beng <a name="citation71"></a><a +href="#footnote71" class="citation">[71]</a> with loud halloo,<br +/> + Where does the Gypsy flee?”</p> +<p>“He continued playing and singing for a considerable +time, the two younger females dancing in the meanwhile with +unwearied diligence, whilst the aged mother occasionally snapped +her fingers or beat time on the ground with her stock. At +last Antonio suddenly laid down the instrument.</p> +<p>“‘I see the London Caloro is weary. Enough, +enough; to-morrow more thereof—we will now to the +<i>charipé</i>’ (bed).</p> +<p>‘“With all my heart,’ said I; ‘where +are we to sleep?’</p> +<p><!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>“‘In the stable,’ said he, ‘in +the manger; however cold the stable may be, we shall be warm +enough in the bufa.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Perhaps his power in this direction is more fully appreciated +when he deals with material that promises no such wealth of +colour as do gypsy scenes and wanderings in the romantic +South.</p> +<p>Cheapside and London Bridge suit him fully as well as do +Spanish forests or Welsh mountains. True romancer as he is, +he is not dependent on conventionally picturesque externals for +arresting attention; since he will discover the stuff of +adventure wherever his steps may lead him. The streets of +Bagdad in the “golden prime” of Haroun Alraschid are +no more mysterious, more enthralling, than the well-known +thoroughfares of modern London. No ancient sorceress of +Eastern story can touch his imagination more deeply than can an +old gypsy woman. A skirmish with a publisher is fully as +exciting as a tilt in a medieval tourney; while the stories told +him by a rural landlord promise as much relish as any of the +tales recounted by Oriental barbers and one-eyed Calenders.</p> +<p>Thus it is that while the pervasive egotism of the man +bewitches us, we yield readily to the spell of his splendid +garrulity. It is of no great moment that he should take an +occasional drink to quench his thirst when passing along the +London streets. But he will continue to make even these +little details interesting. Did he think fit to recount a +sneeze, or to discourse upon the occasion on which he brushed his +hair, he would none the less, I think, have held the +reader’s attention.</p> +<p><!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>Here is the episode of a chance drink; it is a drink and +nothing more; but it is not meant to be skipped, and does not +deserve to be overlooked.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Notwithstanding the excellence of the +London pavement, I began, about nine o’clock, to feel +myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet +along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, +and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. +I was in the Strand, and glancing about I perceived that I was +close by an hotel which bore over the door the somewhat +remarkable name of ‘Holy Lands.’ Without a +moment’s hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and +turning to the left I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, +with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. +‘Bring me some claret,’ said I, for I was rather +faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humble order to +so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for +a moment, then making a low bow he bustled off, and I sat myself +down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter +returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between +the fingers of his right hand two purple glasses; placing the +latter on the table, set the bottle down before me with a bang, +and then standing still appeared to watch my movements. You +think I don’t know how to drink a glass of claret, thought +I to myself. I’ll soon show you how we drink claret +where I come from; and filling one of the glasses to the brim, I +flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and +then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to +test the bouquet of <!-- page 74--><a name="page74"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 74</span>the wine, I applied the glass to my +lips. Taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I +swallowed slowly and by degrees that the palate might likewise +have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second +mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then placing the empty +glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle and said +nothing; whereupon the waiter who had been observing the whole +process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low +than before, and turning on his heel retired with a smart chuck +of the head, as much as to say, ‘It is all right; the young +man is used to claret.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A slight enough incident, but, like every line which Borrow +wrote, intensely temperamental. How characteristic this of +the man’s attitude: “You think I don’t know how +to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself.” +Then with what deliberate pleasure does he record the theatrical +posing for the benefit of the waiter. How he loves to +impress! You are conscious of this in every scene which he +describes, and it is quite useless to resent it. The only +way to escape it is by leaving Borrow unread. And this no +wise man can do willingly.</p> +<p>The insatiable thirst for adventure, the passion for the +picturesque and dramatic, were so constant with him, that it need +not surprise us when he seizes upon every opportunity for +mystifying and exciting interest. It is possible that the +“veiled period” in his life about which he hints is +veiled because it was a time of privation and suffering, and he +is consequently anxious to forget it. But I do not think it +likely. Nor do the remarks of <!-- page 75--><a +name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>Mr. +Watts-Dunton on this subject support this theory. Indeed, +Mr. Watts-Dunton, who knew him so intimately, and had ample +occasion to note his love of “making a mystery,” +hints pretty plainly that “the veiled period” may +well be a pleasant myth invented by Borrow just for the +excitement of it, not because there was anything special to +conceal, or because he wished to regard certain chapters in his +life as a closed book.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>Mention has been made of Borrow’s feeling for the +picaresque elements in life. Give him a rogue, a wastrel, +any character with a touch of the untamed about him, and no one +delighted him more in exhibiting the fascinating points of this +character and his own power in attracting these rough, unsocial +fellows towards him and eliciting their confidences. +Failing the genuine article, however, Borrow had quite as +remarkable a knack of giving even for conventional people and +highly respectable thoroughfares a roguish and adventurous +air. Indeed it was this sympathy with the picaresque side +of life, this thorough understanding of the gypsy temperament, +that gives Borrow’s genius its unique distinction. +Other characteristics, though important, are subsidiary to +this. Writers such as Stevenson have given us discursive +books of travel; other Vagabonds have shown an equal zest for the +life of the open air—Thoreau and Whitman, for +example. But contact with the gypsies revealed Borrow to +himself, made him aware <!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 76</span>of his powers. It is not so +much a case of like seeking like, as of like seeking +unlike. Affinities there were, no doubt, between the Romany +and the “Gorgio” Borrow, but they are strong +temperamental differences. On the one side an easy, +unconscious nonchalance, a natural vivacity; on the other a +morbid self-consciousness and a pronounced strain of +melancholy. And it was doubtless the contrast that appealed +to him so strongly and helped him to throw off his habitual moody +reserve.</p> +<p>For beneath that unpromising reserve, as a few chosen friends +knew, and as the gypsies knew, there was a frank camaraderie that +won their hearts.</p> +<p>Was he, one naturally asks, when once this barrier of reserve +had been broken down, a lovable man? Certainly he seems to +have won the affection of the gypsies; and the warm admiration of +men like Mr. Watts-Dunton points to an affirmative answer. +And yet one hesitates. He attracted people, that cannot be +gainsaid; he won many affections, that also is +uncontrovertible. But to call a man lovable it is not +sufficient that he should win affection, he must retain it. +Was Borrow able to do this? There is the famous case of +Isopel to answer in the negative. She loved him, but she +found him out. Was it not so? How else explain the +gradual change of demeanour, and the sad, disillusioned +departure. Perhaps at first the independence of the man, +his freedom from sentimentality, piqued, interested, and +attracted her. This is often the case with women. +They may fall in love with an unsentimental man, but they can +never be happy with him.</p> +<p><!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Isopel retained a regard for her fellow-comrade of the +road, but she would not be his wife.</p> +<p>Of his literary friends no one has written so warmly in +defence of Borrow, or shown a more discerning admiration of his +qualities than Mr. Watts-Dunton.</p> +<p>And yet in the warm tribute which Mr. Watts-Dunton has paid to +Borrow I cannot help feeling that some of the illustrations he +gives in justification of his eulogy are scarcely adequate. +It may well be that he has a wealth of personal reminiscences +which he could quote if so inclined, and make good his +asseverations. As it is, one can judge only by what he +tells us. And what does he tell us?</p> +<p>To show that Borrow took an interest in children, Mr. +Watts-Dunton quotes a story about Borrow and the gipsy child +which “Borrow was fond of telling in support of his +anti-tobacco bias.” The point of the story lies in +the endeavours of Borrow to dissuade a gypsy woman from smoking +her pipe, whilst his friend pointed out to the woman how the +smoke was injuring the child whom she was suckling. Borrow +used his friend’s argument, which obviously appealed to the +maternal instinct in order to persuade the woman to give up her +pipe. There is no reason to think that Borrow was +especially concerned for the child’s welfare. What +concerned him was a human being poisoning herself with nicotine, +and his dislike particularly to see a woman smoking. After +the woman had gone he said to his friend: “It ought to be a +criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all.” And +that it was frankly as an anti-tobacco crusader that he +considered the episode, is proved surely by Mr. Watts-Dunton <!-- +page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>himself, when he adds: “Whenever he (Borrow) was +told, as he sometimes was, that what brought on the +‘horrors’ when he lived alone in the Dingle, was the +want of tobacco, this story was certain to come up.”</p> +<p>One cannot accept this as a specially striking instance of +Borrow’s interest in children, any more than the passing +reference (already noted) to the extraordinarily beautiful gypsy +girl, as an instance of his susceptibility to feminine +charms.</p> +<p>Failing better illustrations at first hand, one turns toward +his books, where he reveals so many characteristics, and here one +is struck by the want of susceptibility, the obvious lack of +interest in the other sex, showed by his few references to women, +and what is even more significant the absence of any love story +in his own life, apart from his books (his marriage with the +well-to-do widow, though a happy one, can scarcely be called +romantic). These things certainly outweigh the trivial +incident which Mr. Watts-Dunton recalls.</p> +<p>As for the pipe episode, it reminds me of Macaulay’s +well-known gibe at the Puritans, who objected to bear-baiting, he +says, less because it gave pain to the bear than because it gave +pleasure to the spectators. Similarly his objection to the +pipe seems not so much on account of the child suffering, as +because the woman took pleasure in this “pernicious +habit.”</p> +<p>But enough of fault-finding. After all, Mr. Watts-Dunton +has done a signal service to literature by preferring the claims +of Borrow, and has upheld him loyally against attacks which were +too frequently mean-spirited and unfair.</p> +<p><!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>Obviously, Borrow was a man of an ingratiating +personality, which is a very different thing from saying that he +was a man with an ingratiating manner. Of all manners, the +ingratiating is the one most likely to arouse suspicion in the +minds of all but the most obtuse. An ingratiating +personality, however, is one that without effort and in the +simplest way attracts others, as a magnet attracts iron. +Once get Borrow interested in a man, it followed quite naturally +that the man was interested in Borrow. He might be a rough, +unsociable fellow with whom others found it hard to get on, but +Borrow would win his confidence in a few moments.</p> +<p>Borrow seemed to know exactly how to approach people, what to +say, and how to say it. Sometimes he may have preferred to +stand aloof in moody reserve; that is another matter. But +given the inclination, he had a genius for companionship, as some +men have a genius for friendship. As a rule it will be +found that the Vagabond, the Wanderer, is far better as a +companion than as friend. What he cares for is to smile, +chatter, and pass on. Loyal he may be to those who have +done him service, but he is not ready to encroach upon his own +comfort and convenience for any man. Borrow remained +steadfast to his friends, but a personal slight, even if not +intended, he regarded as unforgivable.</p> +<p>The late Dr. Martineau was at school with him at Norwich, and +after a youthful escapade on Borrow’s part, Martineau was +selected by the master as the boy to “horse” Borrow +while he was undergoing corporal punishment. Probably the +proceeding was quite as distasteful to the young Martineau as to +the scapegrace. <!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 80</span>But Borrow never forgot the incident +nor forgave the compulsory participator in his degradation. +And years afterwards he declined to attend a social function when +he had ascertained that Martineau would be there, making a point +of deliberately avoiding him. Another instance this of the +morbid egotism of the man.</p> +<p>Where, however, no whim or caprice stood in the way, Borrow +reminds one of the man who knows as soon as he has tapped the +earth with the “divining rod” whether or no there is +water there. Directly he saw a man he could tell by +instinct whether there was stuff of interest there; and he knew +how to elicit it. And never is he more successful than when +dealing with the “powerful, uneducated man.” +Consequently, no portion of his writings are more fascinating +than when he has to deal with such figures. Who can forget +his delightful pictures of the gypsy—“Mr. +Petulengro”? Especially the famous meeting in +<i>Lavengro</i>, when he and the narrator discourse on death.</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘Life is sweet, brother.’</p> +<p>“‘Do you think so?’</p> +<p>“‘Think so! There’s night and day, +brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all +sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the heath. +Life is very sweet, brother. Who would wish to +die?’</p> +<p>“‘I would wish to die.’</p> +<p>“‘You talk like a Gorgio—which is the same +as talking like a fool—were you a Romany chal you would +talk wiser. Wish to die indeed! A Romany chal would +wish to live for ever.’</p> +<p><!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>“‘In sickness, Jasper?’</p> +<p>“‘There’s the sun and stars, +brother.’</p> +<p>“‘In blindness, Jasper?’</p> +<p>“‘There’s the wind on the heath, brother; if +I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. +Dosta, we’ll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and +I’ll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be +alive.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then again there is the inimitable ostler in <i>The Romany +Rye</i>, whose talk exhales what Borrow would call “the +wholesome smell of the stable.” His wonderful +harangues (Borrovized to a less extent than usual) have all the +fine, breathless garrulity of this breed of man, and his unique +discourse on “how to manage a horse on a journey” +occupies a delightful chapter. Here are the opening +sentences:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘When you are a gentleman,’ +said he, ‘should you ever wish to take a journey on a horse +of your own, and you could not have a much better than the one +you have here eating its fill in the box yonder—I wonder, +by the by, how you ever came by it—you can’t do +better than follow the advice I am about to give you, both with +respect to your animal and yourself. Before you start, +merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn and a little +water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a pint of water +yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better during the +whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about ten +miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down, +and see your horse led into a nice stall, telling him not to feed +him till you come. If the ostler happens to be a +dog-fancier, and has an <!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 82</span>English terrier dog like that of mine +there, say what a nice dog it is, and praise its black and fawn; +and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how +he’s getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that +kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just +what you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned +he’ll say to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, +and how he thinks he has seen you before; then go and sit down to +breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat +with the ostler two or three minutes till your horse has taken +the shine out of his oats, which will prevent the ostler taking +any of it away when your back is turned, for such things are +sometimes done—not that I ever did such a thing myself when +I was at the inn at Hounslow; oh, dear me, no! Then go and +finish your breakfast.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>It is interesting to compare Borrow’s studies in +unvarnished human nature with the characterizations of novelists +like Mr. Thomas Hardy. Both Borrow and Hardy are drawn +especially to rough primal characters, characters not +“screened by conventions.” As Mr. Hardy puts it +in an essay contributed to the <i>Forum</i> in 1888.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The conduct of the upper classes is +screened by conventions, and thus the real character is not +easily seen; if it is seen it must be pourtrayed subjectively, +whereas in the lower walks conduct is a direct expression <!-- +page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>of the inner life, and their characters can be directly +pourtrayed through the act.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Hardy’s rustics differ from Borrow’s rustics, +however, in the method of presentment. Mr. Hardy is always +the sympathetic, amused observer. The reader of that +delicious pastoral “Under the Greenwood Tree” feels +that he is listening to a man who is recounting something he has +overheard. The account is finely sympathetic, but there is +an unmistakable note of philosophic detachment. The +story-teller has enjoyed his company, but is obviously not of +them. That is why he will gossip to you with such relish of +humour. Borrow, on the other hand, speaks as one of +them. He is far less amused by his garrulous ostlers and +whimsical landlords than profoundly interested in them. +Then again, though the Vagabond type appeals to Mr. Hardy, it +appeals to him not because of any temperamental affinity, but +because he happens to be a curious, wistful spectator of human +life. He sees in the restless Vagabond an extreme example +of the capricious sport of fate, but while his heart goes out to +him his mind stands aloof.</p> +<p>Looking at their characterization from the literary point of +view, it is evident that Mr. Hardy is the greater realist. +He would give you <i>an</i> ostler, whereas Borrow gives you +<i>the</i> ostler. Borrow knows his man thoroughly, but he +will not trouble about little touches of individualization. +We see the ostler vividly—we do not see the man—save +on the ostler side. With Hardy we should see other aspects +beside the ostler aspect of the man.</p> +<p><!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>A novelist with whom Borrow has greater affinity is +Charles Reade. There is the same quick, observant, +unphilosophical spirit; the same preference for plain, simple +folk, the same love of health and virility. And in <i>The +Cloister and the Hearth</i>, one of the great romances of the +world, one feels touches of the same Vagabond spirit as animates +<i>Lavengro</i> and <i>The Romany Rye</i>. The incomparable +Denys, with his favourite cry, “Le diable est mort,” +is a splendid study in genial vagrancy.</p> +<p>Literary comparisons, though they discover affinities, but +serve to emphasize in the long run the distinctive originality of +Borrow’s writings.</p> +<p>He has himself admitted to the influence of Defoe and +Lesage. But though his manner recalls at times the manner +of Defoe, and though the form of his narrative reminds the reader +of the Spanish rogue story, the psychological atmosphere is +vastly different. He may have taken Defoe as his model just +as Thackeray took Fielding; but <i>Vanity Fair</i> is not more +unlike <i>Tom Jones</i> than is <i>Lavengro</i> unlike +<i>Robinson Crusoe</i>.</p> +<p>It is idle to seek for the literary parentage of this +Vagabond. Better far to accept him as he is, a wanderer, a +rover, a curious taster of life, at once a mystic and a +realist. He may have qualities that repel; but so full is +he of contradictions that no sooner has the frown settled on the +brow than it gives place to a smile. We may not always like +him; never can we ignore him. Provocative, unsatisfying, +fascinating—such is George Borrow. And most +fascinating of all is his love of night, day, sun, moon, and +stars, “all sweet things.” Cribbed in the close +and dusty purlieus of the city, <!-- page 85--><a +name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>wearied by +the mechanical monotony of the latest fashionable novel, we +respond gladly to the spacious freshness of <i>Lavengro</i> and +<i>The Romany Rye</i>. Herein lies the spell of Borrow; for +in his company there is always “a wind on the +heath.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>IV<br /> +HENRY D. THOREAU</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 88</span>“Enter these enchanted woods<br +/> +You who dare.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">George +Meredith</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>I</h3> +<p>Thoreau has suffered badly at the hands of the critics. +By some he has been regarded as a poser, and the Walden episode +has been spoken of as a mere theatrical trick. By others he +has been derided as a cold-blooded hermit, who fled from +civilization and the intercourse of his fellows. Even Mr. +Watts-Dunton, the eloquent friend of the Children of the Open +Air, quite recently in his introduction to an edition of +<i>Walden</i> has impugned his sincerity, and leaves the +impression that Thoreau was an uncomfortable kind of +egotist. He has not lacked friends, but his friends have +not always written discreetly about him, thus giving the enemy +opportunity to blaspheme. And while not unmindful of Mr. H. +S. Salt’s sympathetic biography, nor the admirable +monograph by Mr. “H. A. Page,” there is no denying +the fact that the trend of modern criticism has been against +him. The sarcastic comments of J. R. Lowell, and the banter +of R. L. Stevenson, however we may disagree with them, are not to +be lightly ignored, coming from critics usually so sane and +discerning.</p> +<p>Since it is the Walden episode, the two years’ sojourn +in the woods near Concord, that has provoked the scornful <!-- +page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>ire of the critics, it may be well to re-examine that +incident.</p> +<p>From his earliest years Thoreau was a lover of the open +air. It was not merely a poetic appreciation such as +Emerson had of the beauties of nature—though a genuine +poetic imagination coloured all that he wrote—but an +intellectual enthusiasm for the wonders of the natural world, +and, most important of all, a deep and tender sympathy with all +created things characteristic of the Eastern rather than the +Western mind. He observed as a naturalist, admired like a +poet, loved with the fervour of a Buddhist; every faculty of his +nature did homage to the Earth.</p> +<p>Most of us will admit to a sentimental regard for the open air +and for country sights and sounds. But in many cases it +reduces itself to a vague liking for “pretty scenery” +and an annual conviction that a change of air will do us +good. And so it is that the man who prefers to live the +greater part of his life in the open is looked upon either as a +crank or a poser. Borrow’s taste for adventure, and +the picturesque vigour of his personality, help largely in our +minds to condone his wandering instinct. But the more +passive temperament of Thoreau, and the absence in his writings +of any stuff of romance, lead us to feel a kind of puzzled +contempt for the man.</p> +<p>“He shirks his duty as a citizen,” says the +practical Englishman; “He experienced nothing worth +mentioning,” says the lover of adventure. Certainly +he lacked many of the qualities that make the literary Vagabond +attractive—and for this reason many will deny him the <!-- +page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>right to a place among them—but he was neither a +skulker nor a hermit.</p> +<p>In 1839, soon after leaving college, he made his first long +jaunt in company with his brother John. This was a voyage +on the Concord and Merrimac rivers—a pleasant piece of +idling turned to excellent literary account. The volume +dealing with it—his first book—gives sufficient +illustration of his practical powers to dissipate the absurd +notion that he was a mere sentimentalist. No literary +Vagabond was ever more skilful with his hands than Thoreau. +There was scarcely anything he could not do, from making lead +pencils to constructing a boat. And throughout his life he +supported himself by manual labour whenever occasion +demanded. Had he been so disposed he could doubtless have +made a fortune—for he had all the nimble versatility of the +American character, and much of its shrewdness. His +attacks, therefore, upon money-making, and upon the evils of +civilization, are no mere vapourings of an incompetent, but the +honest conviction of a man who believes he has chosen the better +part.</p> +<p>In his <i>Walk to Wachusett</i> there are touches of genial +friendliness with the simple, sincere country folk, and evidence +that he was heartily welcome by them. Such a welcome would +not have been vouchsafed to a cold-blooded recluse.</p> +<p>The keen enjoyment afforded to mind and body by these outings +suggested to Thoreau the desirability of a longer and more +intimate association with Nature. Walden Wood had been a +familiar and favoured spot for many years, and so he began the +building of his <!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>tabernacle there. So far from +being a sudden, sensational resolve with an eye to effect, it was +the natural outcome of his passion for the open.</p> +<p>He had his living to earn, and would go down into Concord from +time to time to sell the results of his handiwork. He was +quite willing to see friends and any chance travellers who +visited from other motives than mere inquisitiveness. On +the other hand, the life he proposed for himself as a temporary +experiment would afford many hours of congenial solitude, when he +could study the ways of the animals that he loved and give free +expression to his naturalistic enthusiasms.</p> +<p>Far too much has been made of the Walden episode. It has +been written upon as if it had represented the totality of +Thoreau’s life, instead of being merely an interesting +episode. Critics have animadverted upon it, as if the time +had been spent in brooding, self-pity, and sentimental +affectations, as if Thoreau had gone there to escape from his +fellow-men. All this seems to me wide of the mark. +Thoreau was always keenly interested in men and manners; his +essays abound in a practical sagacity, too frequently +overlooked. He went to Walden not to escape from ordinary +life, but to fit himself for ordinary life. The sylvan +solitudes, as he knew, had their lessons for him no less than the +busy haunts of men.</p> +<p>Of course it would be idle to deny that he found his greatest +happiness in the woods and fields; it is this touch of wildness +that makes of him a Vagabond. But though not an emotional +man, his was not a hard nature so much as a reserved, +self-centred nature, rarely <!-- page 93--><a +name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>expressing +itself in outward show of feeling. That he was a man +capable of strong affection is shown by his devotion to his +brother. Peculiarities of temperament he had certainly, +idiosyncrasies as marked as those of Borrow. These I wish +to discuss later. For the moment I am concerned to defend +him from the criticism that he was a loveless, brooding kind of +creature, more interested in birds and fishes than in his +fellow-men. For he was neither loveless nor brooding, and +the characteristics that have proved most puzzling arose from the +mingled strain in his nature of the Eastern quietist and the +shrewd Western. These may now be considered more +leisurely. I will deal with the less important first of +all.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Some of his earlier work suffers somewhat from a too faithful +discipleship of Emerson; but when he had found himself, as he has +in <i>Walden</i>, he can break away from this tendency, and there +are many lovely passages untouched by didacticism.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The stillness was intense and almost +conscious, as if it were a natural sabbath. The air was so +elastic and crystalline that it had the same effect on the +landscape that a glass has on a picture—to give it an ideal +remoteness and perfection. The landscape was bathed in a +mild and quiet light, while the woods and fences chequered and +partitioned it with new regularity, and rough and uneven fields +stretched far away with lawnlike <!-- page 94--><a +name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>smoothness to +the horizon, and the clouds, finely distinct and picturesque, +seemed a fit drapery to hang over fairyland.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But while there is the Wordsworthian appreciation of the +peaceful moods of Nature and of the gracious stillnesses, there +is the true spirit of the Vagabond in his Earth-worship. +Witness his pleasant “Essay on Walking”:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“We are but faint-hearted crusaders; even +the walkers nowadays undertake no persevering world’s end +enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours, and come round +again at evening to the old hearthside from which we set +out. Half of the walk is but retracing our steps. We +should go forth on the shortest walks, perchance, in the spirit +of stirring adventure, never to return, prepared to send back our +embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdom. If +you have paid your debts and made your will and settled all your +affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a +walk.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There is a relish in this sprightly abjuration that is +transmittible to all but the dullest mind. The essay can +take its place beside Hazlitt’s “On Going a +Journey,” than which we can give it no higher praise.</p> +<p>With all his appreciation of the quieter, the gentler aspects +of nature, he has the true hardiness of the child of the road, +and has as cheery a welcome for the east wind as he has for the +gentlest of summer breezes. Here is a little winter’s +sketch:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The wonderful purity of Nature at this +season is a most pleasing fact. Every decayed stump and +moss-grown stone and rush of the dead leaves of autumn are <!-- +page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare +fields and trickling woods see what virtue survives. In the +coldest and bleakest places the warmest charities still maintain +a foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all +contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in +it; and accordingly whatever we meet with in cold and bleak +places as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy +innocence, a Puritan toughness.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But Thoreau’s pleasant gossips about the woods in Maine, +or on the Concord River, would pall after a time were they not +interspersed with larger utterances and with suggestive +illustrations from the Books of the East. Merely considered +as “poet-naturalist” he cannot rank with Gilbert +White for quaint simplicity, nor have his discursive essays the +full, rich note that we find in Richard Jefferies. That his +writings show a sensitive imagination as well as a quick +observation the above extracts will show. But unfortunately +he had contracted a bad attack of Emersonitis, from which as +literary writer he never completely recovered. Salutary as +Emerson was to Thoreau as an intellectual irritant, he was the +last man in the world for the discursive Thoreau to take as a +literary model.</p> +<p>Many fine passages in his writings are spoiled by vocal +imitations of the “voice oracular,” which is the more +annoying inasmuch as Thoreau was no weak replica of Emerson +intellectually, showing in some respects indeed a firmer grasp of +the realities of life. But for some reason or other he grew +enamoured of certain Emersonian mannerisms, which he used +whenever he felt inclined <!-- page 96--><a +name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>to fire off a +platitude. Sometimes he does it so well that it is hard to +distinguish the disciple from his master. Thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“How can we expect a harvest of thought who +have not a seedtime of character?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Again:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Only he can be trusted with goods who can +present a face of bronze to expectations.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Unimpeachable in sentiment, but too obviously inspired for us +to view them with satisfaction. And Thoreau at his best is +so fresh, so original, that we decline to be put off with +literary imitations, however excellently done.</p> +<p>And thus it is that Thoreau has been too often regarded as a +mere disciple of Emerson. For this he cannot altogether +escape blame, but the student will soon detect the superficiality +of the criticism, and see the genuine Thoreau beneath the +Emersonian veneer.</p> +<p>Thoreau lacked the integrating genius of Emerson, on the one +hand, yet possessed an eye for concrete facts which the master +certainly lacked. His strength, therefore, lay in another +direction, and where Thoreau is seen at his best is where he is +dealing with the concrete experiences of life, illustrating them +from his wide and discursive knowledge of Indian character and +Oriental modes of thought.</p> +<h3><!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>III</h3> +<p>Insufficient attention has been paid, I think, to +Thoreau’s sympathy with the Indian character and his +knowledge of their ways.</p> +<p>The Indians were to Thoreau what the gypsies were to +Borrow. Appealing to certain spiritual affinities in the +men’s natures, they revealed their own temperaments to +them, enabling them to see the distinctiveness of their +powers. Thoreau was never quite able to give this intimate +knowledge such happy literary expression as Borrow. +Apprehending the peculiar charm, the power and limitations of the +Indian character, appreciating its philosophical value, he lacked +the picturesque pen of Borrow to visualize this for the +reader.</p> +<p>A lover of Indian relics from his childhood, he followed the +Indians into their haunts, and conversed with them +frequently. Some of the most interesting passages he has +written detail conversations with them. One feels he knew +and understood them; and they no less understood him, and talked +with him as they certainly would not have done with any other +white man. But one would have liked to have heard much more +about them. If only Thoreau could have given us an Indian +Petulengro, how interesting it would have been!</p> +<p>But, like the Indian, there was a reserve and impenetrability +about Thoreau which prevented him from ever becoming really +confidential in print. If he had but unbended more +frequently, and not sifted his thought <!-- page 98--><a +name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>so +conscientiously before he gave us the benefit of it, he would +certainly have appealed to our affections far more than he +does.</p> +<p>One feels in comparing his writings with the accounts of him +by friends how much that was interesting in the man remains +unexpressed in terms of literature. Partly this is due, no +doubt, to his being tormented with the idea of self-education +that he had learnt from Emerson. In a philosopher and +moralist self-education is all very well. But in a +naturalist and in a writer with so much of the Vagabond about him +as Thoreau this sensitiveness about self-culture, this anxiety to +eliminate all the temperamental tares, is blameworthy.</p> +<p>The care he took to eliminate the lighter element in his +work—the flash of wit, the jocose aside—a care which +pursued him to the last, seems to show that he too often mistook +gravity for seriousness. Like Dr. Watts’ bee (which +is not Maeterlinck’s) he “improved the shining +hour,” instead of allowing the shining hour to carry with +it its own improvement, none the less potent for being +unformulated. But beside the Emersonian influence, there is +the Puritan strain in Thoreau’s nature, which must not be +overlooked. No doubt it also is partly accountable for his +literary silences and austere moods.</p> +<p>To revert to the Indians.</p> +<p>If Thoreau does not deal dramatically with his Indians, yet he +had much that is interesting and suggestive to say about +them. These are some passages from <i>A Week on the +Concord</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“We talk of civilizing the Indians, but that +is not the <!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 99</span>name for his improvement. By +the wary independence and aloofness of his dim forest-life he +preserves his intercourse with his native gods, and is admitted +from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with +Nature. He has glances of starry recognition to which our +salons are strangers. The steady illumination of his +genius, dim only because distant, is like the faint but +satisfying light of the stars compared with the dazzling but +ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. . . . We +would not always be soothing and taming Nature, breaking the +horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the horse wild and chase the +buffalo. The Indian’s intercourse with Nature is at +least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. +If he is somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too +much of a familiar. There is something vulgar and foul in +the latter’s closeness to his mistress, something noble and +cleanly in the former’s distance. In civilization, as +in a southern latitude, man degenerates at length and yields to +the incursion of more northern tribes.</p> +<p>‘Some nations yet shut in<br /> +With hills of ice.’</p> +<p>“There are other savager and more primeval aspects of +Nature than our poets have sung. It is only white +man’s poetry—Homer and Ossian even can never revive +in London or Boston. And yet behold how these cities are +refreshed by the mere tradition or the imperfectly transmitted +fragrance and flavour of these wild fruits. If one could +listen but for an instant to the chant of the Indian muse, we +should understand why he will <!-- page 100--><a +name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>not +exchange his savageness for civilization. Nations are not +whimsical. Steel and blankets are strong temptations, but +the Indian does well to continue Indian.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>These are no empty generalizations, but the comments of a man +who has observed closely and sympathetically. All of +Thoreau’s references to Indian life merit the closest +attention. For, as I have said, they help to explain the +man himself. He had a sufficient touch of wildness to be +able to detach himself from the civilized man’s point of +view. Hence the life of the woods came so naturally to +him. The luxuries, the excitements, that mean so much to +some, Thoreau passed by indifferently. There is much talk +to-day of “the simple life,” and the phrase has +become tainted with affectation. Often it means nothing +more than a passing fad on the part of overfed society people who +are anxious for a new sensation. A fad with a moral flavour +about it will always commend itself to a certain section. +Certainly it is quite innocuous, but, on the other hand, it is +quite superficial. There is no real intention of living a +simple life any more than there is any deep resolve on the part +of the man who takes the Waters annually to abstain in the future +from over-eating. But with Thoreau the simple life was a +vital reality. He was not devoid of American +self-consciousness, and perhaps he pats himself on the back for +his healthy tastes more often than we should like. But of +his fundamental sincerity there can be no question.</p> +<p>He saw even more clearly than Emerson the futility and +debilitating effect of extravagance and luxury—<!-- page +101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>especially American luxury. And his whole life +was an indignant protest.</p> +<p>Yet it is a mistake to think (as some do) that he favoured a +kind of Rousseau-like “Return to Nature,” without any +regard to the conventions of civilization. “It is +not,” he states emphatically, “for a man to put +himself in opposition to society, but to maintain himself in +whatever attitude he finds himself through obedience to the laws +of his own being, which will never be one of opposition to a just +government. I left the woods for as good a reason as I went +there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more +lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that +one.”</p> +<p>This is not the language of a crank, or the words of a man +who, as Lowell unfairly said, seemed “to insist in public +in going back to flint and steel when there is a match-box in his +pocket.”</p> +<p>Lowell’s criticism of Thoreau, indeed, is quite wide of +the mark. It assumes throughout that Thoreau aimed at +“an entire independence of mankind,” when Thoreau +himself repeatedly says that he aimed at nothing of the +sort. He made an experiment for the purpose of seeing what +a simple, frugal, open-air life would do for him. The +experiment being made, he returned quietly to the conditions of +ordinary life. But he did not lack self-assurance, and his +frank satisfaction with the results of his experiment was not +altogether pleasing to those who had scant sympathy with his +passion for the Earth.</p> +<p>To be quite fair to Lowell and other hostile critics one must +admit that, genuine as Thoreau was, he had <!-- page 102--><a +name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>the habit +common to all self-contained and self-opiniated men of talking at +times as though his very idiosyncrasies were rules of conduct +imperative upon others. His theory of life was sound +enough, his demand for simple modes of living, for a closer +communion with Nature, for a more sympathetic understanding of +the “brute creation,” were reasonable beyond +question. But the Emersonian mannerism (which gives an +appearance of dogmatism, when no dogmatism is intended) starts up +from time to time and gives the reader the impression that the +path to salvation traverses Walden, all other paths being +negligible, and that you cannot attain perfection unless you keep +a pet squirrel.</p> +<p>But if a sentence here and there has an annoying flavour of +complacent dogmatism, and if the note of self-assertion grows too +loud on occasion for our sensitive ears, <a +name="citation102"></a><a href="#footnote102" +class="citation">[102]</a> yet his life and writings considered +as a whole do not assuredly favour verdicts so unfavourable as +those of Lowell and Stevenson.</p> +<p>Swagger and exaggeration may be irritating, but after all the +important thing is whether a man has anything to swagger about, +whether the case which he exaggerates is at heart sane and +just.</p> +<p>Every Vagabond swaggers because he is an egotist more or less, +and relishes keenly the life he has mapped out for himself. +But the swagger is of the harmless kind; it is not really +offensive; it is a sort of childish exuberance that plays over +the surface of his mind, <!-- page 103--><a +name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>without +injuring it, the harmless vanity of one who having escaped from +the schoolhouse of convention congratulates himself on his good +luck.</p> +<p>Swagger of this order you will find in the writings even of +that quiet, unassuming little man De Quincey. Hazlitt had +no small measure of it, and certainly it meets us in the company +of Borrow. It is very noticeable in Whitman—far more +so than in Thoreau. Why then does this quality tend to +exasperate more when we find it in <i>Walden</i>? Why has +Thoreau’s sincerity been impugned and Whitman +escaped? Why are Thoreau’s mannerisms greeted with +angry frowns, and the mannerisms, say of Borrow, regarded with +good-humoured intolerance? Chiefly, I think, because of +Thoreau’s desperate efforts to justify his healthy +Vagabondage by Emersonian formulas.</p> +<p>I am not speaking of his sane and comprehensive philosophy of +life. The Vagabond has his philosophy of life no less than +the moralist, though as a rule he is content to let it lie +implicit in his writings, and is not anxious to turn it into a +gospel. But he did not always realize the difference +between moral characteristics and temperamental peculiarities, +and many of his admirers have done him ill service by trying to +make of his very Vagabondage (admirable enough in its way) a rule +of faith for all and sundry. Indeed, I think that much of +the resentment expressed against Thoreau by level-headed critics +is due to the unwise eulogy of friends.</p> +<p>Thoreau has become an object of worship to the crank, and in +our annoyance with the crank—who is often a <!-- page +104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>genuine reformer destitute of humour—we are apt +to jumble up devotee and idol together. Idol-worship never +does any good to the idol.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>As a thinker Thoreau is suggestive and stimulating, except +when he tries to systematize. Naturally I think he had a +discursive and inquisitive, rather than a profound and analytical +mind. He was in sympathy with Eastern modes of regarding +life; and the pantheistic tendency of his religious thought, +especially his care and reverence for all forms of life, suggest +the devout Buddhist. The varied references scattered +throughout his writings to the Sacred Books of the East show how +Orientalism affected him.</p> +<p>Herein we touch upon the most attractive side of the man; for +it is this Orientalism, I think, in his nature that explains his +regard for, and his sympathy with, the birds and animals.</p> +<p>The tenderness of the Buddhist towards the lower creation is +not due to sentimentalism, nor is it necessarily a sign of +sensitiveness of feeling. In his profoundly interesting +study of the Burmese people Mr. Fielding Hall has summed up +admirably the teaching of Buddha: “Be in love with all +things, not only with your fellows, but with the whole world, +with every creature that walks the earth, with the birds in the +air, with the insects in the grass. All life is akin to +man.” The oneness of life is realized by the Eastern +as it seldom is by the <!-- page 105--><a +name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>Western. The love that stirs in your heart +kindled the flower into beauty, and broods in the great silent +pools of the forest.</p> +<p>But Nature is not always kind. That he cannot help +feeling. She inspires fear as well as love. She +scatters peace and consolation, but can scatter also pain and +death. All forms of life are more or less sacred. The +creatures of the forest whose ferocity and cunning are manifest, +may they not be inhabited by some human spirit that has misused +his opportunities in life? Thus they have an affinity with +us, and are signs of what we may become.</p> +<p>And if a measure of sacredness attaches to all life, however +unfriendly and harmful it may seem, the gentler forms of life are +especially to be objects of reverence and affection.</p> +<p>In one particular, however, Thoreau’s attitude towards +the earth and all that therein is differed from the Buddhist, +inasmuch as the fear that enters into the Eastern’s +Earth-worship was entirely purged from his mind. Mr. Page +has instituted a suggestive comparison between Thoreau and St. +Francis d’Assisi. Certainly the rare magnetic +attraction which Thoreau seemed to have exercised over his +“brute friends” was quite as remarkable as the power +attributed to St. Francis, and it is true to say that in both +cases the sympathy for animals is constantly justified by a +reference to a dim but real brotherhood. The brutes are +“undeveloped men”; they await their transformation +and stand on their defence; and it is very easy to see that +inseparably bound up with this view there are certain elements of +<!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>mysticism common to the early saint and the American +“hut builder.” <a name="citation106"></a><a +href="#footnote106" class="citation">[106]</a></p> +<p>And yet, perhaps, Mr. Page presses the analogy between the +medieval saint and the American “poet-naturalist” too +far. St. Francis had an ardent, passionate nature, and +whether leading a life of dissipation or tending to the poor, +there is about him a royal impulsiveness, a passionate +abandonment, pointing to a temperament far removed from +Thoreau’s.</p> +<p>Prodigal in his charities, riotous in his very austerities, +his tenderness towards the animals seems like the overflowing of +a finely sensitive and artistic nature. With Thoreau one +feels in the presence of a more tranquil, more self-contained +spirit; his affection is the affection of a kindly scientist who +is intensely interested in the ways and habits of birds, beasts, +and fishes; one who does not give them the surplus of the love he +bears towards his fellow-men so much as a care and love which he +does not extend so freely towards his fellows. I do not +mean that he was apathetic, especially when his fellow-creatures +were in trouble; his eloquent defence of John Brown, his +kindliness towards simple folk, are sufficient testimony on this +score. But on the whole his interest in men and women was +an abstract kind of interest; he showed none of the personal +curiosity and eager inquisitiveness about them that he showed +towards the denizens of the woods and streams. And if you +are not heartily interested in your fellow-men you will not love +them very deeply.</p> +<p>I am not sure that Hawthorne was so far out in his <!-- page +107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>characterization “Donatello”—the +creature half-animal, half-man, which he says was suggested by +Thoreau. It does not pretend to realize all his +characteristics, nor do justice to his fine qualities. None +the less in its picture of a man with a flavour of the wild and +untameable about him—whose uncivilized nature brings him +into a close and vital intimacy with the animal world, we detect +a real psychological affinity with Thoreau. May not +Thoreau’s energetic rebukes of the evils of civilization +have received an added zest from his instinctive repugnance to +many of the civilized amenities valued by the majority?</p> +<p>Many of Thoreau’s admirers—including Mr. Page and +Mr. Salt—defend him stoutly against the charge of +unsociability, and they see in this feeling for the brute +creation an illustration of his warm humanitarianism. +“Thoreau loves the animals,” says Mr. Page, +“because they are manlike and seem to yearn toward human +forms.” It seems to me that Thoreau’s affection +was a much simpler affair than this. He was drawn towards +them because <i>he</i> felt an affinity with them—an +affinity more compelling in its attraction than the affinity of +the average human person.</p> +<p>No doubt he felt, as Shelley did when he spoke of “birds +and even insects” as his “kindred,” that this +affinity bespoke a wider brotherhood of feeling than men are +usually ready to acknowledge. But this is not the same as +loving animals <i>because</i> they are manlike. He loved +them surely because they were <i>living</i> things, and he was +drawn towards all living things, not because he detected any +semblance to humankind in them. The <!-- page 108--><a +name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>difference +between these two attitudes is not easy to define clearly; but it +is a real, not a nominal difference.</p> +<p>It is argued, however, as another instance of Thoreau’s +undervalued sociability, that he was very fond of children. +That he was fond of children may be admitted, and some of the +pleasantest stories about him relate to his rambles with +children. His huckleberry parties were justly famous, if +report speaks true. “His resources for +entertainment,” says Mr. Moncure Conway, “were +inexhaustible. He would tell stories of the Indians who +once dwelt thereabouts till the children almost looked to see a +red man skulking with his arrow and stone, and every plant or +flower on the bank or in the water, and every fish, turtle, frog, +lizard about was transformed by the wand of his knowledge from +the low form into which the spell of our ignorance had reduced it +into a mystic beauty.”</p> +<p>Emerson and his children frequently accompanied him on these +expeditions. “Whom shall we ask?” demanded +Emerson’s little daughter. “All children from +six to sixty,” replied her father.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Thoreau,” writes Mr. Conway in his +<i>Reminiscences</i>, “was the guide, for he knew the +precise locality of every variety of berry.”</p> +<p>“Little Edward Emerson, on one occasion, carrying a +basket of fine huckleberries, had a fall and spilt them +all. Great was his distress, and offers of berries could +not console him for the loss of those gathered by himself. +But Thoreau came, put his arm round the troubled child, and +explained to him that if the crop of huckleberries was to +continue it was necessary that some <!-- page 109--><a +name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>should be +scattered. Nature had provided that little boys and girls +should now and then stumble and sow the berries. ‘We +shall,’ he said, ‘have a grand lot of bushes and +berries on this spot, and we shall owe them to you.’ +Edward began to smile.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Thoreau evidently knew how to console a child, no less than +how to make friends with a squirrel. But his fondness for +children is no more an argument for his sociability, than his +fondness for birds or squirrels. As a rule it will be +found, I think, that a predilection for children is most marked +in men generally reserved and inaccessible. Lewis Carroll, +for instance, to take a famous recent example, was the reverse of +a sociable man. Shy, reserved, even cold in ordinary +converse, he would expand immediately when in the company of +children. Certainly he understood them much better than he +did their elders. Like Thoreau, moreover, Lewis Carroll was +a lover of animals.</p> +<p>Social adaptability was not a characteristic of Thackeray, his +moroseness and reserve frequently alienating people; yet no one +was more devoted to children, or a more delightful friend to +them.</p> +<p>So far from being an argument in favour of its +possessor’s sociability, it seems to be a tolerable +argument against it. It is not hard to understand +why. When analysed this fondness for children is much the +same in quality as the fondness for animals. A man is drawn +towards children because there is something fresh, +unsophisticated, and elemental about them. It has no +reference to their moral qualities, though the æsthetic +element plays a share. Thoreau knew how to comfort <!-- +page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>little Edward Emerson just as he knew how to cheer the +squirrel that sought a refuge in his waistcoat. This +fondness, however, must not be confused with the paternal +instinct. A man may desire to have children, realize that +desire, interest himself in their welfare, and yet not be really +fond of them. As children they may not attract him, but he +regards them as possibilities for perpetuating the family and for +enhancing its prestige.</p> +<p>A good deal of nonsense is talked about the purity and +innocence of childhood. Children are consequently brought +up in a morbidly sentimental atmosphere that makes of them too +quickly little prigs or little hypocrites. I do not +believe, however, that any man or woman who is genuinely fond of +children is moved by this artificial point of view. The +innocence and purity of children is a middle-class +convention. None but the unreal sentimentalist really +believes in it. What attracts us most in children is +naturalness and simplicity. We note in them the frank +predominance of the instinctive life, and they charm us in many +ways just as young animals do.</p> +<p>Lewis Carroll’s biographer speaks of “his intense +admiration for the white innocence and uncontaminated +spirituality of childhood.”</p> +<p>If this be true then it shows that the Rev. C. L. Dodgson had +a great deal to learn about children, who are, or should be, +healthy little pagans. But though his liking for them may +not have been free of the sentimental taint, there is abundant +proof that other less debatable qualities in childhood appealed +to him with much greater force.</p> +<p><!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>“Uncontaminated spirituality,” +forsooth. I would as soon speak of the uncontaminated +spirituality of a rabbit. I am sure rabbits are a good deal +more lovable than some children.</p> +<p>Thoreau’s love of children, then, seems to be only a +fresh instance of his attraction towards simpler, more elemental +forms of life. Men and women not ringed round by civilized +conventions, children who have the freshness and wildness of the +woods about them; such were the human beings that interested +him.</p> +<p>Such an attitude has its advantages as well as its +limitations. It calls neither for the censorious blame +visited upon Thoreau by some of the critics nor the +indiscriminate eulogy bestowed on him by others.</p> +<p>The Vagabond who withdraws himself to any extent from the life +of his day, who declines to conform to many of its arbitrary +conventions, escapes much of the fret and tear, the heart-aching +and the disillusionment that others share in. He retains a +freshness, a simplicity, a joyfulness, not vouchsafed to those +who stay at home and never wander beyond the prescribed +limits. He exhibits an individuality which is more +genuinely the legitimate expression of his temperament. It +is not warped, crossed, suppressed, as many are.</p> +<p>And this is why the literary Vagabond is such excellent +company, having wandered from the beaten track he has much to +tell others of us who have stayed at home. There is a wild +luxuriance about his character that is interesting and +fascinating—if you are not thrown for too long in his +company. The riotous growth of eccentricities and +idiosyncrasies are picturesque <!-- page 112--><a +name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>enough, +though you must expect to find thorns and briars.</p> +<p>On the other hand, we must beware of sentimentalizing the +Vagabond, and to present him as an ideal figure—as some +enthusiasts have done—seems to me a mistake. As a +wholesome bitter corrective to the monotonous sweet of +civilization he is admirable enough. Of his tonic influence +in literature there can be no question. But it is well for +the Vagabond to be in the minority. Perhaps these +considerations should come at the close of the series of Vagabond +studies, but they arise naturally when considering +Thoreau—for Thoreau is one of the few Vagabonds whom his +admirers have tried to canonize. Not content with the +striking qualities which the Vagabond naturally exhibits, some of +his admirers cannot rest without dragging in other qualities to +which he has no claim. Why try to prove that Thoreau was +really a most sociable character, that Whitman was the +profoundest philosopher of his day, that Jefferies was—deep +down—a conventionally religious man? Why, oh why, may +we not leave them in their pleasant wildness without trying to +make out that they were the best company in the world for +five-o’clock teas and chapel meetings?</p> +<p>For—and it is well to admit it frankly—the +Vagabond loses as well as gains by his deliberate withdrawal from +the world. No man can live to himself without some injury +to his character. The very cares and worries, the checks +and clashings, consequent on meeting other individualities tend +to keep down the egotistic elements in a man’s +nature. The necessary give and take, the <!-- page 113--><a +name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>sacrifice +of self-interests, the little abnegations, the moral adjustment +following the appreciation of other points of view; all these +things are good for men and women. Yes, and it is good even +to mix with very conventional people—I do not say live with +them—however distasteful it may be, for the excessive +caution, the prudential, opportunistic qualities they exhibit, +serve a useful purpose in the scheme of things. The ideal +thing, no doubt, is to mix with as many types, as many varieties +of the human species, as possible. Browning owes his great +power as a poet to his tireless interest in all sorts and +conditions of men and women.</p> +<p>It is idle to pretend then that Thoreau lost nothing by his +experiments, and by the life he fashioned for himself. +Nature gives us plenty of choice; we are invited to help +ourselves, but everything must be paid for. There are +drawbacks as well as compensations; and the most a man can do is +to strike a balance.</p> +<p>And in Thoreau’s case the balance was a generous +one.</p> +<p>Better than his moralizing, better than his varied culture, +was his intimacy with Nature. Moralists are plentiful, +scholars abound, but men in close, vital sympathy with the Earth, +a sympathy that comprehends because it loves, and loves because +it comprehends, are rare. Let us make the most of them.</p> +<p>In one of his most striking Nature poems Mr. George Meredith +exclaims:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Enter these enchanted woods,<br /> + You who dare.<br /> +Nothing harms beneath the leaves<br /> +More than waves a swimmer cleaves.<br /> +<!-- page 114--><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>Toss your heart up with the lark,<br /> +Foot at peace with mouse and worm,<br /> + Fair you fare,<br /> +Only at a dread of dark<br /> +Quaver, and they quit their form:<br /> +Thousand eyeballs under hoods<br /> + Have you by the hair.<br /> +Enter these enchanted woods,<br /> + You who dare.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So to understand Nature you must trust her, otherwise she will +remain at heart fearsome and cryptic.</p> +<blockquote><p>“You must love the light so well<br /> +That no darkness will seem fell;<br /> +Love it so you could accost<br /> +Fellowly a livid ghost.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Meredith requires us to approach Nature with an unswerving +faith in her goodness.</p> +<p>No easy thing assuredly; and to some minds this attitude will +express a facile optimism. Approve it or reject it, +however, as we may, ’tis a philosophy that can claim many +and diverse adherents, for it is no dusty formula of academic +thought, but a message of the sunshine and the winds. Talk +of suffering and death to the Vagabond, and he will reply as did +Petulengro, “Life is sweet, brother.” Not that +he ignores other matters, but it is sufficient for him that +“life is sweet.” And after all he speaks as to +what he has known.</p> +<h2><!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 115</span>V<br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span>“Choice word and measured +phrase above the reach<br /> +Of ordinary man.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Wordsworth</span> (<i>Revolution and +Independence</i>).</p> +<p>“Variety’s the very spice of life<br /> +That gives it all its flavour.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Cowper</span>.</p> +<p><!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>. . . “In his face,<br /> +There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,<br /> +A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace<br /> +Of passion and impudence and energy.<br /> +Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,<br /> +Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,<br /> +Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist:<br /> +A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,<br /> +Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,<br /> +And something of the Shorter Catechist.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">W. E. +Henley</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>Romance! At times it passes athwart our vision, yet no +sooner seen than gone; at times it sounds in our ears, only to +tremble into silence ere we realize it; at times it touches our +lips, and is felt in the blood, but our outstretched arms gather +naught but the vacant air. The scent of a flower, the +splendour of a sunrise, the glimmer of a star, and it wakens into +being. Sometimes when standing in familiar places, speaking +on matters of every day, suddenly, unexpectedly, it manifests its +presence. A turn of the head, a look in the eye, an +inflection of the voice, and this strange, indefinable thing +stirs within us. Or, it may be, we are alone, <!-- page +118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>traversing some dusty highway of thought, when in a +flash some long-forgotten memory starts at our very feet, and we +realize that Romance is alive.</p> +<p>I would fain deem Romance a twin—a brother and +sister. The one fair and radiant with the sunlight, strong +and clean-fibred, warm of blood and joyous of spirit; a creature +of laughter and delight. I would fancy him regarding the +world with clear, shining eyes, faintly parted lips, a buoyant +expectancy in every line of his tense figure. Ready for +anything and everything; the world opening up before him like a +white, alluring road; tasting curiously every adventure, as a man +plucks fruit by the wayside, knowing no horizon to his outlook, +no end to his journey, no limit to his enterprise.</p> +<p>As such I see one of the twins. And the other? +Dark and wonderful; the fragrance of poesy about her hair, the +magic of mystery in her unfathomable eyes. Sweet is her +voice and her countenance is comely. A creature of +moonlight and starshine. She follows in the wake of her +brother; but his ways are not her ways. Away, out of sound +of his mellow laughter, she is the spirit that haunts lonely +places. There is no price by which you may win her, no +entreaty to which she will respond. Compel her you cannot, +woo her you may not. Yet, uninvited, unbidden, she will +steal into the garret, gaunt in its lonesome ugliness, and bend +over the wasted form of some poor literary hack, until his dreams +reflect the beauty of her presence.</p> +<p>And yet, when one’s fancy has run riot in order to +recall Romance, how much remains that cannot be put +<a href="images/p118b.jpg"> +<img class='clearcenter' alt= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" +title= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" +src="images/p118s.jpg" /> +</a><!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 119</span>into words. One thing, +however, is certain. Romance must be large and generous +enough to comprehend the full-blooded geniality of a Scott, the +impalpable mystery of a Coleridge or Shelley, to extend a hand to +the sun-tanned William Morris, and the lover of twilight, +Nathaniel Hawthorne.</p> +<p>Borrow was a Romantic, so is Stevenson. Scott was a +Romantic, likewise Edgar Allan Poe. If Romance be not a +twin, then it must change its form and visage wondrously to +appeal to temperaments so divergent. But if Romance be a +twin (the conceit will serve our purpose) then one may realize +how Scott and Borrow followed in the brother’s wake; +Stevenson and Poe being drawn rather towards the sister.</p> +<p>In the case of Stevenson it may seem strange that one who +wrote stirring adventures, who delighted boys of all ages with +<i>Treasure Island</i> and <i>Black Arrow</i> (oh, excellent John +Silver!), and followed in the steps of Sir Walter in <i>The +Master of Ballantrae</i> and <i>Catriona</i>, should not be +associated with the adventurous brother. But Scott and +Stevenson have really nothing in common, beyond a love for the +picturesque—and there is nothing distinctive in that. +It is an essential qualification in the equipment of every +Romantic. Adventures, as such, did not appeal to Stevenson, +I think; it was the spice of mystery in them that attracted +him. Watch him and you will find he is not content until he +has thrown clouds of phantasy over his pictures. His longer +stories have no unity—they are disconnected episodes strung +lightly together, and this is why his short stories impress us +far more with their power and brilliance.</p> +<p><!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span><i>Markheim</i> and <i>Jekyll and Hyde</i> do not +oppress the imagination in the same way as do Poe’s tales +of horror; but they show the same passion for the dark corners of +life, the same fondness for the gargoyles of Art. This is +Romance on its mystic side.</p> +<p>Throughout his writings—I say nothing of his letters, +which stand in a different category—one can hear</p> +<blockquote><p>“The horns of Elfland faintly +blowing.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Sometimes the veil of phantasy is shaken by a peal of impish +laughter, as if he would say, “Lord, what fools these +mortals be!” but the attitude that persists—breaks +there must be, and gusty moods, or it would not be +Stevenson—is the attitude of the Romantic who loves rather +the night side of things.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Much has been written about the eternal boy in +Stevenson. I confess that this does not strike me as a +particularly happy criticism. In a superficial sort of way +it is, of course, obvious enough; he was fond of +“make-believe”; took a boyish delight in practical +joking; was ever ready for an adventure. But so complex and +diverse his temperament that it is dangerous to seize on one +aspect and say, “There is the real Stevenson.” +Ariel, Hamlet, and the Shorter Catechist cross and recross his +pages as we read them. Probably each reader of Stevenson +retains most clearly one special phase. It is the Ariel in +Stevenson that outlasts for <!-- page 121--><a +name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>me the +other moods. If any one phase can be said to strike the +keynote of his temperament, it is the whimsical, freakish, but +kindly Ariel—an Ariel bound in service to the Prospero of +fiction—never quite happy, longing for his freedom, yet +knowing that he must for a while serve his master. One can +well understand why John Addington Symonds dubbed Stevenson +“sprite.” This elfish dement in Stevenson is +most apparent in his letters and stories.</p> +<p>The figures in his stories are less flesh-and-blood persons +than the shapes—some gracious, some terrifying—that +the Ariel world invoke. It is not that Stevenson had no +grip on reality; his grip-hold on life was very firm and +real. Beneath the light badinage, the airy, graceful wit +that plays over his correspondence, there is a steel-like +tenacity. But in his stories he leaves the solid earth for +a phantastic world of his own. He does so deliberately: he +turns his back on reality, has dealings with phantom +passions. His historical romances are like ghostly editions +of Scott. There is light, but little heat in his +fictions. They charm our fancy, but do not seize upon our +imagination. Stevenson’s novels remind one of an old +<i>Punch</i> joke about the man who chose a wife to match his +furniture. Stevenson chooses his personages to match his +furniture—his cunningly-woven tapestries of style; and the +result is that we are too conscious of the tapestry on the wall, +too little conscious of the people who move about the +rooms. If only Stevenson had suited his style to his +matter, as he does in his letters, which are written in fine +Vagabond spirit—his romances would have seemed less <!-- +page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>artificial. I say <i>seemed</i>, for it was the +stylist that stood in the way of the story-teller. +Stevenson’s sense of character was keen enough, +particularly in his ripe, old “disreputables.” +But much of his remarkable psychology was lost, it seems to me, +by the lack of dramatic presentment.</p> +<p>Borrow’s characters do not speak Borrow so emphatically +as do Stevenson’s characters speak Stevenson. And +with Stevenson it matters more. Borrow’s picturesque, +vivid, but loose, loquacious style, fits his subject-matter on +the whole very well. But Stevenson’s delicate, +nervous, mannerized style suits but ill some of the scenes he is +describing. If it suits, it suits by a happy accident, as +in the delightful sentimentality, <i>Providence and the +Guitar</i>.</p> +<p>To appraise Stevenson’s merits as a Romantic one has to +read him after reading Scott, Dumas, Victor Hugo; or, better +still, to peruse these giants after dallying with Ariel.</p> +<p>We realize then what it is that we had vaguely missed in +Stevenson—the human touch. These men believe in the +figments of their imagination, and make us believe in them.</p> +<p>Stevenson is obviously sceptical as to their reality; we can +almost see a furtive smile upon his lip as he writes. But +there is nothing unreal about the man, whatever we feel of the +Artist.</p> +<p>In his critical comments on men and matters, especially when +Hamlet and the Shorter Catechist come into view, we shall find a +vigorous sanity, a shrewd yet genial outlook, that seems to say +there is no make-believe <!-- page 123--><a +name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span><i>here</i>; <i>here</i> I am not merely amusing +myself; here, honestly and heartily admitted, you may find the +things that life has taught me.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>Stevenson had many sides, but there were two especially that +reappear again and again, and were the controlling forces in his +nature. One was the Romantic element, the other the +Artistic. It may be thought that these twain have much in +common; but it is not so. In poetry the first gives us a +Blake, a Shelley; the second a Keats, a Tennyson. Variety, +fresh points of view, these are the breath of life to the +Romantic. But for the Artist there is one constant, +unchanging ideal. The Romantic ventures out of sheer love +of the venture, the other out of sheer love for some definite end +in view. It is not usual to find them coexisting as they +did in Stevenson, and their dual existence gives an added +piquancy and interest to his work. It is the Vagabond +Romantic in him that leads him into so many byways and secret +places, that sends him airily dancing over the wide fields of +literature; ever on the move, making no tabernacle for himself in +any one grove. And it is the Artist who gives that delicacy +of finish, that exquisitive nicety of touch, to the veriest +trifle that he essays. The matter may be beggarly, the +manner is princely.</p> +<p>Mark the high ideal he sets before him: “The Artist +works entirely upon honour. The Public knows little <!-- +page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>or nothing of those merits in its quest of which you +are condemned to spend the bulk of your endeavours. Merits +of design, the merit of first-hand energy, the merit of a certain +cheap accomplishment, which a man of the artistic temper easily +acquires; these they can recognize, and these they value. +But to those more exquisite refinements of proficiency and +finish, which the Artist so ardently desires and so keenly feels, +for which (in the vigorous words of Balzac) he must toil +‘like a miner buried in a landslip,’ for which day +after day he recasts and revises and rejects, the gross mass of +the Public must be ever blind. To those lost pains, suppose +you attain the highest point of merit, posterity may possibly do +justice; suppose, as is so probable, that you fail by even a +hair’s breadth of the highest, rest certain they shall +never be observed. Under the shadow of this cold thought +alone in his studio the Artist must preserve from day to day his +constancy to the ideal.” <a name="citation124a"></a><a +href="#footnote124a" class="citation">[124a]</a></p> +<p>An exacting ideal, but one to which Stevenson was as faithful +as a Calvinist to his theology. The question arises, +however; is the fastidiousness, the patient care of the Artist, +consistent with Vagabondage? Should one not say the greater +the stylist, the lesser the Vagabond?</p> +<p>This may be admitted. And thus it is that in the letters +alone do we find the Vagabond temperament of Stevenson fully +asserting itself. Elsewhere ’tis held in check. +As Mr. Sidney Colvin justly says: <a name="citation124b"></a><a +href="#footnote124b" class="citation">[124b]</a> “In his +letters—<!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 125</span>excepting a few written in youth, +and having more or less the character of exercises, and a few in +after years which were intended for the public +eye—Stevenson, the deliberate artist is scarcely +forthcoming at all. He does not care a fig for order, or +logical sequence, or congruity, or for striking a key of +expression and keeping it, but becomes simply the most +spontaneous and unstudied of human beings. He will write +with the most distinguished eloquence on one day, with simple +good sense and good feeling on a second, with flat triviality on +another, and with the most slashing, often ultra-colloquial +vehemency on a fourth, or will vary through all these moods, and +more, in one and the same letter.”</p> +<p>Fresh and spontaneous his letters invariably appear; with a +touch of the invalid’s nervous haste, but never lacking in +courage, and with nothing of the querulousness which we connect +with chronic ill-health. Weak and ailing, shadowed by death +for many years before the end, Stevenson showed a fine fortitude, +which will remain in the memory of his friends as his most +admirable character. With the consistency of Mark Tapley +(and with less talk about it) he determined to be jolly in all +possible circumstances. Right to the end his wonderful +spirits, his courageous gaiety attended him; the frail body grew +frailer, but the buoyant intellect never failed him, or if it did +so the failure was momentary, and in a moment he was +recovered.</p> +<p>No little of his popularity is due to the desperate valour +with which he contested the ground with death, inch by inch, and +died, as Buckle and John Richard Green had done, in the midst of +the work that he would <!-- page 126--><a +name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>not +quit. Romance was by him to the last, gladdening his tired +body with her presence; and if towards the end weariness and +heart-sickness seized him for a spell, yet the mind soon resumed +its mastery over weakness. In a prayer which he had written +shortly before his death he had petitioned: “Give us to +awake with smiles, give us to labour smiling; as the sun lightens +the world, so let our lovingkindness make bright this house of +our habitation.” Assuredly in his case this +characteristic petition had been realized; the prevalent +sunniness of his disposition attended him to the last.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>Of all our writers there has been none to whom the epithet +“charming” has been more frequently applied. Of +late the epithet has become a kind of adjectival +maid-of-all-work, and has done service where a less emphatic term +would have done far better. But in Stevenson’s case +the epithet is fully justified. Of all the literary +Vagabonds he is the most captivating. Not the most +interesting; the most arresting, one may admit. There is +greater power in Hazlitt; De Quincey is more unique; the +“prophetic scream” of Whitman is more +penetrating. But not one of them was endowed with such +wayward graces of disposition as Stevenson. Whatever you +read of his you think invariably of the man. Indeed the +personal note in his work is frequently the most interesting +thing about it. I mean that what attracts and holds us is +often not any originality, any profundity, nothing <!-- page +127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>specially inherent in the matter of his speech, but a +bewitchingly delightful manner.</p> +<p>Examine his attractive essays, <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> and +<i>Familiar Studies of Men and Books</i>, and this quality will +manifest itself. There is no pleasanter essay than the one +on “Walking Tours”; it dresses up wholesome truths +with so pleasant and picturesque a wit; it is so whimsical, yet +withal so finely suggestive, that the reader who cannot yield to +its fascination should consult a mental specialist.</p> +<p>For instance:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“It must not be imagined that a walking +tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse +way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing +landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting +dilettantes, than from a railway train. But landscape on a +walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the +brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of +certain jolly humours—of the hope and spirit with which the +march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of +the evening’s rest. He cannot tell whether he puts +his knapsack on or takes it off with more delight. The +excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the +arrival. Whatever he does will be further rewarded in the +sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless +chain.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>An admirable opening, full of the right relish. And the +wit and relish are maintained down to the last sentence. +But it cannot fail to awaken memories of the great departed in +the reader of books. “Now to <!-- page 128--><a +name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>be properly +enjoyed,” counsels Stevenson, “a walking tour should +be gone upon alone. . . . a walking tour should be gone upon +alone because freedom is of the essence,” and so on in the +same vein for twenty or thirty lines. One immediately +recalls Hazlitt—“On Going a Journey”: +“One of the pleasantest things is going on a journey; but I +like to go by myself. . . . The soul of a journey is +liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one +pleases.”</p> +<p>A suspicion seizes the mind of the reader, and he will smile +darkly to himself. But Stevenson is quite ready for +him. “A strong flavour of Hazlitt, you think?” +he seems to say, then with the frank ingenuousness of one who has +confessed to “playing the sedulous ape,” he throws in +a quotation from this very essay of Hazlitt’s and later on +gives us more Hazlitt. It is impossible to resent it; it is +so openly done, there is such a charming effrontery about the +whole thing. And yet, though much that he says is obviously +inspired by Hazlitt, he will impart that flavour of his own less +mordant personality to the discourse.</p> +<p>If you turn to another, the “Truth of +Intercourse,” it is hard to feel that it would have thrived +had not Elia given up his “Popular Fallacies.” +There is an unmistakable echo in the opening paragraph: +“Among sayings that have a currency, in spite of being +wholly false upon the face of them, for the sake of a half-truth +upon another subject which is accidentally combined with the +error, one of the grossest and broadest conveys the monstrous +proposition that it is easy to tell the truth and hard to tell a +lie. I wish heartily it were!” Similarly in +<!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>other essays the influence of Montaigne is strongly +felt; and although Stevenson never fails to impart the flavour of +his own individuality to his discourses—for he is certainly +no mere copyist—one realizes the unwisdom of those +enthusiastic admirers who have bracketed him with Lamb, +Montaigne, and Hazlitt. These were men of the primary +order; whereas Stevenson with all his grace and charm is +assuredly of the secondary order. And no admiration for his +attractive personality and captivating utterances should blind us +to this fact.</p> +<p>As a critic of books his originality is perhaps more +pronounced, but wise and large though many of his utterances are, +here again it is the pleasant wayward Vagabond spirit that gives +salt and flavour to them. There are many critics less +brilliant, less attractive in their speech, in whose judgment I +should place greater reliance. Sometimes, as in the essay +on “Victor Hugo’s Romances,” his own +temperament stands in the way; at other times, as in his +“Thoreau” article, there is a vein of wilful +capriciousness, even of impish malice, that distorts his +judgment. Neither essays can be passed over; in each there +is power and shrewd flashes of discernment, and both are +extremely interesting. One cannot say they are +satisfying. Stevenson does scant justice to the +extraordinary passion, the Titanic strength, of Hugo; and in the +case of Thoreau he dwells too harshly upon the less gracious +aspects of the “poet-naturalist.”</p> +<p>It is only fair to say, however, that in the case of Thoreau +he made generous amends in the preface to the Collected +Essays. Both the reconsidered verdict and <!-- page +130--><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>the original essay are highly characteristic of the +man. Other men have said equally harsh things of +Thoreau. Stevenson alone had the fairness, the frank, +childlike spirit to go back upon himself. These are the +things that endear us to Stevenson, and make it impossible to be +angry with any of his paradoxes and extravagant capers. Who +but Stevenson would have written thus: “The most temperate +of living critics once marked a passage of my own with a cross +and the words, ‘This seems nonsense.’ It not +only seemed, it was so. It was a private bravado of my own +which I had so often repeated to keep up my spirits that I had +grown at last wholly to believe it, and had ended by setting it +down as a contribution to the theory of life.”</p> +<p>Touched by this confidence, one reads +Stevenson—especially the letters—with a more +discerning eye, a more compassionate understanding; and if at +times one feels the presence of the Ariel too strong, and longs +for a more human, less elfin personality, then the thought that +we are dealing with deliberate “bravado” may well +check our impatience.</p> +<p>Men who suffer much are wont to keep up a brave front by an +appearance of indifference.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>To turn now to another side of Stevenson—Stevenson the +Artist, the artificer of phrases, the limner of pictures. +His power here is shown in a threefold manner—in deft <!-- +page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>and happy phrasing, in skilful characterization, in +delicately suggestive scenic descriptions.</p> +<p>This, for instance, as an instance of the first:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The victim begins to shrink spiritually; he +develops a fancy for parlours with a regulated atmosphere, and +takes his morality on the principle of tin shoes and tepid +milk. The care of one important body or soul becomes so +engrossing that all the noises of the outer world begin to come +thin and faint into the parlour with the regulated temperature; +and the tin shoes go equally forward over blood and ruin” +(<i>New Arabian Nights</i>).</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Or this:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Whitman, like a large, shaggy dog, just +unchained, scouring the beaches of the world, and baying at the +moon” (<i>Men and Books</i>).</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Or this:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“To have a catchword in your mouth is not +the same thing as to hold an opinion; still less is it the same +thing as to have made one for yourself. There are too many +of these catchwords in the world for people to rap out upon you +like an oath by way of an argument. They have a currency as +intellectual counters, and many respectable persons pay their way +with nothing else” (<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>).</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In his characterization he is at his best—like Scott and +Borrow—when dealing with the picaresque elements in +life. His rogues are depicted with infinite gusto and +admirable art, and although even they, in common with most of his +characters, lack occasionally in substance and objective reality, +yet when he has to illustrate a characteristic he will do so with +a sure touch.</p> +<p><!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Take, for instance, this sketch of Herrick in <i>The +Ebb Tide</i>—the weak, irresolute rascal, with just force +enough to hate himself. He essays to end his ignominious +career in the swift waters:—</p> +<blockquote><p>. . . “Let him lie down with all races and +generations of men in the house of sleep. It was easy to +say, easy to do. To stop swimming; there was no mystery in +that, if he could do it. Could he?</p> +<p>“And he could not. He knew it instantly. He +was instantly aware of an opposition in his members, unanimous +and invincible, clinging to life with a single and fixed resolve, +finger by finger, sinew by sinew; something that was at once he +and not he—at once within and without him; the shutting of +some miniature valve within the brain, which a single manly +thought would suffice to open—and the grasp of an external +fate ineluctable to gravity. To any man there may come at +times a consciousness that there blows, through all the +articulations of his body, the wind of a spirit not wholly his; +that his mind rebels; that another girds him, and carries him +whither he would not. It came even to Herrick with the +authority of a revelation—there was no escape +possible. The open door was closed in his recreant +face. He must go back into the world and amongst men +without illusion. He must stagger on to the end with the +pack of his responsibility and disgrace, until a cold, a +blow—a merciful chance blow—or the more merciful +hangman should dismiss him from his infamy.</p> +<p>“There were men who could commit suicide; there were men +who could not; and he was one who could <!-- page 133--><a +name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>not. +His smile was tragic. He could have spat upon +himself.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Profoundly dissimilar in many ways, one psychological link +binds together Dickens, Browning, and Stevenson—a love of +the grotesque, a passion for the queer, phantastic sides of +life. Each of them relished the tang of roughness, and in +Browning’s case the relish imparts itself to his +style. Not so with Stevenson. He will delve with the +others for curious treasure; but not until it is fairly wrought +and beaten into a thing of finished beauty will he allow you to +get a glimpse of it.</p> +<p>This is different from Browning, who will fling his treasures +at you with all the mud upon them. But I am not sure that +Stevenson’s is always the better way. He may save you +soiling your fingers; but the real attractiveness of certain +things is inseparable from their uncouthness, their downright +ugliness. Sometimes you feel that a plainer setting would +have shown off the jewel to better advantage. Otherwise one +has nothing but welcome for such memorable figures as John +Silver, the Admiral in <i>The Story of a Lie</i>, Master Francis +Villon, and a goodly company beside.</p> +<p>It is impossible even in such a cursory estimate of Stevenson +as this to pass over his vignettes of Nature. And it is the +more necessary to emphasize these, inasmuch as the +Vagabond’s passion for the Earth is clearly discernible in +these pictures. They are no Nature sketches as imagined by +a mere “ink-bottle feller”—to use a phrase of +one of Mr. Hardy’s rustics. One of Stevenson’s +happiest recollections was an “open air” experience +when he slept on the earth. He loved the <!-- page 134--><a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>largeness +of the open air, and his intense joy in natural sights and sounds +bespeaks the man of fine, even hectic sensibility, whose nerves +quiver for the benison of the winds and sunshine.</p> +<p>Ever since the days of Mrs. Radcliffe, who used the stormier +aspects of Nature with such effect in her stories, down to Mr. +Thomas Hardy, whose massive scenic effects are so remarkable, +Nature has been regarded as a kind of “stage +property” by the novelist.</p> +<p>To the great writers the Song of the Earth has proved an +inspiration only second to the “Song of Songs,” and +the lesser writer has imitated as best he could so effective a +decoration. But there is no mistaking the genuine lover of +the Earth. He does not—as Oscar Wilde wittily said of +a certain popular novelist—“frighten the evening sky +into violent chromo-lithographic effects”; he paints the +sunrises and sunsets with a loving fidelity which there is no +mistaking. Nor are all the times and seasons of equal +interest in his eyes. If we look back at the masters of +fiction (ay, and mistresses too) in the past age, we shall note +how each one has his favourite aspect, how each responds more +readily to one special mood of the ancient Earth.</p> +<p>Mention has been made of Mrs. Radcliffe. Extravagant and +absurd as her stories are in many ways, she was a genuine lover +of Nature, especially of its grand and sublime aspects. Her +influence may be traced in Scott, still more in Byron. The +mystic side of Nature finds its lovers chiefly in the poets, in +Coleridge and in Shelley. But at a later date Nathaniel +Hawthorne found in the mysticism of the Earth his finest +inspiration; while <!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 135</span>throughout the novels of Charlotte +and Emily Brontë wail the bleak winds of the North, and the +grey storm-clouds are always hurrying past. Even in Dickens +there is more snow than sunshine, and we hear more of “the +winds that would be howling at all hours” than of the +brooding peace and quiet of summer days. Charles Kingsley +is less partial towards the seasons, and cares less about the +mysticism than the physical influences of Nature.</p> +<p>In our own day Mr. George Meredith has reminded us of the big +geniality of the Earth; and the close relationship of the Earth +and her moods with those who live nearest to her has found a +faithful observer in Mr. Hardy.</p> +<p>Stevenson differs from Meredith and Hardy in this. He +looks at her primarily with the eye of the artist. They +look at her primarily with the eye of the scientific +philosopher.</p> +<p>Here is a twilight effect from <i>The Return of the +Native</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The sombre stretch of rounds and hollows +seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom in pure sympathy, the +heath exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated +it. . . . The place became full of a watchful intentness +now; for when other things sank brooding to sleep, the heath +appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night its +Titanic form seemed to await something; but it had waited thus +unmoved during so many centuries, through the crises of so many +things, that it could only be imagined to await one last +crisis—the final overthrow. . . . Twilight combined +with the scenery <!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 136</span>of Egdon Heath to evolve a thing +majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic +in its admonitions, grand in its simplicity.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Contrast with this a twilight piece from Stevenson:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The sky itself was of a ruddy, powerful, +nameless changing colour, dark and glossy like a serpent’s +back. The stars by innumerable millions stuck boldly forth +like lamps. The milky way was bright, like a moonlit cloud; +half heaven seemed milky way. The greater luminaries shone +each more clearly than a winter’s moon. Their light +was dyed in every sort of colour—red, like fire; blue, like +steel; green, like the tracks of sunset; and so sharply did each +stand forth in its own lustre that there was no appearance of +that flat, star-spangled arch we know so well in pictures, but +all the hollow of heaven was one chaos of contesting +luminaries—a hurly-burly of stars. Against this the +hill and rugged tree-tops stood out redly dark.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Each passage has a fresh beauty that removes it from the +perfunctory tributes of the ordinary writer. But the +difference between the Artist and the Philosopher is +obvious. Not that Mr. Hardy has no claims as an +artist. Different as their styles are, and although +Stevenson has a more fastidious taste for words, the large, +deliberate, massive art of Hardy is equally effective in its +fashion. That, however, by the way. The point is that +Mr. Hardy never rests <i>as</i> an artist—he is quite as +concerned with the philosophic as with the pictorial aspects of +the scene. Stevenson rejoices as a Romantic; admires like +an Artist.</p> +<h3><!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>VI</h3> +<p>But if Stevenson does not care to philosophize over +Nature—herein parting company with Thoreau as well as +Hardy—he can moralize on occasion, and with infinite relish +too.</p> +<p>“Something of the Shorter Catechist,” as his +friend Henley so acutely said. There is the Moralist in his +essays, in some of the short stories—<i>Jekyll and Hyde</i> +is a morality in disguise, and unblushingly so is <i>A Christmas +Sermon</i>.</p> +<p>Some of his admirers have deplored this tendency in Stevenson; +have shaken their heads gloomily over his Scottish ancestry, and +spoken as apologetically about the moralizing as if it had been +kleptomania.</p> +<p>Well, there it is as glaring and apparent as Borrow’s +big green gamp or De Quincey’s insularity. +“What business has a Vagabond to moralize?” asks the +reader. Yet there is a touch of the Moralist in every +Vagabond (especially the English-speaking Vagabond), and its +presence in Stevenson gives an additional piquancy to his +work. The <i>Lay Morals</i> and the <i>Christmas Sermon</i> +may not exhilarate some readers greatly, but there is a fresher +note, a larger utterance in the <i>Fables</i>. And even if +you do not care for Stevenson’s “Hamlet” and +“Shorter Catechist” moods, is it wise, even from the +artistic point of view, to wish away that side of his +temperament? Was it the absence of the “Shorter +Catechist” in Edgar Allan Poe that sent him drifting +impotently across the world, brilliant, unstable, aspiring, <!-- +page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>grovelling; a man of many fine qualities and +extraordinary intensity of imagination, but tragically weak where +he ought to have been strong? And was it the “Shorter +Catechist” in Stevenson that gave him that grip-hold of +life’s possibilities, imbued him with his unfailing +courage, and gave him as Artist a strenuous devotion to an ideal +that accompanied him to the end? Or was it so lamentable a +defect as certain critics allege? I wonder.</p> +<h2><!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 139</span>VI<br /> +RICHARD JEFFERIES</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 140</span>“Noises of river and of +grove<br /> +And moving things in field and stall<br /> +And night birds’ whistle shall be all<br /> +Of the world’s speech that we shall hear.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">William +Morris</span>.</p> +<p>“The poetry of earth is never dead.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Keats</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 141</span>I</h3> +<p>The longing of a full, sensuous nature for fairer dreams of +beauty than come within its ken; the delight of a passionate soul +in the riotous wealth of the Earth, the luxuriant prodigality of +the Earth; the hysterical joy of the invalid in the splendid +sanity of the sunlight—these are the sentiments that well +up from the writings of Richard Jefferies.</p> +<p>By comparison with him, Thoreau’s Earth-worship seems +quite a stolid affair, and even Borrow’s frank enjoyment of +the open air has a strangely apathetic touch about it.</p> +<p>No doubt he felt more keenly than did the Hermit of Walden, or +the Norfolk giant, but it was not so much passionate intensity as +nervous susceptibility. He had the sensitive quivering +nerves of the neurotic which respond to the slightest +stimulus. Of all the “Children of the Open Air” +Jefferies was the most sensitive; but for all that I would not +say that he felt more deeply than Thoreau, Borrow, or +Stevenson.</p> +<p>Some people are especially susceptible by constitution to pain +or pleasure, but it would be rash to assume hastily that on this +account they have more deeply <!-- page 142--><a +name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>emotional +natures. That they express their feelings more readily is +no guarantee that they feel more deeply.</p> +<p>In other words, there is a difference between susceptibility +and passion.</p> +<p>Whether a man has passion—be it of love or +hate—can be judged only by his general attitude towards his +fellow-beings, and by the stability of the emotion.</p> +<p>Now Jefferies certainly had keener sympathies with humankind +than Thoreau, and these sympathies intensified as the years +rolled by. Few men have espoused more warmly the cause of +the agricultural labourer. Perhaps Hodge has never +experienced a kinder advocate than Jefferies. To accuse him +of superficiality of emotion would be unfair; for he was a man +with much natural tenderness in his disposition.</p> +<p>All that I wish to protest against is the assumption made by +some that because he has written so feelingly about Hodge, +because he has shown so quick a response to the beauties of the +natural world, he was therefore gifted with a deep nature, as has +been claimed for him by some of his admirers.</p> +<p>One of the characteristics that differentiates the Vagabond +writer from his fellows is, I think, a lack of +passion—always excepting a passion for the earth, a quality +lacking human significance. In their human sympathies they +vary: but in no case, not even with Whitman, as I hope to show in +my next paper, is there a <i>passion</i> for humankind. +There may be curiosity about certain types, as with Borrow and +Stevenson; a delight in simple natures, as with Thoreau; a broad, +genial comradeship <!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 143</span>with all and sundry, as in the case +of Whitman; but never do you find depth, intensity.</p> +<p>Jefferies then presents to my mind all the characteristics of +the Vagabond, his many graces and charms, his notable +deficiencies, especially the absence of emotional +stability. This trait is, of course, more pronounced in +some Vagabonds than in others; but it belongs to his inmost +being. Eager, curious, adventurous; tasting this experience +and that; his emotions share with his intellect in a chronic +restless transition. More easily felt than defined is the +lack of permanence in his nature; his emotions flame fitfully and +in gusts, rather than with steady persistence. Finally, +despite the tenderness and kindliness he can show, the egotistic +elements absorb too much of his nature. A great egotist can +never be a great lover.</p> +<p>This may seem a singularly ungracious prelude to a +consideration of Richard Jefferies; but whatever it may seem it +is quite consistent with a hearty admiration for his genius, and +a warm appreciation of the man. Passion he had of a kind, +but it was the rapt, self-centred passion of the mystic.</p> +<p>He interests us both as an artist and as a thinker. It +will be useful, therefore, to keep these points of view as +separate as possible in studying his writings.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Looking at him first of all as an artist, the most obvious +thing that strikes a reader is his power to convey <!-- page +144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>sensuous impressions. He loved the Earth, not as +some have done with the eye or ear only, but with every nerve of +his body. His scenic pictures are more glowing, more ardent +than those of Thoreau. There was more of the poet, less of +the naturalist in Jefferies. Perhaps it would have been +juster to call Thoreau a poetic naturalist, and reserved the term +poet-naturalist for Jefferies. Be that as it may, no one +can read Jefferies—especially such books as <i>Wild Life in +a Southern County</i>, or <i>The Life of the Fields</i>, without +realizing the keen sensibility of the man to the sensuous +impressions of Nature.</p> +<p>Again and again in reading Jefferies one is reminded of the +poet Keats. There is the same physical frailty of +constitution and the same rare susceptibility to every +manifestation of beauty. There is, moreover, the same +intellectual devotion to beauty which made Keats declare Truth +and Beauty to be one. And the likeness goes further +still.</p> +<p>The reader who troubles to compare the sensuous imagery of the +three great Nature poets—Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats, +will realize an individual difference in apprehending the +beauties of the natural world. Wordsworth worships with his +ear, Shelley with his eye, Keats with his sense of touch. +Sound, colour, feeling—these things inform the poetry of +these great poets, and give them their special individual +charm.</p> +<p>Now, in Jefferies it is not so much the colour of life, or the +sweet harmonies of the Earth, that he celebrates, though of +course these things find a place in his prose songs. It is +the “glory of the sum of things” that diffuses itself +and is felt by every nerve in his body.</p> +<p><!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>Take, for instance, the opening to <i>Wild Life in a +Southern County</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The inner slope of the green fosse is +inclined at an angle pleasant to recline on, with the head just +below the edge, in the summer sunshine. A faint sound as of +a sea heard in a dream—a sibilant +“sish-sish”—passes along outside, dying away +and coming again as a fresh wave of the wind rushes through the +bennets and the dry grass. There is the happy hum of +bees—who love the hills—as they speed by laden with +their golden harvest, a drowsy warmth, and the delicious odour of +wild thyme. Behind, the fosse sinks and the rampart rises +high and steep—two butterflies are wheeling in uncertain +flight over the summit. It is only necessary to raise the +head a little way, and the cod breeze refreshes the +cheek—cool at this height, while the plains beneath glow +under the heat.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This, too, from <i>The Life of the Fields</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Green rushes, long and thick, standing up +above the edge of the ditch, told the hour of the year, as +distinctly as the shadow on the dial the hour of the day. +Green and thick and sappy to the touch, they felt like summer, +soft and elastic, as if full of life, mere rushes though they +were. On the fingers they left a green scent; rushes have a +separate scent of green, so, too, have ferns very different to +that of grass or leaves. Rising from brown sheaths, the +tall stems, enlarged a little in the middle like classical +columns, and heavy with their sap and freshness, leaned against +the hawthorn sprays. From the earth they had drawn its +moisture, and made the ditch dry; some of the sweetness <!-- page +146--><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>of +the air had entered into their fibres, and the rushes—the +common rushes—were full of beautiful summer.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Jefferies’ writings are studies in tactile +sensation. This is what brings him into affinity with +Keats, and this is what differentiates him from Thoreau, with +whom he had much in common. Of both Jefferies and Thoreau +it might be said what Emerson said of his friend, that they +“saw as with a microscope, heard as with an +ear-trumpet.” As lovers of the open air and of the +life of the open air, every sense was preternaturally +quickened. But though both observed acutely, Jefferies +alone felt acutely.</p> +<p>“To me,” he says, “colour is a sort of food; +every spot of colour is a drop of wine to the spirit.”</p> +<p>It took many years for him to realize where exactly his +strength as a writer lay. In early and later life he again +and again essayed the novel form, but, superior as were his later +fictions—<i>Amaryllis at the Fair</i>, for instance, to +such crude stuff as <i>The Scarlet Shawl</i>—it is as a +prose Nature poet that he will be remembered.</p> +<p>He knew and loved the Earth; the atmosphere of the country +brought into play all the faculties of his nature. Lacking +in social gifts, reserved and shy to an extreme, he neither knew +much about men and women, nor cared to know much. With a +few exceptions—for the most part studies of his own kith +and kin—the personages of his stories are shadow people; +less vital realities than the trees, the flowers, the birds, of +whom he has to speak.</p> +<p>But where he writes of what he has felt, what he has +<a href="images/p146b.jpg"> +<img class='clearcenter' alt= +"Richard Jefferies" +title= +"Richard Jefferies" +src="images/p146s.jpg" /> +</a><!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 147</span>realized, then, like every fine +artist, he transmits his enthusiasm to others. Sometimes, +maybe, he is so full of his subject, so engrossed with the +wonders of the Earth, that the words come forth in a torrent, +impetuous, overwhelming. He writes like a man beside +himself with sheer joy. <i>The Life of the Fields</i> gives +more than physical pleasure, more than an imaginative delight, it +is a religion—the old religion of Paganism. He has, +as Sir Walter Besant truly said, “communed so much with +Nature, that he is intoxicated with her fulness and her +beauty. He lies upon the turf, and feels the embrace of the +great round world.” <a name="citation147"></a><a +href="#footnote147" class="citation">[147]</a></p> +<p>Even apart from fiction, his earlier work varied greatly in +quality. With the publication of <i>The Game-keeper at +Home</i>, it was clear that a new force had entered English +literature. A man of temperamental sympathies with men like +Borrow and Thoreau, nevertheless with a power and individuality +of his own. But if increasing years brought comparative +recognition, they brought also fresh physical infirmities. +The last few years of his life were one prolonged agony, and yet +his finest work was done in them, and that splendid prose-poem, +“The Pageant of Summer,” was dictated in the direst +possible pain. As the physical frame grew weaker the +passion for the Earth grew in intensity; and in his writing there +is all that desperate longing for the great healing forces of +Nature, that ecstasy in the glorious freedom of the open air, +characteristic of the sick man.</p> +<p>At its best Jefferies’ style is rich in sensuous charm, +<!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>and remarkable no less for its eloquence of thought +than for its wealth of observation.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>One characteristic of his art is of especial interest; I mean +the mystical quality which he imparts to certain of his +descriptions of Nature. The power of mystic suggestion is a +rare one; even poets like Keats and Shelley could not always +command it successfully—and perhaps Blake, Coleridge, and +Rossetti alone of our poets possessed it in the highest +degree. It is comparatively an easy matter to deal with the +mysticism of the night. The possibilities of darkness +readily impress the imagination. But the mysticism of the +sunlight—the mysticism not of strange shapes, but of +familiar things of every day, this, though felt by many, is the +most difficult thing in the world to suggest in words.</p> +<p>The “visions” of Jefferies, his moods of emotional +exaltation, recall not only the opium dream of De Quincey, but +the ecstasies of the old Mystics. The theological colouring +is not present, but there is the same sharpened condition of the +senses, the same spiritual hunger for a fuller life, the same +sense of physical detachment from the body.</p> +<p>In that fascinating volume of autobiography <i>The Story of my +Heart</i>, Jefferies gives many remarkable instances of these +visions. Here is one:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“I looked at the hills, at the dewy grass, +and then up <!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 149</span>through the elm branches to the +sky. In a moment all that was behind me—the house, +the people, the sound—seemed to disappear and to leave me +alone. Involuntarily I drew a long breath, then I breathed +slowly. My thought, or inner conscience, went up through +the illumined sky, and I was lost in a moment of +exaltation. This lasted only a very short time, only a part +of a second, and while it lasted there was no formulated +wish. I was absorbed. I drank the beauty of the +morning. I was exalted.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>One is reminded of Tennyson’s verses:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Moreover, something is or seems,<br /> +That touches me with mystic gleams,<br /> +Like glimpses of forgotten dreams—</p> +<p>“Of something felt, like something here;<br /> +Of something done, I know not where;<br /> +Such as no knowledge may declare.” <a +name="citation149"></a><a href="#footnote149" +class="citation">[149]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Ah!” says the medical man, with a wise shake of +the head, “this mental condition is a common enough +phenomenon, though only on rare occasions does it express itself +in literature. It is simple hysteria.”</p> +<p>The transcendentalist who has regarded this state of mind as a +spiritual revelation, and looked upon its possessor as one +endowed with special powers of intuition, is indignant with this +physiological explanation. He is more indignant when the +medical man proceeds to explain the ecstatic trances of saints, +those whom one may call professional mystics. “Brutal +materialism,” says the transcendentalist.</p> +<p><!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Now although hysteria is commonly regarded as a foolish +exhibition of weakness on the part of some excitable men and +women, there is absolutely no scientific reason why any stigma +should attach to this phenomenon. Nor is there any reason +why the explanation should be considered as derogatory and +necessarily connected with a materialistic view of the +Universe.</p> +<p>For what is hysteria? It is an abnormal condition of the +nervous system giving rise to certain physiological and psychical +manifestations. With the physiological ones we are not +concerned, but the psychical manifestation should be of the +greatest interest to all students of literature who are also +presumably students of life. The artistic temperament is +always associated with a measure of nervous instability. +And where there is nervous instability there will always be a +tendency to hysteria. This tendency may be kept in check by +other faculties. But it is latent—ready to manifest +itself in certain conditions of health or under special stress of +excitement. It does not follow that every hysterical person +has the artistic temperament; for nervous instability may be the +outcome of nervous disease, epilepsy, insanity, or even simple +neuroticism in the parents. But so powerful is the +influence of the imagination over the body, that the vivid +imagination connoted by the artistic temperament controls the +nervous system, and when it reaches a certain intensity expresses +itself in some abnormal way. And it is the abnormal +psychical condition that is of so much significance in literature +and philosophy.</p> +<p>This psychical condition is far commoner in the East <!-- page +151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>than in the West. Indeed in India, training in +mystical insight goes by the name of Yoga. <a +name="citation151a"></a><a href="#footnote151a" +class="citation">[151a]</a> The passive, contemplative +temperament of the Oriental favours this ecstatic condition.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The science of the Sufis,” says a +Persian philosopher of the eleventh century, <a +name="citation151b"></a><a href="#footnote151b" +class="citation">[151b]</a> “aims at detaching the heart +from all that is not God, and at giving to it for sole occupation +the meditation of the divine being. . . . Just as the +understanding is a stage of human life in which an eye opens to +discuss various intellectual objects uncomprehended by sensation; +just so in the prophetic the sight is illumined by a light which +uncovers hidden things and objects which the intellect fails to +reach. The chief properties of prophetism are perceptible +only during the transport by those who embrace the Sufi +life. The prophet is endowed with qualities to which you +possess nothing analogous, and which consequently you cannot +possibly understand. How should you know their true +nature?—what one can comprehend? But the transport +which one attains by the method of the Sufis is like an immediate +perception, as if one touched the objects with one’s +hand.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is worthy of note how that every ecstatic condition is +marked by the same characteristics; and in the confession of +Jefferies, the admissions of Tennyson, and in the utterance of +religious mystics of every kind, two factors detach +themselves. The vision or state of mind <!-- page 152--><a +name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>is one of +expectant wonder. Something that cannot be communicated in +words thrills the entire being. That is one +characteristic. The other is that this exaltation, this +revelation to the senses, is one that appeals wholly to +sensation. It can be felt; it cannot be apprehended by any +intellectual formulæ. It can never be reduced to +logical shape. And the reference to “touch” in +the quotation just made will remind the reader of the important +part played by the tactile sense in Jefferies’ +æsthetic appreciations.</p> +<p>We are not concerned here with any of the philosophical +speculations involved in these “trance +conditions.” All that concerns us is the remarkable +literature that has resulted from this well-ascertained psychical +condition. How far the condition is the outcome of forces +beyond our immediate ken which compel recognition from certain +imaginative minds, how far it is a question of physical +disturbance; or, in other words, how far these visions are +objective realities, how far subjective, are questions that he +beyond the scope of the present paper. One thing, however, +is indisputable; they have exercised a great fascination over men +of sensitive, nervous temperaments, and are often remarkable for +the wider significance they have given to our ideals of +beauty.</p> +<p>The fact that mysticism may arise out of morbid conditions of +health does not justify us, I think, in looking upon it with Max +Nordau as “the fruit of a degenerate brain.” +Such a criticism is at one with the linking of genius with +insanity—an argument already broached in the paper dealing +with Hazlitt.</p> +<p><!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>Professor William James—who certainly holds no +brief for the mystic—makes the interesting suggestion that +“these mystical flights are inroads from the subconscious +life of the cerebral activity, correlative to which we as yet +know nothing.” <a name="citation153a"></a><a +href="#footnote153a" class="citation">[153a]</a></p> +<blockquote><p>“As a rule,” he says elsewhere, +“mystical states merely add a super-sensuous meaning to the +ordinary outward data of consciousness. They are +excitements like the emotions of love or ambition, gifts to our +spirit by means of which facts already objectively before us fall +into a new expressiveness, and make a new connection with our +active life. They do not contradict these facts as such, or +deny anything that our senses have immediately seized.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The connection between mysticism and hysteria, and the +psychological importance of hysteria, merits the fullest +consideration in dealing with the writings of these literary +Vagabonds. Stevenson’s mysticism is more speculative +than that of Jefferies; the intellectual life played a greater +share in his case, but it is none the less marked; and quite +apart from, perhaps even transcending, their literary interest is +the psychological significance of stories like <i>Markheim</i> +and <i>The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde</i>.</p> +<p>A medical friend of Jefferies, Dr. Samuel Jones, <a +name="citation153b"></a><a href="#footnote153b" +class="citation">[153b]</a> has said, when speaking of his +“ecstasies”: “His is not the baneful, sensuous +De Quincey opium-deliriation; he felt a purer delight than that +which inspired the visions of Kubla Khan; he saw ‘no damsel +with a dulcimer,’ <!-- page 154--><a +name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>but +thrilled with yearning unspeakable for the ‘fuller +soul,’ and felt in every trembling fibre of his frame the +consciousness of incarnate immortality.”</p> +<p>This attempt to exalt Jefferies at the expense of De Quincey +and Coleridge seems to me unfortunate. Enough has been said +already in the remarks on De Quincey to show that the dreams of +De Quincey were no mere opium dreams. De Quincey was a born +dreamer, and from his earliest days had visions and ecstatic +moods. The opium which he took (primarily at any rate to +relieve pain, not, as Dr. Jones suggests, to excite sensuous +imagery) undoubtedly intensified the dream faculty, but it did +not produce it.</p> +<p>I confess that I do not know quite what the Doctor means by +preferring the “purer delight” of the Jefferies +exaltation to the vision that produced <i>Kubla Khan</i>. +If he implies that opium provoked the one and that “the +pure breath of Nature” (to use his own phrase) inspired the +other, and that the latter consequently is the purer delight, +then I cannot follow his reasoning.</p> +<p>A vision is not the less “pure” because it has +been occasioned by a drug. One of the sublimest spiritual +experiences that ever happened to a man came to John Addington +Symonds after a dose of chloroform. Nitrous oxide, ether, +Indian hemp, opium, these things have been the means of arousing +the most wonderful states of ecstatic feeling.</p> +<p>Then why should <i>Kubla Khan</i> be rated as a less +“pure” delight than one of the experiences retailed +in <i>The Story of my Heart</i>? Is our imagination so +restricted <!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 155</span>that it cannot enjoy both the +subtleties of Coleridge and the fuller muse of Jefferies?</p> +<p>The healing power of Nature has never found happier expression +than in <i>The Story of my Heart</i>. In words of simple +eloquence he tells us how he cured the weariness and bitterness +of spirit by a journey to the seashore.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The inner nature was faint, all was dry and +tasteless; I was weary for the pure fresh springs of +thought. Some instinctive feeling uncontrollable drove me +to the sea. . . . Then alone I went down to the sea. +I stood where the foam came to my feet, and looked out over the +sunlit waters. The great earth bearing the richness of the +harvest, and its hills golden with corn, was at my back; its +strength and firmness under me. The great sun shone above, +the wide sea was before me. The wind came sweet and strong +from the waves. The life of the earth and the sea, the glow +of the sun filled me; I touched the surge with my hand, I lifted +my face to the sun, I opened my lips to the wind. I prayed +aloud in the roar of the waves—my soul was strong as the +sea, and prayed with the sea’s might. Give me fulness +of life like to the sea and the sun, and to the earth and the +air; give me fulness of physical life, mind equal and beyond +their fulness; give me a greatness and perfection of soul higher +than all things; give me my inexpressible desire which swells in +me like a tide—give it to me with all the force of the +sea.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Those who know Jefferies only by his quieter passages of +leisurely observation are surprised when they find such a swirl +of passionate longing in his autobiography.</p> +<h3><!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 156</span>IV</h3> +<p>The points of affinity between Thoreau and Jefferies are +sufficiently obvious; and yet no two writers who have loved the +Earth, and found their greatest happiness in the life of the +woods and fields, as did these two men, have expressed this +feeling so variously. Thoreau, quiet, passive, +self-contained, has seized upon the large tranquillity of Nature, +the coolness and calm, “the central piece subsisting at the +heart of endless agitation.” Interspersed with his +freshly observed comments on the myriad life about him are moral +reflections, shrewd criticism of men and things, quaint and +curious illustrations from his scholarly knowledge. But +although he may not always talk of the Earth, there is the +flavour of the Earth, the sweetness and naturalness of the Earth, +about his finest utterances.</p> +<p>Jefferies, feverish, excitable, passionate, alive to the +glorious plenitude of the Earth, has seized upon the exceeding +beauty, and the healing beauty of natural things. No +scholar like Thoreau, he brings no system of thought, as did the +American, for Nature to put into shape. Outside of Nature +all is arid and profitless to him. He comes to her with +empty hands, and seeks for what she may give him. To +Thoreau the Earth was a kind and gracious sister; to Jefferies an +all-sufficing mistress.</p> +<p>The reader who passes from Thoreau to Jefferies need have no +fear that he will be wearied with the same point of view. +On the contrary, he will realize with <!-- page 157--><a +name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>pleasure +how differently two genuine lovers of the Earth can express their +affection.</p> +<p>In Jefferies’ song of praise, his song of +desire—praise and desire alternate continually in his +writings—there are two aspects of the Earth upon which he +dwells continually—the exceeding beauty of the Earth, and +the exceeding plenitude of the Earth. Apostrophes to the +beauty have been quoted already; let this serve as an +illustration of the other aspect:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Everything,” <a +name="citation157a"></a><a href="#footnote157a" +class="citation">[157a]</a> he exclaims, “on a scale of +splendid waste. Such noble broadcast, open-armed waste is +delicious to behold. Never was there such a lying proverb +as ‘Enough is as good as a feast.’ <a +name="citation157b"></a><a href="#footnote157b" +class="citation">[157b]</a> Give me the feast; give me +squandered millions of seeds, luxurious carpets of petals, green +mountains of oak leaves. The greater the waste the greater +the enjoyment—the nearer the approach to real life. +Casuistry is of no avail; the fact is obvious; Nature flings +treasures abroad, puffs them with open lips along on every +breeze; piles up lavish layers of them in the free, open air, +packs countless numbers together in the needles of a fir +tree. Prodigality and superfluity are stamped on everything +she does.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is no chance passage, no casual thought. Again and +again Jefferies returns to the richness and plenty of the +Earth. And his style, suiting itself to the man’s +temperament, is rich and overflowing, splendidly diffuse, <!-- +page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>riotously exulting, until at times there is the very +incoherence of passion about it.</p> +<p>Thus, in looking at the man’s artistic work, its form of +expression, its characteristic notes, something of the +man’s way of thinking has impressed itself upon us.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>It may be well to gather up the scattered impressions, and to +look at the thought that underlies his fervid utterances. +Beginning as merely an interested observer of Nature, his +attitude becomes more enthusiastic, as knowledge grows of her +ways, and what began in observation ends in aspiration. The +old cry, “Return to Nature,” started by Rousseau, +caught by the poets of the “Romantic Revival” in +England, and echoed by the essayists of New England, fell into +silence about the middle of last century. It had inspired a +splendid group of Nature poets; and for a time it was felt some +new gospel was needed. Scientific and philosophical +problems took possession of men’s minds; the intellectual +and emotional life of the nation centred more and more round the +life of the city. For a time this was, perhaps, +inevitable. For a time Nature regarded through the eyes of +fresh scientific thought had lost her charm. Even the poets +who once had been content to worship, now began to +criticize. Tennyson qualified his homage with +reproachings. Arnold carried his books of philosophy into +her presence. But at last men tired of this questioning +attitude. America produced <!-- page 159--><a +name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>a Whitman; +and in England William Morris and Richard Jefferies—among +others—cried out for a simpler, freer, more childlike +attitude.</p> +<p>“All things seem possible,” declared Jefferies, +“in the open air.” To live according to Nature +was, he assured his countrymen, no poet’s fancy, but a +creed of life. He spoke from his own experience; life in +the open, tasting the wild sweetness of the Earth, had brought +him his deepest happiness; and he cried aloud in his exultation, +bidding others do likewise. “If you wish your +children,” says he, “to think deep things, to know +the holiest emotions, take them to the woods and hills, and give +them the freedom of the meadows.” On the futility of +bookish learning, the ugliness and sordidness of town life, he is +always discoursing. His themes were not fresh ones; every +reformer, every prophet of the age had preached from the same +text. And none had put the case for Nature more forcibly +than Wordsworth when he lamented—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The world is too much with us.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But the plea for saner ways of living cannot be urged too +often, and if Jefferies in his enthusiasm exaggerates the other +side of the picture, pins his faith over much on solitudes and in +self-communion, too little on the gregarious instincts of +humankind, yet no reformer can make any impression on his fellows +save by a splendid one-sidedness.</p> +<p>The defect of his Nature creed which calls for the most +serious criticism is not the personal isolation on which he seems +to insist. We herd together so much—<!-- page +160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>some unhappily by necessity, some by choice, that it +would be a refreshing thing, and a wholesome thing, for most of +us to be alone, more often face to face with the primal forces of +Nature.</p> +<p>The serious defect in his thought seems to me to lie in his +attitude towards the animal creation. It is summed up in +his remark: “There is nothing human in any living +Animal. All Nature, the Universe as far as we see, is anti- +or ultra-human outside, and has no concern with man.” +In this statement he shows how entirely he has failed to grasp +the secret of the compelling power of the Earth—a secret +into which Thoreau entered so fully.</p> +<p>Why should the elemental forces of Nature appeal so strongly +to us? Why does the dweller in the open air feel that an +unseen bond of sympathy binds him to the lowest forms of sentient +life? Why is a St. Francis tender towards animals? +Why does a Thoreau take a joy in the company of the birds, the +squirrels, and feel a sense of companionship in the very +flowers? Nay, more: what is it that gives a Jefferies this +sense of communion? why, if the Earth has no “concern with +man,” should it soothe with its benison, and fire his being +with such ecstatic rapture? If this doctrine of a Universal +Brotherhood is a sentimental figment, the foundation is swept +away at once of Jefferies’ Nature creed. His sense of +happiness, his delight in the Earth, may no doubt afford him +consolation, but it is an irrational comfort, an agreeable +delusion.</p> +<p>And yet no one can read a book of Jefferies without realizing +that here is no sickly fancy—however sickness <!-- page +161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>may have imparted a hectic colouring here and +there—but that the instinct of the Artist is more reliable +than the theory of the Thinker. Undoubtedly his Nature +creed is less comprehensive than Thoreau’s. Jefferies +regarded many animals as “good sport”; Thoreau as +good friends. “Hares,” he says, “are +almost formed on purpose to be good sport.” The +remark speaks volumes. A man who could say that has but a +poor philosophic defence to offer for his rapt communion with +Nature.</p> +<p>How can you have communion with something “anti- or +ultra-human”? The large utterance, “All things +seem possible in the open air” dwindles down rather meanly +when the speaker looks at animals from the sportsman’s +point of view. Against his want of sympathy with the lower +forms of creation one must put his warm-hearted plea for the +agricultural poor. In his youth there was a certain harsh +intolerance about his attitude towards his fellows, but he made +ample amends in <i>Hodge and his Master</i>, still more in <i>The +Dewy Morn</i>, for the narrow individualism of his earlier +years.</p> +<p>One might criticize certain expressions as extravagant when he +lashed out against the inequalities in society. But after +all there is only a healthy Vagabond flavour about his fling at +“modern civilization,” and the genuine humanitarian +feeling is very welcome. Some of his unpublished +“Notes on the Labour Question” (quoted by Mr. Salt in +his able study of Jefferies) are worthy of Ruskin. This, +for instance, is vigorously put:—</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 162</span>“‘But they are paid to +do it,’ says Comfortable Respectability (which hates +anything in the shape of a ‘question,’ glad to slur +it over somehow). They are paid to do it. Go down +into the pit yourself, Comfortable Respectability, and try it, as +I have done, just one hour of a summer’s day, then you will +know the preciousness of a vulgar pot of beer! Three and +sixpence a day is the price of these brawny muscles, the price of +the rascally sherry you parade before your guests in such +pseudo-generous profusion. One guinea a week—that is +one stall at the Opera. But why do they do it? +Because Hunger and Thirst drive them. These are the fearful +scourges, the whips worse than the knout, which lie at the back +of Capital, and give it its power. Do you suppose these +human beings, with minds, and souls, and feelings, would not +otherwise repose on the sweet sward, and hearken to the +song-birds as you may do on your lawn at Cedar Villa?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Really the passage might have come out of <i>Fors +Clavigera</i>; it is Ruskinian not only in sentiment, but in turn +of expression. Ruskin impressed Jefferies very +considerably, one would gather, and did much to open up his mind +and broaden his sympathies. Making allowance for certain +inconsistencies of mood, hope for and faith in the future, and +weary scepticism, there is a fine stoicism about the philosophy +of Jefferies. His was not the temperament of which +optimists are made. His own terrible ill-health rendered +him keenly sensitive to the pain and misery of the world. +His deliberate seclusion from his fellow-men—more complete +in some ways than Thoreau’s, though not so +ostensible—threw <!-- page 163--><a +name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>him back +upon his own thoughts, made him morbidly introspective.</p> +<p>Then the æsthetic Idealism which dominated him made for +melancholy, as it invariably does. The Worshipper at the +shrine of Beauty is always conscious that</p> +<blockquote><p>“. . . . In the very temple of Delight<br /> +Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He realizes the tragic ineffectuality of his +aspiration—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The desire of the moth for the +star,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>as Shelley expresses it, and in this line of poetry the mood +finds imperishable expression.</p> +<p>But the melancholy that visits the Idealist—the +Worshipper of Beauty—is not by any means a mood of +despair. The moth may not attain the star, but it feels +there is a star to be attained. In other words, an intimate +sense of the beauty of the world carries within it, however +faintly, however overlaid with sick longing, a secret hope that +some day things will shape themselves all right.</p> +<p>And thus it is that every Idealist, bleak and wintry as his +mood may be, is conscious of the latency of spring. Every +Idealist, like the man in the immortal allegory of Bunyan, has a +key in his bosom called Promise. This it is that keeps from +madness. And so while Jefferies will exclaim:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The whole and the worst the pessimist can +say is far beneath the least particle of the truth, so immense is +the misery of man.” He will also declare, +“There lives on in me an impenetrable belief, thought +burning <!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 164</span>like the sun, that there is yet +something to be found, something real, something to give each +separate personality sunshine and flowers in its own existence +now.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is a mistake to attach much importance to Jefferies’ +attempts to systematize his views on life. He lacked the +power of co-ordinating his impressions, and is at his best when +giving free play to the instinctive life within him. No +Vagabond writer can excel him in the expression of feeling; and +yet perhaps no writer is less able than he to account for, to +give a rational explanation of his feelings. He is rarely +satisfactory when he begins to explain. Thoreau’s +lines about himself seem to me peculiarly applicable to +Jefferies:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“I am a parcel of vain strivings tied<br /> + By a chance bond together,<br /> +Dangling this way and that, their links<br /> + Were made so loose and wide<br /> + Methinks<br /> + For milder weather.</p> +<p>“A bunch of violets without their roots<br /> + And sorrel intermixed,<br /> +Encircled by a wisp of straw<br /> + Once coiled about their shoots,<br /> + The law<br /> + By which I’m fixed.</p> +<p>“Some tender buds were left upon my stem<br /> + In mimicry of life,<br /> +But ah, the children will not know<br /> + Till Time has withered them,<br /> + The woe<br /> + With which they’re +rife.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Jefferies was a brave man, with a rare supply of resolution +and patience. His life was one long struggle <!-- page +165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>against overwhelming odds. “Three great +giants,” as he puts it—“disease, despair, and +poverty.” Not only was his physical health against +him, but his very idiosyncrasies all conspired to hinder his +success. His pride and reserve would not permit him to take +help from his friends. He even shrank from their +sympathy. His years of isolation, voluntary isolation, put +him out of touch with human society. His socialistic +tendencies never made him social. His was a kind of +abstract humanitarianism. A man may feel tenderly, +sympathize towards humanity, yet shrink from human beings. +Misanthropy did not inspire him; he did not dislike his +fellow-men; it was simply that they bewildered and puzzled him; +he could not get on with them. So it will be seen that he +had not the consolation some men take in the sympathy and +co-operation of their fellows. After all, this is more a +defect of temperament than a fault of character, and he had to +pay the penalty. Realizing this, it is impossible to +withhold admiration for the pluck and courage of the man. +As a lover of Nature, and an artist in prose, he needs no +encomium to-day. In his eloquent “Eulogy” Sir +Walter Besant gave fitting expression to the debt of gratitude we +owe this poet-naturalist—this passionate interpreter of +English country life.</p> +<p>What Borrow achieved for the stirring life of the road, +Jefferies has done for the brooding life of the fields. +What Thoreau did for the woods at Maine and the waters of +Merrimac, Jefferies did for the Wiltshire streams and the Sussex +hedgerows. He has invested the familiar scenery of Southern +England with a new <!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 166</span>glamour, a tenderer sanctity; has +arrested our indifferent vision, our careless hearing, turned our +languid appreciation into a comprehending affection.</p> +<p>Ardent, shy, impressionable, proud, stout-hearted pagan and +wistful idealist; one of the most pathetic and most interesting +figures in modern literature.</p> +<h2><!-- page 167--><a name="page167"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 167</span>VII<br /> +WALT WHITMAN</h2> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 168</span>“So will I sing on, fast as +fancies come;<br /> +Rudely the verse being as the mood it paints.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert +Browning</span>.</p> +<p>“A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays<br /> +And confident to-morrows.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Wordsworth</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><!-- page 169--><a name="page169"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 169</span>I</h3> +<p>The “good gray poet” is the supreme example of the +Vagabond in literature. It is quite possible for one not +drawn towards the Vagabond temperament to admire Stevenson, for +Stevenson was a fine artist; to take delight in the vigorous +“John Bullism” of <i>Lavengro</i>; to sympathize with +the natural mysticism of Jefferies; the Puritan austerity of +Thoreau. In short, there are aspects in the writings of the +other “Vagabonds” in this volume which command +attention quite apart from the characteristics specifically +belonging to the literary Vagabond.</p> +<p>But it is not possible to view Whitman apart from his +Vagabondage. He is proud of it, glories in it, and flings +it in your face. Others, whatever strain of wildness they +may have had, whatever sympathies they may have felt for the +rough sweetness of the earth, however unconventional their +habits, accepted at any rate the recognized conventions of +literature. As men, as thinkers, they were unconventional; +as artists conventional. They retained at any rate the +literary garments of civilized society.</p> +<p>Not so Whitman. He is the Orson of literature. +<!-- page 170--><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>Unconventionality he carries out to its logical +conclusion, and strides stark naked among our academies of +learning. A strange, uncouth, surprising figure, it is +impossible to ignore him however much he may shock our +susceptibilities.</p> +<p>Many years ago Mr. Swinburne greeted him as “a +strong-winged soul with prophetic wings”; subsequently he +referred to him as a “drunken apple-woman reeling in a +gutter.” For this right-about-face he has been +upbraided by Whitman’s admirers. Certainly it is +unusual to find any reader starting out to bless and ending with +a curse. Usually it is the precedent of Balaam that is +followed. But Mr. Swinburne’s mingled feelings typify +the attitude of every one who approaches the poet, though few of +us can express ourselves so resourcefully as the author of +<i>Poems and Ballads</i>.</p> +<p>There may be some students who accept Whitman without demur at +the outset on his own terms. All I can say is that I never +heard of one. However broad-minded you may consider +yourself, however catholic in your sympathies, Whitman is bound +to get athwart some pet prejudice, to discover some shred of +conventionality. Gaily, heedlessly, you start out to +explore his writings, just as you might start on a walking +tour. He is in touch with the primal forces of Nature, you +hear. “So much the better,” say you; +“civilization has ceased to charm.” “You +are enamoured of wildness.” Thus men talk before +camping out, captivated by the picturesque and healthy +possibilities, and oblivious to the inconveniences of roughing +it.</p> +<p><!-- page 171--><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>But just as some amount of training is wanted before a +walking tour, or a period of camping out, so is it necessary to +prepare yourself for a course of Whitman. And this, not +because there is any exotic mystery about Whitman, not because +there are any intellectual subtleties about his work, as there +are in Browning, but because he is the pioneer of a new order, +and the pioneer always challenges the old order; our tastes +require adjusting before they can value it properly.</p> +<p>There is no question about a “Return to Nature” +with Whitman. He never left it. Thoreau quitted the +Emersonian study to get fresh inspiration from the woods. +Even Jefferies, bred up in the country, carried about with him +the delicate susceptibilities of the neurotic modern. +Borrow retained a firm grip-hold of many conventions of the +city. But Whitman? It was no case with him of a +sojourn in the woods, or a ramble on the heath. He was a +spiritual native of the woods and heath; not, as some seem to +think, because he was a kind of wild barbarian who loved the +rough and uncouth, and could be found only in unfrequented parts, +but because he was in touch with the elemental everywhere. +The wildness of Whitman, the barbarian aspects of the man, have +been overrated. He is wild only in so far as he is cosmic, +and the greater contains the less. He loves the rough and +the smooth, not merely the rough. His songs are no mere +pæans of rustic solitudes; they are songs of the crowded +streets, as well of the country roads; of men and women—of +every type—no less than of the fields and the +streams. In fact, he seeks the elemental everywhere. +<!-- page 172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>Thoreau found it in the Indian, Borrow in the gypsies, +Whitman, with a finer comprehensiveness, finds it in the +multitude. His business is to bring it to the surface, to +make men and women rejoice in—not shrink from—the +great primal forces of life. But he is not for +moralizing—</p> +<blockquote><p>“I give nothing as duties,<br /> +What others give as duties I give as loving impulses.<br /> +(Shall I give the heart’s action as a duty?)”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He has no quarrel with civilization as such. The teeming +life of the town is as wonderful to him as the big solitude of +the Earth. Carlyle’s pleasantry about the communistic +experiments of the American Transcendentalists would have no +application for him. “A return to Acorns and +expecting the Golden Age to arrive.”</p> +<p>Here is no exclusive child of Nature:—</p> +<blockquote><p> “I tramp a perpetual +journey, . . .<br /> +My signs are a rainproof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from +the woods . . .<br /> +I have no chair, no church, no philosophy.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>People talk of Whitman as if he relied entirely on the +“staff cut from the woods”; they forget his rainproof +coat and good shoes. Assuredly he has no mind to cut +himself adrift from the advantages of civilization.</p> +<p>The rainproof coat, indeed, reminds one of Borrow’s +green gamp, which caused such distress to his friends and raised +doubts in the minds of Mr. Watts-Dunton and Dr. Hake as to +whether he was a genuine child of +<a href="images/p172b.jpg"> +<img class='clearcenter' alt= +"Walt Whitman" +title= +"Walt Whitman" +src="images/p172s.jpg" /> +</a><!-- page 173--><a name="page173"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 173</span>the open air. <a +name="citation173"></a><a href="#footnote173" +class="citation">[173]</a> No one would cavil at that term +as applied to Whitman—yet one must not forget the +“rainproof coat.”</p> +<p>In regarding the work of Whitman there are three aspects which +strike one especially. His attitude towards Art, towards +Humanity, towards Life.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>First of all, Whitman’s attitude towards Art.</p> +<p>For the highest art two essentials are +required—Sincerity and Beauty. The tendency of modern +literature has been to ignore the first and to make the second +all-sufficient. The efforts of the artist have been +concentrated upon the workmanship, and too often he has been +satisfied with a merely technical excellence.</p> +<p>It is a pleasant and attractive pastime, this playing with +words. Grace, charm, and brilliance are within the reach of +the artificer’s endeavour. But a literature which is +the outcome of the striving after beauty of form, without +reference to the sincerity of substance, is like a posy of +flowers torn away from their roots. Lacking vitality, it +will speedily perish.</p> +<p>No writer has seen this more clearly than Whitman, and if in +his vigorous allegiance to Sincerity he has seemed oblivious at +times to the existence of Beauty, yet he has chosen the better +part. And for this reason. Beauty will follow in the +wake of Sincerity, whether sought for or no, and the writer whose +one passion it is <!-- page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 174</span>to see things as they are, and to +disentangle from the transient and fleeting the great truths of +life, finds that in achieving a noble sincerity he has also +achieved the highest beauty.</p> +<p>The great utterances of the world are beautiful, because they +are true. Whereas the artist who is determined to attain +beauty at all costs will obtain beauty of a +kind—“silver-grey, placid and perfect,” as +Andrea del Sarto said, but the highest beauty it will not be, for +that is no mere question of manner, but a perfect blend of manner +and matter.</p> +<p>It will no doubt be urged that, despite his sincerity, there +is a good deal in Whitman that is not beautiful. And this +must be frankly conceded. But this will be found only when +he has failed to separate the husk from the kernel. +Whitman’s sincerity is never in question, but he does not +always appreciate the difference between accuracy and truth, +between the accidental and the essential. For instance, +lines like these—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The six framing men, two in the middle, and +two at each end, carefully bearing on their shoulders a heavy +stick for a cross-beam.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or physiological detail after this fashion:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the +mouth, jaws and the jaw hinges,<br /> +Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,<br /> +Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck +sheer.<br /> +Strong shoulders, manly beard, hind shoulders, and the ample size +round of the chest,<br /> +Upper arm, armpit, elbow socket, lower arms, arm sinews, arm +bones.<br /> +Wrist and wrist joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, +finger joints, finger nails, etc., etc.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>The vital idea lying beneath these accumulated facts is +lost sight of by the reader who has to wade through so many +accurate non-essentials.</p> +<p>It is well, I think, to seize upon the weakness of +Whitman’s literary style at the outset, for it explains so +much that is irritating and disconcerting.</p> +<p><i>Leaves of Grass</i> he called his book, and the name is +more significant than one at first realizes. For there is +about it not only the sweetness, the freshness, the luxuriance of +the grass; but its prolific rankness—the wheat and the +tares grow together.</p> +<p>It has, I know, been urged by some of Whitman’s admirers +that his power as a writer does not depend upon his artistic +methods or non-artistic methods, and he himself protested against +his <i>Leaves</i> being judged merely as literature. And so +there has been a tendency to glorify his very inadequacies, to +hold him up as a poet who has defied successfully the unwritten +laws of Art.</p> +<p>This is to do him an ill service. If Whitman’s +work be devoid of Art, then it possesses no durability. +Literature is an art just as much as music, painting, or +sculpture. And if a man, however fine, however inspiring +his ideas may be, has no power to shape them—to express +them in colour, in sound, in form, in words—to seize upon +the essentials and use no details save as suffice to illustrate +these essentials, then his work will not last. For it has +no vitality.</p> +<p>In other words, Whitman must be judged ultimately as an +artist, for Art alone endures. And on the whole he can +certainly bear the test. His art was not the conventional +art of his day, but art it assuredly was.</p> +<p><!-- page 176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span>In his best utterances there are both sincerity and +beauty.</p> +<p>Who could deny the title of artist to the man who wrote those +noble verses, “On the Beach at Night”?—</p> +<blockquote><p>“On the beach at night,<br /> +Stands a child with her father,<br /> +Watching the east, the autumn sky.</p> +<p>“Up through the darkness,<br /> +While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses +spreading,<br /> +Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,<br /> +Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,<br +/> +Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,<br /> +And nigh at hand, only a very little above,<br /> +Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.</p> +<p>“From the beach the child holding the hand of her +father,<br /> +Those burial clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all<br +/> +Watching, silently weeps.</p> +<p>“Weep not, child,<br /> +Weep not, my darling,<br /> +With these kisses let me remove your tears,<br /> +The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,<br /> +They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only +in apparition,<br /> +Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the +Pleiades shall emerge,<br /> +They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall +shine out again,<br /> +The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they +endure,<br /> +The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall +again shine.</p> +<p>“Then, dearest child, mournest thou only for Jupiter?<br +/> +Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?</p> +<p><!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>“Something there is,<br /> +(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,<br /> +I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection)<br +/> +Something there is more immortal even than the stars,<br /> +(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away)<br /> +Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter,<br +/> +Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,<br /> +Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or those touching lines, +“Reconciliation”?—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Word over all beautiful as the sky,<br /> +Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be +utterly lost,<br /> +That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly<br /> +Wash again, and ever again, this soil’d world;<br /> +For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,<br /> +I look where he lies white-faced and still in the +coffin—<br /> +I draw near—<br /> +Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the +coffin.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Again, take that splendid dirge in memory of President +Lincoln, majestic in its music, spacious and grand in its +treatment. It is too long for quotation, but the opening +lines, with their suggestive beauty, and the Song to Death, may +be instanced.</p> +<blockquote><p>“When lilacs last in the dooryard +bloomed,<br /> +And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the +night,<br /> +I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.<br /> +Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring<br /> +Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,<br /> +And thought of him I love.</p> +<p>“O powerful western fallen star!<br /> +O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!<br /> +O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides +the star!<br /> +O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of +me!<br /> +O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!</p> +<p><!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>“In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse near +the whitewash’d palings,<br /> +Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of +rich green,<br /> +With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume +strong I love.<br /> +With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the +dooryard,<br /> +With delicate coloured blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich +green,<br /> +A sprig with its flower I break.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“Come lovely and soothing death,<br /> +Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,<br /> +In the day, in the night, to all, to each,<br /> +Sooner or later delicate death.</p> +<p>“Prais’d be the fathomless universe,<br /> +For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,<br /> +And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!<br /> +For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.</p> +<p>“Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,<br /> +Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?<br /> +Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,<br /> +I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come +unfalteringly.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“The night in silence under many a star,<br /> +The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I +know,<br /> +And the soul-turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d +death,<br /> +And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.</p> +<p>“Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,<br /> +Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the +prairies wide,<br /> +Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves +and ways,<br /> +I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O +death.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 179--><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>This is not only Art, but great Art. So fresh in +their power, so striking in their beauty, are Whitman’s +utterances on Death that they take their place in our memories +beside the large utterances of Shakespeare, Milton, and +Shelley.</p> +<p>It is a mistake to think that where Whitman fails in +expression it is through carelessness; that he was a great poet +by flashes, and that had he taken more pains he would have been +greater still. We have been assured by those who knew him +intimately that he took the greatest care over his work, and +would wait for days until he could get what he felt to be the +right word.</p> +<p>To the student who comes fresh to a study of Whitman it is +conceivable that the rude, strong, nonchalant utterances may seem +like the work of an inspired but careless and impatient +artist. It is not so. It is done deliberately.</p> +<p>“I furnish no specimens,” he says; “I shower +them by exhaustless laws, fresh and modern continually, as Nature +does.”</p> +<p>He is content to be suggestive, to stir your imagination, to +awaken your sympathies. And when he fails, he fails as +Wordsworth did, because he lacked the power of self-criticism, +lacked the faculty of humour—that saving faculty which +gives discrimination, and intuitively protects the artist from +confusing pathos with bathos, the grand and the grandiose. +Nowhere is this more apparent than in his treatment of Sex. +Frankness, outspokenness on the primal facts of life are to be +welcomed in literature. All the great masters—<!-- +page 180--><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>Shakespeare, Dante, Dostoievsky, Tolstoy, have dealt +openly and fearlessly with the elemental passions. There is +nothing to deplore in this, and Mr. Swinburne was quite right +when he contended that the domestic circle is not to be for all +men and writers the outer limit of their world of work. So +far from regretting that Whitman claimed right to equal freedom +when speaking of the primal fact of procreation as when speaking +of sunrise, sunsetting, and the primal fact of death, every +clean-minded man and woman should rejoice in the poet’s +attitude. For he believed and gloried in the separate +personalities of man and woman, claiming manhood and womanhood as +the poet’s province, exulting in the potentialities of a +healthy sexual life. He was angry, as well he might be, +with the furtive snigger which greets such matters as motherhood +and fatherhood with the prurient unwholesomeness of a mind that +can sigh sentimentally over the “roses and raptures of +Vice” and start away shamefaced from the stark +passions—stripped of all their circumlocutions. He +certainly realized as few have done the truth of that fine saying +of Thoreau’s, that “for him to whom sex is impure +there are no flowers in Nature.”</p> +<p>But at the same time I cannot help feeling that Stevenson was +right when he said that Whitman “loses our sympathy in the +character of a poet by attracting too much of our +attention—that of a Bull in a China Shop.” <a +name="citation180"></a><a href="#footnote180" +class="citation">[180]</a></p> +<p>His aim is right enough; it is to his method one may take +objection. Not on the score of morality. +Whitman’s <!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 181</span>treatment of passion is not immoral; +it is simply like Nature herself—unmoral. What shall +we say then about his sex cycle, “Children of +Adam”? Whitman, in his anxiety to speak out, freely, +simply, naturally, to vindicate the sanity of coarseness, the +poetry of animalism, seems to me to have bungled rather +badly. There are many fine passages in his “Song of +the Body Electric” and “Spontaneous Me,” but +much of it impresses me as bad art, and is consequently +ineffectual in its aim. The subject demands a treatment at +once strong and subtle—I do not mean finicking—and +subtlety is a quality not vouchsafed to Whitman. Lacking +it, he is often unconsciously comic where he should be gravely +impressive. “A man’s body is sacred, and a +woman’s body is sacred.” True; but the +sacredness is not displayed by making out a tedious inventory of +the various parts of the body. Says Whitman in effect: +“The sexual life is to be gloried in, not to be treated as +if it were something shameful.” Again true; but is +there not a danger of missing the glory by discoursing noisily on +the various physiological manifestations. Sex is not the +more wonderful for being appraised by the big drum.</p> +<p>The inherent beauty and sanctity of Sex lies surely in its +superb unconsciousness; it is a matter for two human beings drawn +towards one another by an indefinable, world-old attraction; +scream about it, caper over it, and you begin to make it +ridiculous, for you make it self-conscious.</p> +<p>Animalism merely as a scientific fact serves naught to the +poet, unless he can show also what is as undeniable <!-- page +182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>as +the bare fact—its poetry, its coarseness, and its mystery +go together. Browning has put it in a line:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“. . . savage creatures seek<br /> +Their loves in wood and plain—<i>and </i><span +class="smcap"><i>God</i></span><i> renews</i><br /> +<i>His ancient rapture</i>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is the “rapture” and the mystery which Whitman +misses in many of his songs of Sex.</p> +<p>There is no need to give here any theological significance to +the word “God.” Let the phrase stand for the +mystic poetry of animalism. Whitman has no sense of +mystery.</p> +<p>I have another objection against “The Children of +Adam.” The loud, self-assertive, genial, boastful +style of Whitman suits very well many of his democratic +utterances, his sweeping cosmic emotions. But here it gives +one the impression of a kind of showman, who with a flourishing +stick is shouting out to a gaping crowd the excellences of +manhood and womanhood. Deliberately he has refrained from +the mood of imaginative fervour which alone could give a high +seriousness to his treatment—a high seriousness which is +really indispensable. And his rough, slangy, matter-of-fact +comments give an atmosphere of unworthy vulgarity to his +subject. Occasionally he is carried away by the sheer +imaginative beauty of the subject, then note how different the +effect:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Have you ever loved the body of a woman,<br +/> +Have you ever loved the body of a man,<br /> +Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all<br +/> +Nations and times all over the earth?”</p> +<p><!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>“If anything is sacred, the human body is +sacred,<br /> +And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood +untainted,<br /> +And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body is<br /> +More beautiful than the most beautiful face.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If only all had been of this quality. But interspersed +with lines of great force and beauty are cumbrous irrelevancies, +wholly superfluous details.</p> +<p>William Morris has also treated the subject of Sex in a frank, +open fashion. And there is in his work something of the +easy, deliberate spaciousness that we find in Whitman. But +Morris was an artist first and foremost, and he never misses the +<i>poetry</i> of animalism; as readers of the “Earthly +Paradise” and the prose romances especially know full +well.</p> +<p>It is not then because Whitman treats love as an animal +passion that I take objection to much in his “Children of +Adam.” There are poets enough and to spare who sing +of the sentimental aspects of love. We need have no quarrel +with Whitman’s aim as expressed by Mr. John Burroughs: +“To put in his sex poems a rank and healthy animality, and +to make them as frank as the shedding of pollen by the trees, +strong even to the point of offence.” All we ask is +for him to do so as a poet, not as a mere physiologist. And +when he speaks one moment as a physiologist, next as a poet; at +one time as a lover, at another as a showman, the result is not +inspiring. “He could not make it pleasing,” +remarks Mr. Burroughs, “a sweet morsel to be rolled under +the tongue; that would have been levity and sin, as in Byron and +the other poets . . . He would sooner be <!-- page 184--><a +name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>bestial +than Byronic, he would sooner shock by his frankness than inflame +by his suggestion.” This vague linking together of +“Byron and the other poets” is not easy to +understand. In the first place, not one of the moderns has +treated love from the same standpoint. Shelley, for +instance, is transcendental, Byron elemental, Tennyson +sentimental; Rossetti looks at the soul through the body, +Browning regards the body through the soul. There is +abundant variety in the treatment. Then, again, why Byron +should be singled out especially for opprobrium I fail to see, +for love is to him the fierce elemental passion it is for +Whitman. As for frankness, the episode of Haidee and Don +Juan does not err on the side of reticence. Nor is it +pruriently suggestive. It is a splendid piece of poetic +animalism. Let us be fair to Byron. His work may in +places be disfigured by an unworthy cynicism; his treatment of +sexual problems be marred by a shallow flippancy. But no +poet had a finer appreciation of the essential poetry of +animalism than he, and much of his cynicism, after all, is by way +of protest against the same narrow morality at which Whitman +girds. To single Byron out as a poet especially obnoxious +in his treatment of love, and to condemn him so sweepingly, seems +to me scarcely defensible. To extol unreservedly the +rankness and coarseness of “The Children of Adam,” +and to have no word of commendation, say, for so noble a piece of +naturalism as the story of Haidee, seems to me lacking in +fairness. Besides, it suggests that the <i>only</i> +treatment in literature of the sexual life is a coarse, +unpleasing treatment, which I do not suppose Mr. Burroughs <!-- +page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>really holds. Whitman has vindicated, and +vindicated finely, the inherent truth and beauty of +animalism. But so has William Morris, so has Dante Gabriel +Rossetti, so has poor flouted Byron. And I will go further, +and say that these other poets have succeeded often where Whitman +has failed; they have shown the beauty and cosmic significance, +when Whitman has been merely cataloguing the stark facts.</p> +<p>It may be objected, of course, that Whitman does not aim in +his sex poems at imaginative beauty, that he aims at sanity and +wholesomeness; that what he speaks—however rank—makes +for healthy living. May be; I am not concerned to deny +it. What I do deny is the implication that the +wholesomeness of a fact is sufficient justification for its +treatment in literature. There are a good many disagreeable +things that are wholesome enough, there are many functions of the +body that are entirely healthy. But one does not want them +enshrined in Art.</p> +<p>To attack Whitman on the score of morality is unjustifiable; +his sex poems are simply unmoral. But had he flouted his +art less flagrantly in them they would have been infinitely more +powerful and convincing, and given the Philistines less +opportunity for blaspheming.</p> +<p>I have dwelt at this length upon Whitman’s treatment of +Sex largely because it illustrates his strength and weakness as a +literary artist. In some of his poems—those dealing +with Democracy, for instance—we have Whitman at his +best. In others, certainly a small proportion, we get +sheer, unillumined doggerel. In his sex poems there are +great and fine ideas, moments of inspiration, <!-- page 186--><a +name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>flashes of +beauty, combined with much that is trivial and tiresome.</p> +<p>But this I think is the inevitable outcome of his style. +The style, like the man, is large, broad, sweeping, tolerant; the +sense of “mass and multitude” is remarkable; he aims +at big effects, and the quality of vastness in his writings +struck John Addington Symonds as his most remarkable +characteristic. <a name="citation186"></a><a href="#footnote186" +class="citation">[186]</a> This vast, rolling, processional +style is splendidly adapted for dealing with the elemental +aspects of life, with the vital problems of humanity. He +sees everything in bulk. His range of vision is +cosmic. The very titles are suggestive of his point of +view—“A Song of the Rolling Earth,” “A +Song of the Open Road,” “A Song for +Occupation,” “Gods.” There are no +detailed effects, no delicate points of light and shade in his +writings, but huge panoramic effects. It is a great style, +it is an impressive style, but it is obviously not a plastic +style, nor a versatile style. Its very merits necessarily +carry with them corresponding defects. The massiveness +sometimes proves mere unwieldiness, the virile strength tends to +coarseness, the eye fixed on certain broad distant effects misses +the delicate by-play of colour and movement in the +foreground. The persistent unconventionality of metre and +rhythm becomes in time a mannerism as pronounced as the mannerism +of Tennyson and Swinburne.</p> +<p>I do not urge these things in disparagement of Whitman. +No man can take up a certain line wholeheartedly and +uncompromisingly without incurring the disabilities attaching to +all who concentrate on one great issue.</p> +<p><!-- page 187--><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>And if sometimes he is ineffectual, if on occasion he +is merely strident in place of authoritative, how often do his +utterances carry with them a superb force and a conviction which +compel us to recognize the sagacious genius of the man.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>Indeed, it is when we examine Whitman’s attitude towards +Humanity that we realize best his strength and courage. For +it is here that his qualities find their fittest artistic +expression. Nothing in Whitman’s view is common or +unclean. All things in the Universe, rightly considered, +are sweet and good. Carrying this view into social +politics, Whitman declares for absolute social equality. +And this is done in no doctrinaire spirit, but because of +Whitman’s absolute faith and trust in man and +woman—not the man and woman overridden by the artifices of +convention, but the “powerful uneducated +person.” Whitman finds his ideal not in Society (with +a capital S), but in artisans and mechanics. He took to his +heart the mean, the vulgar, the coarse, not idealizing their +weaknesses, but imbuing them with his own strength and +vigour.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I am enamoured of growth out of doors,<br +/> +Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods,<br +/> +Of the builder and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes, +and<br /> +The drivers of horses.<br /> +I can eat and sleep with them week in week out.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>Such are his comrades. And well he knows +them. For many years of his life he was roving through +country and city, coming into daily contact with the men and +women about whom he has sung. Walt Whitman—farm boy, +school teacher, printer, editor, traveller, mechanic, nurse in +the army hospital, Government clerk. Truly our poet has +graduated as few have done in the school of Life. No writer +of our age has better claims to be considered the Poet of +Democracy.</p> +<p>But he was no sentimentalist. More tolerant and passive +in disposition than Victor Hugo, he had the same far-seeing +vision when dealing with the people. He recognized their +capacity for good, their unconquerable faith, their aspirations, +their fine instincts; but he recognized also their brutality and +fierceness. He would have agreed with Spencer’s +significant words: “There is no alchemy by which you can +get golden conduct out of leaden instincts”; but he would +have denied Spencer’s implication that leaden instincts +ruled the Democracy. And he was right. There is more +real knowledge of men and women in <i>Leaves of Grass</i> and +<i>Les Miserables</i> than in all the volumes of the Synthetic +Philosophy. Thus Whitman announces his theme:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and +power,<br /> +Cheerful, for freest action formed under the laws divine.<br /> +The modern man I sing.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Whitman,” wrote the late Mr. William Clarke, in +his stimulating study of the Poet, <a name="citation188"></a><a +href="#footnote188" class="citation">[188]</a> “sings of +the Modern Man as workman, friend, citizen, brother, comrade, as +pioneer of a new social order, as both material and <!-- page +189--><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>spiritual, final and most subtle, compound of spirit +and nature, firmly planted on this rolling earth, and yet +‘moving about in worlds not realized.’ As +representative democratic bard Whitman exhibits complete freedom +from unconventionality, a very deep human love for all, faith in +the rationality of the world, courage, energy, and the instincts +of solidarity.”</p> +<p>In the introductory essay to this volume some remarks were +made about the affections of the literary Vagabond in general and +of Whitman in particular, which call now for an ampler treatment, +especially as on this point I find myself, apparently, at issue +with so many able and discerning critics of Whitman. I say +apparently because a consideration of the subject may show that +the difference, though real, is not so fundamental as it appears +to be.</p> +<p>That Whitman entertained a genuine affection for men and women +is, of course, too obvious to be gainsaid. His noble work +in the hospitals, his tenderness towards criminals and +outcasts—made known to us through the testimony of +friends—show him to be a man of comprehensive +sympathies. No man of a chill and calculating nature could +have written as he did, and, although his writings are not free +of affectation, the strenuous, fundamental sincerity of the man +impresses every line.</p> +<p>But was it, to quote William Clarke, “a <i>very deep</i> +human love”? This seems to me a point of +psychological interest. A man may exhibit kindliness and +tenderness towards his fellow-creatures without showing any deep +personal attachment. In fact, the wider a <!-- page +190--><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>man’s sympathies are the less room is there for +any strong individual feeling. His friend, Mr. Donaldson, +has told us that he never remembers Whitman shedding a tear of +grief over the death of any friend. Tears of joy he shed +often; but no tear of sorrow, of personal regret. It is +true that Mr. Donaldson draws no particular inference from this +fact. It seems to me highly significant. The absence +of intense emotion is no argument truly for insensibility; but to +a man of large, sweeping sympathies such as Whitman the loss of a +particular friend did not strike home as it would do in men of +subtler temperaments.</p> +<p>Cosmic emotions leave no room for those special manifestations +of concentrated feeling in individual instances which men with a +narrower range of sympathies frequently show.</p> +<p>For in denying that Whitman was a man capable of “a very +deep human love,” no moral censure is implied. If not +deep, it was certainly comprehensive; and rarely, if ever, do the +two qualities coexist. Depth of feeling is not to be found +in men of the tolerant, passive type; it is the intolerant, +comparatively narrow-minded man who loves deeply; the man of few +friends, not the man who takes the whole human race to his heart +in one colossal embrace. Narrowness may exist, of course, +without intensity. But intensity of temperament always +carries with it a certain forceful narrowness. Such a man, +strongly idiosyncratic, with his sympathies running in a special +groove, is capable of one or two affections that absorb his +entire nature. Those whom he cares for are so subtly bound +up with <!-- page 191--><a name="page191"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 191</span>the peculiarities of his temperament +that they become a part of his very life. And if they go, +so interwoven are their personalities with the fibres of his +being, that part of his life goes with them. To such the +death of an intimate friend is a blow that shatters them beyond +recovery. Courage and endurance, indeed, they may show, and +the undiscerning may never note how fell the blow has been. +But though the healing finger of Time will assuage the wound, the +scars they will carry to their dying day.</p> +<p>As a rule, such men, lovable as they may be to the few, are +not of the stuff of which social reformers are made. They +feel too keenly, too sensitively, are guided too much by +individual temperamental preferences. It is of no use for +any man who has to deal with coarse-grained humanity, with all +sorts and conditions of men, to be fastidious in his +tastes. A certain bluntness, a certain rude hardiness, a +certain evenness of disposition is absolutely necessary. We +are told of Whitman by one of his most ardent admirers that his +life was “a pleased, uninterested saunter through the +world—no hurry, no fever, no strife, hence no bitterness, +no depression, no wasted energies . . . in all his tastes and +attractions always aiming to live thoroughly in the free +nonchalant spirit of the day.”</p> +<p>Yes; this is the type of man wanted as a social pioneer, as a +poet of the people. A man who felt more acutely, for whom +the world was far too terrible a place for sauntering, would be +quite unfitted for Whitman’s task. It was essential +that he should have lacked deep individual affection. +Something had to be sacrificed <!-- page 192--><a +name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>for the +work he had before him, and we need not lament that he had no +predilection for those intimate personal ties that mean so much +to some.</p> +<p>A man who has to speak a word of cheer to so many can ill +afford to linger with the few. He is not even concerned to +convert you to his way of thinking. He throws out a hint, a +suggestion, the rest you must do for yourself.</p> +<p>“I am a man who, sauntering along without fully +stopping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his +face. Leaving you to prove and define it. Expecting +the main things from you.”</p> +<p>Nowhere are Whitman’s qualities more admirably shown +than in his attitude towards the average human being. As a +rule the ordinary man is not a person whom the Poet delights to +honour. He is concerned with the exceptional, the +extraordinary type. Whitman’s attitude then is of +special interest.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I will leave all and come and make the +hymns of you;<br /> +None has understood you, but I understand you;<br /> +None has done justice to you—you have not done justice to +yourself.<br /> +None but has found you imperfect; I only find no imperfection in +you.<br /> +None but would subordinate you; I only am he who will never +consent to subordinate you.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the +centre figure of all;<br /> +From the head of the centre figure, spreading a nimbus of +gold-coloured light.<br /> +But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its +nimbus of gold-coloured light.<br /> +<!-- page 193--><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>From My hand, from the brain of every man and woman it +streams effulgently flowing for ever.<br /> +O! I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!<br /> +You have not known what you are; you have slumbered upon yourself +all your time. . . .”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And so on, in a vein of courageous cheer, spoken with the big, +obtrusive, genial egotism that always meets us in Whitman’s +writings. Whitman’s egotism proves very exasperating +to some readers, but I do not think it should trouble us +much. After all it is the egotism of a simple, natural, +sincere nature; there is no self-satisfied smirk about it, no +arrogance. He is conscious of his powers, and is quite +frank in letting you know this. Perhaps his boisterous +delight in his own prowess may jar occasionally on the nerves; +but how much better than the affected humility of some +writers. And the more you study his writings the less does +this egotism affect even the susceptible. Your ears get +attuned to the pitch of the voice, you realize that the big drum +is beaten with a purpose. For it must be remembered that it +is an egotism entirely emptied of condescension. He is vain +certainly, but mainly because he glories in the common heritage, +because he feels he is one of the common people. He is +proud assuredly, but it is pride that exults in traits that he +shares in common with the artist, the soldier, and the +sailor. He is no writer who plays down to the masses, who +will prophesy fair things—like the mere demagogue—in +order to win their favour. And it is a proof of his plain +speaking, of his fearless candour, that for the most part the +very men for whom he wrote care little for him.</p> +<p><!-- page 194--><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>Conventionality rules every class in the +community. Whitman’s gospel of social equality is not +altogether welcome to the average man. One remembers Mr. +Barrie’s pleasant satire of social distinction in <i>The +Admirable Crichton</i>, where the butler resents his radical +master’s suggestion that no real difference separates +employer and employed. He thinks it quite in keeping with +the eternal fitness of things that his master should assert the +prerogative of “Upper Dog,” and points out how that +there are many social grades below stairs, and that an elaborate +hierarchy separates the butler at one end from the “odds +and ends” at the other.</p> +<p>In like manner the ordinary citizen resents Whitman’s +genuine democratic spirit, greatly preferring the sentimental +Whiggism of Tennyson.</p> +<p>Whitman reminds us by his treatment of the vulgar, the +ordinary, the commonplace, that he signalizes a new departure in +literature. Of poets about the people there have been many, +but he is the first genuine Poet <i>of</i> the People.</p> +<p>Art is in its essence aristocratic, it strives after +selectness, eschews the trivial and the trite. There is, +therefore, in literature always a tendency towards conservatism; +the literary artist grows more and more fastidious in his choice +of words; the cheap and vulgar must be rigorously excluded, and +only those words carrying with them stately and beautiful +associations are to be countenanced. Thus Classicism in Art +constantly needs the freshening, broadening influence of +Romanticism.</p> +<p><!-- page 195--><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>What Conservatism and Liberalism are to Politics +Classicism and Romanticism are to Art. Romantic revolutions +have swept over literature before the nineteenth century, and +Shakespeare was the first of our great Romantics. Then with +the reaction Formalism and Conservatism crept in again. But +the Romantic Revival at the beginning of the nineteenth century +went much further than previous ones. Out of the throes of +the Industrial Revolution had been born a lusty, clamorous infant +that demanded recognition—the new Demos. And it +claimed not only recognition in politics, but recognition in +literature. Wordsworth and Shelley essayed to speak for it +with varying success; but Wordsworth was too exclusive, and +Shelley—the most sympathetic of all our poets till the +coming of Browning—was too ethereal in his manner. +Like his own skylark, he sang to us poised midway between earth +and heaven; a more emphatically flesh and blood personage was +wanted.</p> +<p>Here and there a writer of genuine democratic feeling, like +Ebenezer Elliott, voiced the aspirations of the people, but only +on one side. Thomas Hood and Mrs. Browning sounded a deeper +note; but the huge, clamorous populace needed a yet fuller note, +a more penetrating insight, a more forceful utterance. And +in America, with its seething democracy—a democracy more +urgent, more insistent than our own—it found its +spokesman. That it did not recognize him, and is only just +beginning to do so, is not remarkable. It did not recognize +him, for it had scarcely recognized itself. Only dimly did +it realize its wants <!-- page 196--><a name="page196"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 196</span>and aspirations. Whitman +divined them; he is the Demos made articulate.</p> +<p>And not only did he sweep away the Conservative traditions and +conventions of literature, he endeavoured to overthrow the +aristocratic principle that underlies it. Selectness he +would replace with simplicity. No doubt he went too +far. That is of small moment. Exaggeration and +over-emphasis have their place in the scheme of things. A +thunderstorm may be wanted to clear the air, and if it does +incidentally some slight damage to crops and trees it is of no +use grumbling.</p> +<p>But in the main Whitman’s theory of Art was very true +and finely suggestive, and is certainly not the view of a man who +cares for nothing but the wild and barbaric.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The art of Art, the glory of expression, +and the sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity. +Nothing is better than simplicity, nothing can make up for excess +or for the lack of definiteness. To carry on the heave of +impulse, and pierce intellectual depths, and give all subjects +their articulations, are powers neither common nor very +uncommon. But to speak in literature with the perfect +rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the +unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods, and +grass by the woodside, is the flawless triumph of Art.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A fitting attitude for a Poet of Democracy, one likely to +bring him into direct contact with the broad, variegated stream +of human life.</p> +<p>What perhaps he did not realize so clearly is that Nature, no +less than Art, exercises the selective facility, <!-- page +197--><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>and corrects her own riotous extravagance. And +thus on occasion he falls into the very indefiniteness, the very +excess he deprecates.</p> +<p>The way in which his Art and democratic spirit correspond +suggests another, though less unconventional poet of the +Democracy—William Morris. The spaciousness the +directness, the tolerance that characterise Whitman’s work +are to be found to Morris. Morris had no eclectic +preferences either in Art or Nature. A wall paper, a +tapestry, an epic were equally agreeable tasks; and a blade of +grass delighted him as fully as a sunset. So with +men. He loved many, but no one especially. +Catholicity rather than intensity characterised his +friendships. And, like Whitman, he could get on cheerfully +enough with surprisingly unpleasant people, provided they were +working for the cause in which he was interested. <a +name="citation197"></a><a href="#footnote197" +class="citation">[197]</a> That is the secret. +Whitman and Morris loved the Cause. They looked at things +in the mass, at people in the mass. This is the true +democratic spirit. They had no time, nor must it be +confessed any special interest—in the individual as +such. What I have said about Whitman’s affection +being comprehensive rather than intense applies equally to +Morris. Why? Because it is the way of the Democrat +and the Social Reformer. To such the individual suggests a +whole class, a class suggests the race. Whitman is always +speaking to man as man, rarely does he touch on individual +men. If he does so, it is only to pass on to some cosmic +thoughts suggested by the particular instance.</p> +<p><!-- page 198--><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>Perhaps the most inspiring thing about Whitman’s +attitude towards humanity is his thorough understanding of the +working classes, and his quick discernment of the healthy +naturalism that animates them. He neither patronizes them +nor idealizes them; he sees their faults, which are obvious +enough; but he also sees, what is not so obvious, their fine +independence of spirit, their eager thirst for improvement, for +ampler knowledge, for larger opportunities, and their latent +idealism.</p> +<p>No doubt there is more independence, greater vigour, less +servility, in America than in England; but the men he especially +delights in, the artisan or mechanic, represent the best of the +working classes in either country.</p> +<p>In this respect Whitman and Tolstoy, differing in so many +ways, join hands. In the “powerful uneducated +person” they see the salvation of society, the renovation +of its anæmic life.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>Whitman is no moralist, and has no formal philosophy to +offer. But the modern spirit which always seeks after some +“criticism of life” does not forsake even the +Vagabond. He is certainly the only Vagabond, with the +exception of Thoreau, who has felt himself charged with a message +for his fellows. The popular tendency is to look for a +“message” in all literary artists, and the result is +that the art in question is <!-- page 199--><a +name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>knocked +sometimes out of all shape in order to wrest from it some creed +or ethical teaching. And as the particular message usually +happens to be something that especially appeals to the seeker, +the number of conflicting messages wrung from the unfortunate +literary artist are somewhat disconcerting.</p> +<p>But in Whitman’s case the task of the message hunter is +quite simple. Whitman never leaves us in doubt what he +believes in, and what ideas he wishes to propagate. It is +of course easy—perhaps inevitable—that with a writer +whose method it is to hint, suggest, indicate, rather than +formulate, elaborate, codify, the student should read in more +than was intended. And, after all, as George Eliot said, +“The words of Genius bear a wider meaning than the thought +which prompted them.” But at any rate there is no +mistaking the general outline of his thought, for his outlook +upon life is as distinctive as Browning’s, and indeed +possesses many points of similarity. But in speaking of +Whitman’s message one thing must be borne in mind. +Whitman’s work must not be adjudged merely as a special +blend of Altruism and Individualism. No man ever works, it +has been well said <a name="citation199"></a><a +href="#footnote199" class="citation">[199]</a>—not even if +philanthropy be his trade—from the primary impulse to help +or console other people, any more than his body performs its +functions for the sake of other people. And what Professor +Nettleship says of Browning might be applied with equal truth to +Whitman. His work consists “not in his being a +teacher, or even wanting to be one, but in his doing exactly the +work he liked best and could <!-- page 200--><a +name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>not help +doing.” And Whitman’s stimulating thought is +not the less true for that, for it is the spontaneous expression +of his personality, just as fully as a melody or picture is an +expression of an artist’s personality. He could no +more help being a teacher than he could help breathing. And +his teaching must be valued not in accordance with the philosophy +of the schools, not by comparison with the ethics of the +professional moralist, but as the natural and inevitable outcome +of his personality and temperament.</p> +<p>As a panacea for social evils Whitman believes in the remedial +power of comradeship in a large-hearted charity.</p> +<blockquote><p>“You felons on trial in courts,<br /> +You convicts in prison cells, you sentenced assassins chained and +handcuffed with iron,<br /> +Who am I, too, that I am not on trial or in prison?<br /> +Me ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not +chained<br /> +With iron, or my ankles with iron?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mark the watchful impassiveness with which he gazes at the +ugly side of life.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of +the world, and upon all oppression and shame;<br /> +I hear convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with themselves, +remorseful after deeds done;</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny;<br /> +I see martyrs and prisoners—<br /> +I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting +lots who shall be killed, to preserve the lives of the rest;<br +/> +I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons +upon labourers, the poor, and upon negroes and the like;<br /> +All these—all the meanness and agony without end, I sit and +look out upon,<br /> +See, hear, and am silent.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 201--><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>No one is too base, too degraded for Whitman’s +affection. This is no mere book sentiment with him; and +many stories are told of his tenderness and charity towards the +“dregs of humanity.” That a man is a human +being is enough for Whitman. However he may have fallen +there is something in him to appeal to. He would have +agreed with Browning that—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Beneath the veriest ash there hides a spark +of soul,<br /> +Which, quickened by Love’s breath, may yet pervade the +whole<br /> +O’ the grey, and free again be fire; of worth the same<br +/> +Howe’er produced, for great or little flame is +flame.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Like Browning, also, Whitman fears lassitude and indifference +more than the turmoil of passion. He glories in the +elemental. At present he thinks we are too fearful of +coarseness and rankness, lay too much stress on refinement. +And so he delights in “unrefinement,” glories in the +woods, air-sweetness, sun-tan, brawn.</p> +<blockquote><p>“<i>So long</i>!<br /> +I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual +bold,<br /> +And I announce an did age that shall lightly and joyfully meet +its translation.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Cultured conventions, of which we make so much, distress +him. They tend, he argues, to enervation, to a poor +imitative, self-conscious art, to an artificial, morbid life.</p> +<p>His curative methods were heroic; but who can say that they +were not needed, or that they were mischievous?</p> +<p>Certainly in aiming first of all at sincerity he has attained +that noble beauty which is born of strength. <!-- page +202--><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Nature, as he saw, was full of vital loveliness by +reason of her very power. The average literary artist is +always seeking for the loveliness, aiming after beauty of form, +without a care whether what he is saying has the ring of +sincerity and truth, whether it is in touch with the realities of +Nature. And in his super-refinements he misses the beauty +that flashes forth from the rough, savage songs of Whitman.</p> +<p>Whitman does not decry culture. But he places first the +educative influence of Nature. “The best +Culture,” he says, “will always be that of the manly +and courageous instincts and loving perception, and of +self-respect.”</p> +<p>No advocate of lawlessness he; the influence of modern +sciences informs every line that he has written.</p> +<p>As Mr. Burroughs very justly says: “Whitman’s +relation to science is fundamental and vital. It is the +soil under his feet. He comes into a world from which all +childish fear and illusion has been expelled. He exhibits +the religious and poetic faculties perfectly adjusted to a +scientific, industrial, democratic age, and exhibits them more +fervent and buoyant than ever before. We have gained more +than we have lost. The world is anew created by science and +democracy, and he pronounces it good with the joy and fervour of +the old faith.”</p> +<p>In this respect Mr. Burroughs thinks that Whitman shared with +Tennyson the glory of being one of the two poets in our time who +have drawn inspiration from this source. Certainly no poet +of our time has made finer use as an artist of scientific facts +than the late Laureate.</p> +<p>But Tennyson seems scarcely to have drawn inspiration <!-- +page 203--><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>from science as did Browning, if we look at the thought +underlying the verse. On the whole scientific discoveries +depressed rather than cheered him, whereas from <i>Paracelsus</i> +onwards Browning accepts courageously all the results of modern +science, and, as in the case of Whitman, it enlarged his moral +and spiritual horizon.</p> +<p>But he was not a philosopher as Browning was; indeed, there is +less of the philosopher about Whitman than about any poet of our +age. His method is quite opposed to the philosophic. +It is instinctive, suggestive, and as full of contradictions as +Nature herself. You can no more extract a philosophy from +his sweeping utterances than you can from a tramp over the +hills.</p> +<p>But, like a tramp over the hills, Whitman fits every reader +who accompanies him for a stronger and more courageous +outlook. It is not easy to say with Whitman as in the case +of many writers: “This line quickened my imagination, that +passage unravelled my perplexities.” It is the +general effect of his writings that exercises such a remarkable +tonic influence. Perhaps he has never indicated this +cumulative power more happily than in the lines that conclude his +“Song of Myself.”</p> +<blockquote><p>“You will hardly know who I am, or what I +mean,<br /> +But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,<br /> +And filter and fibre your blood.</p> +<p>“Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged.<br /> +Missing me one place search another,<br /> +I stop somewhere waiting for you.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Yes; that is Whitman’s secret—“Good +health.” To speak of him as did his biographer, Dr. +Bucke, as “perhaps the most advanced nature the world has +yet <!-- page 204--><a name="page204"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 204</span>produced,” to rank him, as +some have done, with the world’s greatest moral teachers, +beside Jesus and Socrates, seems to me the language of hysterical +extravagant. Nay, more, it misses surely the special +significant of his genius.</p> +<p>In his religious thought, his artistic feelings, his +affections, there is breadth of sympathy, sanity of outlook, but +an entire absence of intensity, of depth.</p> +<p>We shall scan his pages vainly for the profound aspiration, +the subtle spiritual insight of our greatest religious +teachers. In his indifference to form, his insensibility to +the noblest music, we shall realize his artistic limitations.</p> +<p>Despite his genial comradeship, the more intimate, the more +delicate experiences of friendship are not to be found in his +company. Delicacy, light and shade, subtlety, intensity, +for these qualities you must not seek Whitman. But that is +no reason for neglecting him. The Modern and Ancient world +are rich in these other qualities, and the special need of the +present day is not intensity so much as sanity, not subtlety so +much as breadth.</p> +<p>In one of his clever phrases Mr. Havelock Ellis has described +Whitman “as a kind of Titanic Undine.” <a +name="citation204"></a><a href="#footnote204" +class="citation">[204]</a> Perhaps it is a good thing for +us that he never “found his soul.” In an age of +morbid self-introspection there is something refreshing in an +utterance like this, where he praises the animals +because—</p> +<blockquote><p>“They do not screech and whine about their +condition,<br /> +They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,<br /> +They do not make me sick discussing their duty to <span +class="smcap">God</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 205--><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>In a feverish, restless age it is well to feel the +presence of that large, passive, tolerant figure. There is +healing in the cool, firm touch of his hand; healing in the +careless, easy self-confidence of his utterance. He has +spoken to us of “the amplitude of the earth, and the +coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of +the earth.” And he has done this with the rough +outspokenness of the elements, with the splendid audacity of +Nature herself. Brawn, sun-tan, air-sweetness are things +well worth the having, for they mean good health. That is +why we welcome the big, genial sanity of Walt Whitman, for he has +about him the rankness and sweetness of the Earth.</p> +<h2><!-- page 206--><a name="page206"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 206</span>BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES</h2> +<p>(Some of the most noteworthy books and articles dealing with +the authors discussed in this volume are indicated below.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William Hazlitt</span> +(1778–1830).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Memoirs</i>, by William Carew +Hazlitt. <i>Four Generations of a Literary Family</i>, by +W. C. Hazlitt (1897). <i>William Hazlitt</i>, by Augustine +Birrell. <i>William Hazlitt</i>, by Alexander Ireland +(Frederick Warne & Co., 1889).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Thomas de Quincey</span> +(1785–1859).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>De Quincey</i>, by David Masson (Macmillan +& Co.). <i>De Quincey and his Friends</i>, by James +Hogg (1895). <i>De Quincey</i>, by H. S. Salt +(“Bell’s Miniature Series of Great +Writers”).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George Borrow</span> (1803–81).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Life and Letters</i> (2 vols.), by Dr. +Knapp. Introductions to <i>Lavengro</i> (Frederick Warne +& Co.), <i>The Romany Rye</i> (Frederick Warne & Co.), +<i>Wild Wales</i> (J. M. Dent & Co.), by Theodore +Watts-Dunton. Article in Chambers’s <i>Cyclopedia of +English Literature</i>. “Reminiscences of George +Borrow” (<i>Athenæum</i>, Sept. 3, 10, 1881).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Henry D. Thoreau</span> +(1817–62).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Thoreau</i>, <i>his Life and Aims</i>, by +H. A. Page (Chatto & Windus). <i>Thoreau</i>, by H. S. +Salt (“Great Writers Series”). Essays by R. L. +Stevenson (<i>Familiar Studies of Men and Books</i>), and J. R. +Lowell (<i>My Study Window</i>).</p> +<p class="gutusage">The best edition of Thoreau’s writings +is published by the Riverside Press, Cambridge, U.S.A. Some +useful volumes of selections are issued by Walter Scott, Limited, +with good introductions by Will. H. Dricks. <i>Walden</i>, +with introduction by Theodore Watts-Dunton (Henry Froude).</p> +<p><!-- page 207--><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span><span class="smcap">R. L. Stevenson</span> +(1850–94).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Letters of R. L. Stevenson to his Family +and Friends</i> (2 vols.), by Sidney Colvin, with +introduction. <i>R. L. Stevenson</i>, by L. Cope Cornford +(Blackwood & Son).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Richard Jefferies</span> +(1848–87).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Eulogy of Richard Jefferies</i>, by Walter +Besant (1888). <i>Nature in Books</i>, by P. Anderson +Graham (Methuen, 1891). <i>Richard Jefferies</i>, by H. S. +Salt (Swan Sonnenschein, 1894). <i>Dictionary of National +Biography</i>. Chambers’s <i>Cyclopedia of English +Literature</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Walt Whitman</span> (1819–92).</p> +<p class="gutusage"><i>Walt Whitman</i>, by William Clarke (Swan +Sonnenschein). Essay by R. L. Stevenson (<i>Familiar +Studies of Men and Books</i>). <i>Walt Whitman</i>: <i>a +Study</i>, by J. Addington Symonds. <i>Walt Whitman</i>, by +R. M. Bucke (Philadelphia). <i>Walt Whitman</i>, by John +Burroughs (Constable). <i>The New Spirit</i> (Essay on +Whitman), by Havelock Ellis (Walter Scott). The best +edition of <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, published by David McKay, +Philadelphia.</p> +<div class="gapspace"><!-- page 208--><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span></div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">plymouth</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">william brendon and son</span>, <span +class="smcap">ltd.</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">printers</span></p> +<h2>SOME PRESS APPRECIATIONS<br /> +of<br /> +“PERSONAL FORCES<br /> +IN MODERN LITERATURE”</h2> +<p>(<span +class="smcap">Newman—Martineau—Huxley—Wordsworth—Keats—Rossetti—Dickens—Hazlitt—De +Quincey</span>)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</p> +<p>“The agreeable work of a man of taste and many +sympathies.”—<i>The Athenæum</i>.</p> +<p>“It is delightful to come across a book so careful, to +enlightened, and so full of fresh comments.”—<i>The +Tribune</i>.</p> +<p>“A brilliant contribution to critical +literature.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Clarion</i>.</p> +<p>“Clever monographs.”—<i>The Outlook</i>.</p> +<p>“Always suggestive and stimulating.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Morning Leader</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Rickett writes capably, sanely, and vividly, with a +just perception of the distinctive quality of his subjects and +considerable power in presenting them in an interesting and +engaging way.”—<i>The Daily News</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Rickett is a sound critic and he has a scholarly +acquaintance with his subjects.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“<span class="smcap">Claudius +Clear</span>” in <i>The British Weekly</i>.</p> +<p>“An acute, sympathetic, and original critic.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Glasgow Herald</i>.</p> +<div class="gapline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">J. M. DENT & CO. 29 & 30 +BEDFORD STREET, W.C.</p> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> +<p><a name="footnote0"></a><a href="#citation0" +class="footnote">[0]</a> <i>The Coming of Love and Other +Poems</i>, by Theodore Watts-Dunton (John Lane).</p> +<p><a name="footnote21"></a><a href="#citation21" +class="footnote">[21]</a> For an excellent summary of this +doctrine, vide <i>Introduction to Herbert Spencer</i>, by W. H. +Hudson.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40"></a><a href="#citation40" +class="footnote">[40]</a> <i>Thomas De Quincey</i>, by H. +S. Salt (Bell’s Miniature Biographies).</p> +<p><a name="footnote48"></a><a href="#citation48" +class="footnote">[48]</a> <i>De Quincey’s Life and +Writings</i>, p. 456, by A. H. Japp, LL.D.</p> +<p><a name="footnote70"></a><a href="#citation70" +class="footnote">[70]</a> The gypsy word for Antonio.</p> +<p><a name="footnote71"></a><a href="#citation71" +class="footnote">[71]</a> Devil.</p> +<p><a name="footnote102"></a><a href="#citation102" +class="footnote">[102]</a> It is a peculiarly American +trait. The same thing dominates Whitman. Saxon +egotism and Yankee egotism are quite distinctive products.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106"></a><a href="#citation106" +class="footnote">[106]</a> <i>Thoreau</i>, by H. A. +Page.</p> +<p><a name="footnote124a"></a><a href="#citation124a" +class="footnote">[124a]</a> <i>Later Essays</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote124b"></a><a href="#citation124b" +class="footnote">[124b]</a> Introduction, <i>The Letters of +Robert Lents Stevenson</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote147"></a><a href="#citation147" +class="footnote">[147]</a> <i>The Eulogy of Richard +Jefferies</i> by Walter Besant.</p> +<p><a name="footnote149"></a><a href="#citation149" +class="footnote">[149]</a> Perhaps even more remarkable is +the abnormal state of consciousness described in the +“Ancient Sage.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote151a"></a><a href="#citation151a" +class="footnote">[151a]</a> <i>Six Systems of Indian +Philosophy</i>, by F. Max Müller.</p> +<p><a name="footnote151b"></a><a href="#citation151b" +class="footnote">[151b]</a> Quoted by Professor William +James, <i>Varieties of Religions Experiences</i>, p. 402.</p> +<p><a name="footnote153a"></a><a href="#citation153a" +class="footnote">[153a]</a> <i>Varieties of Religious +Experience</i>, p. 427.</p> +<p><a name="footnote153b"></a><a href="#citation153b" +class="footnote">[153b]</a> Vide <i>Richard Jefferies</i>, +by H. S. Salt.</p> +<p><a name="footnote157a"></a><a href="#citation157a" +class="footnote">[157a]</a> <i>The Life of the Fields</i>, +p. 72.</p> +<p><a name="footnote157b"></a><a href="#citation157b" +class="footnote">[157b]</a> Curious similarity of thought +here with Elia’s “popular fallacy,” though +probably quite uninspired by Lamb. Jefferies was no great +reader. It is said that he knew little or nothing of +Thoreau.</p> +<p><a name="footnote173"></a><a href="#citation173" +class="footnote">[173]</a> <i>Vide</i> Introduction to +Borrow’s <i>The Romany Rye</i>, by Theodore +Watts-Dunton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote180"></a><a href="#citation180" +class="footnote">[180]</a> <i>Familiar Studies of Men and +Books</i>, by R. L. Stevenson.</p> +<p><a name="footnote186"></a><a href="#citation186" +class="footnote">[186]</a> <i>Walt Whitman</i>, a study, by +J. A. Symonds.</p> +<p><a name="footnote188"></a><a href="#citation188" +class="footnote">[188]</a> <i>Walt Whitman</i>, by William +Clarke, p. 79.</p> +<p><a name="footnote197"></a><a href="#citation197" +class="footnote">[197]</a> Vide <i>Life of William +Morris</i> by J. W. Mackail.</p> +<p><a name="footnote199"></a><a href="#citation199" +class="footnote">[199]</a> <i>Robert Browning</i>: +<i>Essays and Thought</i>, by John T. Nettleship.</p> +<p><a name="footnote204"></a><a href="#citation204" +class="footnote">[204]</a> <i>The New Spirit</i>, by +Havelock Ellis.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VAGABOND IN LITERATURE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 33356-h.htm or 33356-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/3/5/33356 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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