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diff --git a/40241-8.txt b/40241-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4d08965..0000000 --- a/40241-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4397 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Hieroglyphics, by Arthur Machen - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Hieroglyphics - -Author: Arthur Machen - -Release Date: July 15, 2012 [EBook #40241] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIEROGLYPHICS *** - - - - -Produced by David Starner, Margo Romberg and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - - - - - - - - - Hieroglyphics - - - - - Hieroglyphics - - By - - Arthur Machen - - Author of "The Great God Pan," etc. - - London - Grant Richards - 1902 - - - - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - - Page - NOTE v - I 1 - II 42 - III 68 - IV 99 - V 125 - VI 150 - APPENDIX 171 - - - - -NOTE - - -It was my privilege, many years ago, to make the acquaintance of the -obscure literary hermit, whose talk I have tried to reproduce in the -pages that follow. Our first meeting was one of those chance affairs -that now and then mitigate the loneliness of the London streets, and a -second hazard led to the discovery that we had many interests in common. -I think that the Hermit (as I shall call him) had begun to find the -perpetual solitude of his years a growing terror, and he was not sorry -to have a listener; at first, indeed, he talked almost with the joy of a -child, or rather of a prisoner who has escaped from the house of -silence, but as he chose subjects which have always interested me -intensely, he gave as much pleasure as he received, and I became an -assiduous visitor of his cell. - -He had found an odd retreat. He avoided personalities, and had a happy -knack of forgetting any that I vouchsafed on my side, (he forgot my name -three times on the first evening that we spent together, and succeeded -in repeating this feat over and over again since then), and I never -gathered much of his past history. But I believe that "something had -happened" many years before, in the prehistoric age of the 'seventies. -There had been a break of some sort in the man's life when he was quite -young; and so he had left the world and gone to Barnsbury, an almost -mythical region lying between Pentonville and the Caledonian Road. Here, -in the most retired street of that retired quarter, he occupied two -rooms on the ground floor of a big, mouldy house, standing apart from -the street and sheltered by gaunt grown trees and ancient shrubs; and -just beside the dim and dusty window of the sitting-room a laburnum had -cast a green stain on the decaying wall. The laburnum had grown wild, -like all the trees and shrubs, and some of its black, straggling boughs -brushed the pane, and of dark, windy nights while we sat together and -talked of art and life we would be startled by the sudden violence with -which those branches beat angrily upon the glass. - -The room seemed always dark. I suppose that the house had been built in -the early eighteenth century, and had been altered and added to at -various periods, with a final "doing up" for the comparative luxury of -someone in the 'tens or 'twenties; there were, I think, twenty rooms in -it, and my friend used to declare that when a new servant came she spent -many months in finding her way in the complicated maze of stairs and -passages, and that the landlady even was now and then at fault. But the -room in which we sat was hung with flock paper, of a deep and heavy -crimson colour, and even on bright summer evenings the crimson looked -almost black, and seemed to cast a shadow into the room. Often we sat -there till the veritable darkness came, and each could scarcely see the -white of the other's face, and then my friend would light two lonely -candles on the mantelpiece, or if he wished to read he set one on a -table beside him; and when the candles were lighted I thought that the -gloom grew more intense, and looking through the uncurtained window one -could not see even the friendly twinkle of the gas-lamp in the street, -but only the vague growth of the laburnum, and the tangle of boughs -beyond. - -It was a large room and gave me always a sense of empty space. Against -one wall stood a heavy bookcase, with glass doors, solid and of dark -mahogany, but made in the intermediate period that came between -Chippendale and the modern school of machine-turned rubbish. In the -duskiest corner of the room there was a secretaire of better -workmanship, and two small tables and three gaunt chairs made up the -furnishing. The Hermit would sometimes pace up and down in the void -centre of the room as he talked, and if I chanced to be sitting by the -window, his shape would almost disappear as he neared the secretaire on -his march, and I heard the voice, and used to wonder for a moment -whether the man had not vanished for ever, having been resolved into the -shadows about him. - -I have spent many evenings in that old mouldering room, where, when we -were silent for an instant, the inanimate matter about us found a voice, -and the decaying beams murmured together, and a vague sound might come -from the cellars underneath. And it always seemed to me as if the -crypt-like odour of the cellar rose also into the room, mingling with a -faint suggestion of incense, though I am sure that my friend never -burned it. Here then, with such surroundings as I have indicated, we -held our sessions and talked freely and with enjoyment of many curious -things, which, as the Hermit would say, had the huge merit of -interesting no one but ourselves. - -He would sometimes, whimsically, compare himself to Coleridge, and I -think that he often deliberately talked in S. T. C.'s manner with -delight in the joke. For, I need hardly say that the comparison was not -in any way a serious one; he had a veneration for Coleridge's -achievement, with a still greater veneration for that which Coleridge -might have achieved, which would have caused him to regard any such -comparison, seriously entertained, as unspeakably ludicrous. Still, he -liked to regard himself as a very humble disciple in Coleridge's school, -he was fond, as I have said, of imitating his master's manner as well as -he could, and I think that he cherished, in the fashion of S. T. C., the -notion that he had a "system," an esoteric philosophy of things; he -sought for a key that would open, and a lamp that would enlighten all -the dark treasure-houses of the Universe, and sometimes he believed that -he held both the Key and the Lamp in his hands. - -It is a confession of mysticism, but I incline to think that he was -right in this belief. I recall the presence of that hollow, echoing -room, the atmosphere with its subtle suggestion of incense sweetening -the dank odours of the cellar, and the tone of the voice speaking to me, -and I believe that once or twice we both saw visions, and some glimpse -at least of certain eternal, ineffable Shapes. But these matters, the -more esoteric doctrines of "the system" have entered hardly or not at -all into the very imperfect and fragmentary notes that I have made of -his conversations on literature. - -I should scarcely be justified in calling him a literary monomaniac. But -it is true that Art in general, and the art of literature in particular -had for him a very high significance and interest; and he was always -ready to defend the thesis that, all the arts being glorious, the -literary art was the most glorious and wonderful of all. He reverenced -music, but he was firm in maintaining that in perfect lyrical poetry -there is the subtlest and most beautiful melody in the world. - -I can scarcely say whether he wrote much himself. He would speak of -stories on which he was engaged, but I have never seen his name on -publishers' lists, and I do not think that he had adopted a pseudonym. -One evening, I remember, I came in a little before my accustomed time, -and in the shadowy corner of the room, a drawer in the secretaire was -open, and I thought that it looked full of neat manuscripts. But I never -spoke to him about his literary work; and I noticed that he did not much -care to talk of literature from the commercial standpoint. - -It is perhaps needless to say that I consulted my friend before -publishing these notes of his conversations. I had been forced to leave -London for some months, and I wrote to him from the country, requesting -his permission to give to the world (if the world would have them) those -judgments on books which I had listened to in Barnsbury. His reply -allowed me to take my own way, "with all my heart, so long as you make -me sufficiently apocryphal. I am not going to compete with 'real' -critics whose names are printed in the papers; but if you can maintain -the _incognito_ and allow your readers (supposing their existence) to -believe that I am a mere figment of your brain, you can print my _obiter -dicta_ 'with ease of body and rest of reins.' Here is a suggestion for a -title: what do you say to 'Boswell in Barnsbury'? But I really had no -notion that you were taking notes all the time. Remember: keep the -secret, _and the secrets_." - -I regarded this as a very liberal license, and I have tried to set in -the best order I could compass the "system" so far as it relates to -letters. I do not pretend that I am a _verbatim_ reporter, for I had to -trust to my memory, and though I tried to arrange my notes at the time, -I fear I have fallen here and there into confusion. Still, I think that -the six chapters which follow will seem fairly consecutive in their -argument and arrangement, and the "Appendix"--a confession of -failure--is, in reality, the result of the "cyclical mode of -discoursing," in which the Hermit jocularly professed to follow -Coleridge. - -Perhaps indeed Coleridge was deceived, and my dear friend with him, in -the hope of real essential knowledge; but even so, these fragments which -I propose are evidence that the latter earnestly desired the truth and -sought it. - - A. M. - - - - -HIEROGLYPHICS - - - - -I - - -Do you know that just before you came in I found something highly -significant in the evening paper? I am afraid from your expression that -you rather undervalue the influence of the press; indeed, I remember one -day when we were out together you swore at an inoffensive boy who tried -to allure us with news of all the winners. I think I pointed out at the -time that even horse-racing and an interest in "events" are preferable -to stagnation, and that there is something august in the universal human -passion for gambling. And, after all, the office-boy who "puts on" -half-a-crown is really only an example of the love of man for the -unknown; the half-crown is a venture into mystery, with that due flavour -of commercialism which we in England add to most of our interests. But -you see, don't you? that gambling, even under its most sordid aspects, -is not altogether sordid; it's the mystery, the uncertainty, the hours -of "strange surmise" that the smallest bet gives to the bettor that -make the real delight of betting. When the office-boy wins and gets ten -shillings for the risk of his two-and-six, his delight is not by any -means pure love of gain, it is distinguished by a very marked line from -the constantly repeated joys of the grocer, who is always buying -delicious tea at ninepence and selling it at one-and-six. Here you have -commercialism in its simplest form; but our office-boy, though he likes -the money well enough, stands on a much higher plane. For the moment he -is the man who has succeeded in solving the enigma of the Sphinx, in -discovering the unknown continent, in reading the cypher, in guessing at -the song the Sirens sang, in unveiling the hidden treasure that the -buccaneers buried on the lonely shore; he has ventured successfully into -the dim region of surmises. And when he loses, there are always -consolations; the Indies have not been discovered on this voyage, -certainly, but there have been wonders on the way, he has enjoyed many -hours of delicious expectation. The proof that he likes the sport, even -when he loses, is that he invariably takes the first opportunity of -venturing again in the same manner. And, by the way, perhaps I was a -little severe just now on trade, and especially on the grocer's sugary -and soapy enterprise. Perhaps if we were to look with a rather finer -vision into the commercial spirit, we might find that it is not wholly -commercial, not altogether sordid. Of course if the grocer opens his -shop with a certainty, mathematical or almost mathematical, that the -public will buy his wares, he is a wicked fellow; he is gambling with -loaded dice, betting against a horse that he knows is to be made "all -right," playing cards with honours up his sleeve, and I am sure that if -this be his enterprise, it will always meet with our sternest -disapproval. Casanova died towards the close of the last century, and -since then cardsharping has become impossible to a man of taste. But -seriously, I suspect that a good deal of the allurement that trade -possesses for so many of us is the risk which it almost always implies, -and risk means uncertainty, and uncertainty connotes the unknown. So you -see our despised grocer turns out, after all, to be of the kin of -Columbus, of the treasure-seekers, and mystery-mongers, and delvers -after hidden things spiritual and material. I suppose we have here the -real explanation of the human trading passion, and the solution of a -problem that has often puzzled me. The problem I mean is this: how does -it happen that the English are both the greatest poets and the greatest -tradesmen of the modern world? Superficially, it seems that keeping -shops and making poetry are incompatibles, and Wordsworth and Coleridge, -Keats and Shelley, Tennyson and Poe, should have come from Provence or -Sicily, from the "unpractical," uncommercial Latin races. But if we -trace back the trading instinct to that love of a risk--or in other -words to the desire for the unknown--the antinomy disappears, and it -will become perfectly natural that the race which has gone to the -world's end with its merchandise, has penetrated so gloriously into the -further regions of poetry. - -But that reminds me of what I was saying just after you had lit your -pipe. I think I remarked that I had seen something of very high -significance in the evening paper, and the glare of disgust with which -you greeted my observation constituted an interruption, and an -interruption that had to be dealt with. Now again you seem to hint at -doubt with your eyebrows; you would say, perhaps, that I have not made -out a very convincing case for journalism? But you must remember that -my mental process resembles that of Coleridge; you called on the Seer at -eleven o'clock in the morning, and (if young and imprudent) asked him a -question. And at the waning of the light Coleridge was still diligently -engaged in answering your question for you, having talked without -intermission all the summer day. A "cyclical mode of discoursing" the -pious Henry Nelson Coleridge called it, and he deals faithfully with -certain persons who complained "that they could get no answer to a -question from Coleridge." And you will please to remember this when you -think that I am "wandering"--a vice of which Coleridge also was accused. -To-night, for example, on the evening paper being mentioned, your face -expressed disgust and contempt, which I diagnosed (and rightly, I -believe?) as a tribute to the enormous interest taken by the editors of -these agreeable journals in the very latest sporting news; an interest -which allows but little space for the discussion of pure literature. -Hence my remarks on the gambling-spirit; and now I hope you will at -least assume a thrill of interest when the boy bawls in your ear "All -the winners and S. P." It is possible you may be thinking of Ulysses or -of Keats at the moment, and the interruption may annoy you, but it will -do so no longer when you reflect that a burning anxiety as to the -running of Bolter is for many thousands the symbol--and the only -possible symbol--of the Doom of Troy and the wandering fields of foam, -and the Isle of Calypso, and the "strange surmise" of Pizarro and all -his men. - -But here is the evening-paper in question. Yes, the colour is, perhaps, -a little sickly. A kind of pinky-green, it seems, doesn't it? But it -forced itself on my notice in the most extraordinary manner, and I -expect you will have to admit, when you have heard the story, that some -Powers were at work. Well, I was walking up and down the room, just as -it was getting dusk, and every now and then I stopped and looked out of -the window. Yes, I was making phrases as usual, and thinking of a new -story in the middle of the old one: hence the quarter-deck exercise. I -daresay you have remarked that I do not keep my window in a very -brilliant condition, and the air this evening, you will remember, was -rather misty--October, I always think, wears a peculiar dim grace in -Barnsbury--so I hope you will not find my impressions too incredible. I -was staring, then, out of the window, when to my vast astonishment, a -great pale bird seemed suddenly to shoot up into the air from the road, -and to flutter into the garden, where it became entangled in that -sapless old laburnum that weeps green tears upon the wall. I saw, as I -thought, the beating and fluttering of wings, and I ran out, imagining -that I was to secure a strange companion for my solitude. It was the -evening paper, not a bird, and I saw at once that it would be impious to -let it flutter there unread, so I secured it and brought it in, -meditating the adventure, and wondering what strange message was thus -borne to my eyes. So I went through its columns patiently, even to the -leaderettes, and I will do myself the justice to say that I at once -recognised the communication that was addressed to me in this singular -and even I may say Arabian fashion. It was a short comment upon some -agitation that is now appealing rather strongly to Progressive leaders; -but the subject-matter is of no consequence, since the significance lies -in the last sentence. Here it is: "We are glad to hear that extensive -arrangements have been made for the dissemination of literature." - -You don't see the immense importance of that? You surprise me. Let us go -into it, then. I told you I was not very precise as to the exact scope -of the agitation alluded to--it may be a question of a heavy tax on -persons who will say "lady" instead of "lydy," it may be an affair of -restricting the franchise to citizens thoroughly ignorant of history; it -doesn't matter--but here are men who wish some political change to be -effected, and these men are issuing printed matter, the purpose of which -is to convince others of the righteousness of this particular "program." -And this printed matter is called "literature." You know the sort of -thing indicated. It may be a series of arguments, simple and fallacious, -it may be in dialogue, it may be in story form, it may assume the guise -of parody, it may be a brief history. And now what I want to know is -this: here we have a vast body of thought, clothed in words, ranging -from the agreeable leaflets that we have been speaking of up to--let us -say--the Odyssey, and all this mass is known as literature: what is to -be our criterion, our means of distinguishing between the two extremes -I have mentioned and all the innumerable links between them? Is the -whole mass literature in the true sense of the word? If not, with what -instrument, by what rule are we to divide the true from the false, to -judge exactly in the case of any particular book whether it is -literature or not? Of course you may say that the question is rather -verbal than real; that "literature" is a general term conveniently -applied to anything in print, and that in practice everybody knows the -difference between a political pamphlet and the Odyssey. I very much -doubt whether people do understand precisely the distinction between the -two, but for the avoidance of verbal confusion I suggest that when we -mean literature in its highest sense we shall say (for the present at -all events), "fine literature"; and the question will be, then: what is -it that differentiates fine literature from a number of grammatical, or -partly grammatical, sentences arranged in a more or less logical order? -Why is the Odyssey to come in, why is the "literature" of our evening -paper to be kept out? And again, to put the question in a more subtle -form: to which class do the works of Jane Austen belong? Is "Pride and -Prejudice" to stand on the Odyssey shelf, or to lie in the pamphlet -drawer? Where is Pope's place? Is he to be set in the class of Keats? If -not, for what reason? What is the rank of Dickens, of Thackeray, of -George Eliot, of Hawthorne; and in a word, how are we to sort out, as it -were, this huge multitude of names, giving to each one his proper rank -and station? - -I am glad it strikes you as a big question: to me it seems _the_ -question, the question which covers the final dogma of literary -criticism. Of course after we have answered this prerogative riddle, -there will be other questions, almost without end, classes, and -sub-classes of infinite analysis. But this will be detail; while the -question I have propounded is the question of first principles; it marks -the parting of two ways, and in a manner, it asks itself not only of -literature, but of life, but of philosophy, but of religion. What is the -line, then; the mark of division which is to separate spoken, or -written, or printed thought into two great genera? - -Well, as you may have guessed, I have my solution, and I like it none -the less, because the word of the enigma seems to me actually but a -single word. Yes, for me the answer comes with the one word, _Ecstasy_. -If ecstasy be present, then I say there is fine literature, if it be -absent, then, in spite of all the cleverness, all the talents, all the -workmanship and observation and dexterity you may show me, then, I -think, we have a product (possibly a very interesting one), which is not -fine literature. - -Of course you will allow me to contradict myself, or rather, to amplify -myself before we begin to discuss the matter fully. I said my answer was -the word, ecstasy; I still say so, but I may remark that I have chosen -this word as the representative of many. Substitute, if you like, -rapture, beauty, adoration, wonder, awe, mystery, sense of the unknown, -desire for the unknown. All and each will convey what I mean; for some -particular case one term may be more appropriate than another, but in -every case there will be that withdrawal from the common life and the -common consciousness which justifies my choice of "ecstasy" as the best -symbol of my meaning. I claim, then, that here we have the touchstone -which will infallibly separate the higher from the lower in literature, -which will range the innumerable multitude of books in two great -divisions, which can be applied with equal justice to a Greek drama, an -eighteenth century novelist, and a modern poet, to an epic in twelve -books, and to a lyric in twelve lines. I will convince you of my belief -in my own nostrum by a bold experiment: here is _Pickwick_ and here is -_Vanity Fair_; the one regarded as a popular "comic" book, the other as -a serious masterpiece, showing vast insight into human character; and -applying my test, I set _Pickwick_ beside the Odyssey, and _Vanity Fair_ -on top of the political pamphlet. - -I will not argue the matter at the moment; I would merely caution you -against supposing that I imply any equality of merit in the books that I -have thus summarily "bracketed." You mustn't suppose that I think -Dickens's book as good as Homer's, or that I have any doubts as to the -vast superiority of _Vanity Fair_ over all the pamphlets in the world. -"Here is a temple, here is a tub," we may suppose a child to say, -learning from a picture-alphabet; but the temple may be a miserably -designed structure, in ruinous condition, and the tub is, perhaps, a -miracle of excellent workmanship. But one means worship and the other -means washing, and that is _the_ distinction. Or, to take a better -example; the bottom boy in the sixth form may be a miserable dunce -compared with the top boy in the fifth; still the dunce is in the sixth -form, and the genius is in the fifth. Or, to take a third instance (I -want you to understand what I'm driving at), the fact that an English -orator is fluent, brilliant, profound, convincing, while a Greek orator -is stuttering, stupid, shallow, illogical does not hinder that the -former, though he may speak ever so well, still speaks English, while -the latter, however badly he may speak, speaks in Greek for all that. -Analogies, as you know, are never perfect, and must not be pressed too -far; they suggest rather than prove; but I hope you understand me though -you may not agree with me. - -But before we argue the merits of my own literary solvent, we might very -well see what we can do with other tests. I daresay you can suggest a -good many. We won't go into the question of printed and not printed, -written or not written, because it is obvious that the visible symbols -by which literature is recorded have nothing to do with literature -itself. In the beginning all literature was a matter of improvisation -or recitation and memory, and hieroglyphics, writing, printing are mere -conveniences. Indeed the point is only worth mentioning because there -are, I believe, simple souls who think that the invention of printing -has some sort of mysterious connection with the birth of literature, and -that the abolition of the paper duty was its coming of age. But I don't -think we need trouble ourselves much about a view of literary art which -regards the cheap press as its father and the school board as its -nursing mother. Many people think, on the other hand, that literature is -to be estimated by its effect on the emotions, by the shock which it -gives to the system. You may say that a book which interests you so -intensely that you cannot put it down, that affects you so acutely that -you weep, that amuses you so immensely that you roar with laughter must -be very good. I don't object to "very good," but from my point of view, -"very good" and "fine literature" are two different things. You see -I believe that the difference between interesting, exciting, -tear-compelling, laughter-moving reading matter and fine art is not -specific but generic: who would blaspheme against good bitter beer, who -would say that _because_ it is good, it is _therefore_ Burgundy? - -I am not quite sure that I am not muddling up two things which are in -reality distinct. I mean I am in doubt whether the faculty of making the -reader cry ought not to be distinguished from the faculty of interesting -him intensely. On the whole I think that it would be well to draw a line -between the two, especially as "interesting" is somewhat ambiguous. - -And you think it a paradox, then, to maintain that the power of exciting -the emotions to a high degree is not a mark of fine literature? But just -think it over. Suppose that a few yards from this room--in the next -house, in the next street--a woman is waiting for the return of her -husband and son. A ring comes at the bell, there's a reddish-brown -envelope, and inside it the message: "Railway accident father killed." -Well, you can imagine the effect that these four words will have on the -woman's emotions; she will either faint away, or burst into an agony of -tears; she may even die of the shock, and you can't have a more striking -emotional result than death, can you? Very well; but is the telegram -fine art? Is it art? Is it even artifice? It isn't art because it is -true! But if I invented such a telegram and sent it to a woman whose -husband and son were away, would it thereby become art? You must see -perfectly well that it would be nothing of the kind; and I must ask you -to explain how a book which is, virtually, a long succession of such -telegrams can rise higher than its origin and source? You must see, I -think, that the question of truth and falsity can make no real -difference to our (no doubt pompous) high ęsthetic standpoint; and if -you admit that four words which produce an emotional result are not -necessarily art, then it follows that four hundred or four hundred -thousand words woven together on the same principle are in no better -position. An increased quantity means no doubt an increased artifice, -but artifice and art are very different things. We may agree then that -it is impossible to measure the artistic merit of a book by the -emotional shock that it may give to its readers. I have never read the -"Sorrows of Werther"; but if you have read it and it has made you -sorrowful you are hereby warned against deducing from this effect any -conclusion as to its ęsthetic value. - -I confess all this seems A B C to me, though I see you are still -inclined to think me a little paradoxical--not to say sophistical--but -it grows more difficult when one gets to the question of the -"interesting" or "absorbing" book. As I said "interesting" seems such an -ambiguous word. It may stand for that ęsthetic emotion produced, say, by -the OEdipus; it may denote the wide-eyed attention of the butcher's wife -listening to the story of my landlady as to the love-affairs of the -grocer's daughter--and there are many books which are, virtually, -"Tales of My Landlady" printed and bound. We must really then omit -"interesting" in our account of the possible criteria of fine art; the -word as it were cancels itself out, because it may mean on the one hand -the possession of the highest artistic value, or on the other it may -serve as epithet for a book which gratifies the lowest curiosity. You -know there are books which the French have kindly named "romans ą clef"; -and I suppose there is no more miserable form of book-making. The -receipt is easy enough. The grocer's daughter, to whose amours I alluded -just now, is really named Miss Buggins, and the gentleman is Mr Tibb. -Well, suppose that my landlady, relating their lyric to the butcher's -wife, should, with a knowing wink, profess to tell the story of Miss -Ruggins and Mr Ribb--she would simply be composing a _roman ą clef_ -without knowing it. You might say that it is hardly worth while to -labour the point, that such "interest" as this is wholly and lamentably -inartistic--that it is the very contrary to all true art--but it is not -long since a person of some literary note, in criticising the -"Heptameron," stated that its chief value lay in the fact that one could -identify the persons who tell the stories and those also of whom they -were told! - -But there is another interest of a much higher kind, and that is the -sensational. We have done some excellent books of this sort in England, -and perhaps you will understand the class I mean when I say that a novel -of this description is hard to lay down, and harder still to take up -again when you have once found out the secret. This is not high art; you -are always at liberty to put down "Lycidas," but then you are compelled -to take it up again and again, and the secret of "Lycidas" is always a -secret, and one never fails to experience the joy of an artistic -surprise. Still the books I mean sometimes show very high artifice, and -in itself, perhaps, the quality that I am talking about, the power of -exciting a vivid curiosity, an earnest desire to know what is to come -next is not, like the vulgar _roman ą clef_ curiosity, in actual -disaccord from the purpose of art. Indeed I imagine that this trick of -stimulating the curiosity may be made subservient to purely ęsthetic -ends, it may become a handmaid to lead one towards that desire of the -unknown which I think was one of the synonyms I gave you for the master -word--Ecstasy. Still, though the trick is a good one, it will not, by -itself, make fine art. You may discover so much by reading the -"Moonstone," that monument of ingenuity and absurdity. On the face of it -all detective stories come under this heading: formally, no doubt, they -must all be reckoned as tricks, and they may vary from the infinitely -ingenious to the infinitely imbecile, and so far as I remember, the -famous French tales of detection verge towards the lower rather than the -higher ground. But I am inclined, not very logically, perhaps, to make -an exception in favour of Poe's Dupin, and to place him almost in the -sphere of pure literature. Logically, he is a detective, but I almost -think that in his case the detective is a symbol of the mystagogue. As -I say, I should be pressed hard if I were asked to make out my case in -terms and syllogisms, but if you require me to do so, I would say first -of all that the atmosphere of Dupin--and you must remember that in -literature everything counts; it is not alone the plot, or the style -that we have to consider--has to me hints of that presence which I have -called ecstasy. Listen to this: - -"It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) -to be enamoured of the Night for her own sake; and into this -_bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up -to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable divinity would not -herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At -the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massive shutters of our -old building; lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, -threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these -we then buried our souls in dreams--reading, writing, or conversing, -until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we -sallied forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of -the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking amid the -wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental -excitement which quiet observation can afford." - -And again; in the stories themselves, in the conduct of M. Dupin's -detective processes, I find a faint suggestion of the under-consciousness -or other consciousness of man, a mere hint, not, I think, expressed in so -many words, rather latent than patent, that if you would thoroughly -understand the rational man you must have sounded the irrational man, the -mysterious companion that walks beside each one of us on the earthly -journey. Of course the artifice in the Dupin stories is of the very -highest kind, but for the reasons I have given I am inclined to think that -there is more than artifice, and the shadow, at all events, of art itself. - -But this exceptional case of Poe's detective tales only leads us back to -the main proposition--that the power of exciting a very high sensational -interest does not, in itself, mark out a book as being fine literature. -I think I proved the proposition by my instance of the "Moonstone," but -if that does not convince you, we might demonstrate this theorem in the -same way as we demonstrated the other one about the "literature" that -produces its effect on the emotions. We have only to send out a series -of telegrams, or we may even glance at the newspaper, and follow a case -in the Central Criminal Court. Or we may affirm, more generally, that -life often offers many highly absorbing and highly interesting -spectacles, but that life is not art, and therefore, that literature -which fails to rise above the level of life, or rather, to penetrate -beneath the surface of life, is not fine literature in our sense of that -term. A gold nugget may be as pure and fine as you like, but it is not a -sovereign; it lacks the stamp; and it is the business of art to give its -stamp and imprint to the matter of life. - -I really think then that we have disposed of perhaps the most generally -received of artistic fallacies--that books are to be judged by their -power of reproducing in the reader those feelings of grief, interest, -curiosity, and so forth which he experiences or may experience in his -everyday life, which he really does experience in greater or less degree -every time he talks to a friend, takes up a newspaper, or receives a -telegram. It comes to this again and again, doesn't it, that Art and -Life are two different spheres, and that the Artist with a capital A is -not a clever photographer who understands selection in a greater or less -degree. - -But before we go on with our work and see what can be done with other -literary "solvents" I want to make a digression. I should have made it -before, if you had pulled me up at the proper cue, and that was when I -spoke of "interest" as a highly ambiguous term, the fruitful parent of -"undistributed middles." You see how the unscrupulous sophist would bend -this word to his dark work, don't you? It would be, I suppose, something -like this: - - A very high degree of interest [of the artistic kind] is the mark - of fine literature. - - But, the "Moonstone" excites a very high degree of interest [of the - sensational kind]. - - _Therefore_, the "Moonstone" has the mark of fine literature. - -You note the "paltering" with the word, its use now in one sense, and -now in another; and if that sort of thing were allowed we should have -Wilkie Collins placed among the Immortals before we knew where we were. -But hasn't it occurred to you that nearly all the terms we are using are -patient of the same vile uses? You remember that we began with -"literature" itself, as a monstrous example of ambiguity, sheltering as -it did both the publications of the Anti-Everything Society and the Song -of Ulysses' Wandering; even now we are trying to track the monster to -his den in spite of his manifold turnings and disguises. In the -meanwhile, for the sake of clearness, we agreed to prefix the epithet -"fine" to the word when we meant the "Odyssey" class, though if we say -"fine" so often I am afraid we run the risk of being thought superfine. -However one must run all risks in the cause of making oneself -understood; and so I say you ought to have pulled me up when I talked -about "art" and "books that appealed to the emotions." My "art" may not -be the same as your "art," and "emotions" are still more dangerous in -the same way. - -I think I made some attempt to deal with "art" as I was talking. I -contrasted it with "artifice," and my phrase "Artist with a big A" was -another hint to you that the word must be handled cautiously. You know -that in ordinary conversation we say that bees have "the art" or "an -art" of making hexagonal cells of wax, that wasps have an art of making -a sort of paper for their nests, that there is an art of logic, an art -of cookery, an art in making a gravel path. Now in each of these -instances the word really speaks of the adaptation of means to ends. In -the case of the bees and wasps there is a slightly different _nuance_ of -meaning, because they make their cells and their paper just as a bird -builds its nest, through the influence of forces which to us are occult, -which we conveniently sum up under the word instinct. In the arts of -cookery and pathmaking there is a conscious employment of certain means -towards the securing of certain ends; and it is at least possible that -the swallow, gathering its materials and shaping them, has at the moment -nothing but a blind impulse, similar to that of hunger--we all know when -we are hungry and we all know what to do in such a case, but we do not -all know the physiology of the stomach and the gastric juices, and -perhaps not one of us knows the whole secret of inanition and -nutrition. We simply eat because we want to eat, not because we wish to -supply ourselves with a certain quantity of peptones; and so perhaps the -swallow gathers her nest and shapes it, without the consciousness of the -eggs and the little birds that are to follow. But I need not remind you -that there are plenty of well authenticated instances of animals who -have consciously used means to secure ends, and thus "art" in its common -significance is not even an exclusively human faculty. When, for -example, the bees find themselves in danger of being left queenless, -they administer what has been called "royal food" to a common grub, and -that which would have been a worker becomes a queen; and in this case -the bees are as much "artists" as the cook who puts a particular -ingredient into a dish with the view of obtaining a particular flavour. - -Now, then, let us apply all this to our matter. I daresay you have often -heard a book praised for its "great art," and if you have read it you -will have discovered that its "art" is simply contrivance, the very -adaptation of means to ends that we have been discussing. "The art with -which the mystery is carefully kept in the background," "the art by -which the two characters are contrasted throughout the volume," "the -highly artistic manner in which Fernando and the heroine are brought -together on the last page"--these, you see clearly, are contrivances, -artifices, in no way differing in degree from the contrivances of the -man who makes the garden path, of the cook who "dusts in" just a -suspicion of lemon-rind, of the bee who administers the "royal food." -This "art" then is a totally different thing from our Art with the -capital letter, with the epithet "fine," or "high" before it; and in -future when I mean "adaptation of means to ends," I shall always say -"artifice"; while "art" will be retained and set apart for higher uses. - -And now as to "emotion." Here, I think, you ought to have been down on -me. You might have said: "You declare that the appeal to the emotions is -not a test of fine literature. But to what then does Homer appeal? What -is the "OEdipus" but an appeal to the emotions? What is all exquisite -lyric poetry but the cry of the emotions, set to music?" I suppose that, -as a matter of fact, you understood my real meaning by the instance I -gave; the anguish of a wife at the loss of a husband; you saw that what -I wanted to say was this: that fine literature does not content itself -with repeating, or mimicking, the emotions of private, personal, -everyday life. Still, I should have gone into the matter more fully -then, and as I did not do so, we had better see what can be done now. -And do you know that I believe that the best approach we can make to a -rather subtle question will be a somewhat indirect one? Just now I was -talking about Poe's Dupin stories, and I tried, rather vaguely, to -justify my tentative inclusion of them in the higher class of letters, -by pointing out that Poe seemed to hint at the "other-consciousness" of -man, and to suggest, at least, the presence of that shadowy, unknown, or -half-known companion who walks beside each one of us all our days. I -tried to realise the image of a man, followed or rather attended, by a -spiritual fellow, treading a path parallel with but different from his -own; and now I want you to carry out this image into the sphere of -words. Already you must have a hint of it. One might draw a figure; -something like this: - - +--------------------+-----------------+ - | | | - | Fine Literature. | "Literature." | - | Art. | Artifice. | - | Emotion. | Feelings. | - | | | - +--------------------+-----------------+ - -And before I go into the special question, let me extend the list; it -will explain itself. - - +------------------------+-----------------------------------------+ - | | | - | Romance, romantic. | A "Romantic" Affair in the West End. | - | Tragedy, tragic. | "Tragedy" in Soho. | - | Drama, dramatic. | Le "drame" de la Rue Cochon: | - | | "Dramatic" Elopement in Peckham. | - | Interest, interesting | An "interesting" number of "Snippets." | - | [of "Hamlet"]. | | - | Lyric. | The "Lyric" Theatre. | - | Inebriated. | In an "inebriated" condition. | - | | | - +------------------------+-----------------------------------------+ - -That almost gives my secret away, doesn't it? Of course you see the -place that the words in the right-hand column take in the scheme. The -"Romantic" Affair in the West End really concerned the life of a -draper's assistant, who robbed his master's till, in order that he might -make presents to Miss Claire Tilbury, one of the "Sisters Tilbury" now -performing at the "Lucifer." An unmentionable person cut his throat in -some alley off Greek Street; hence the "Tragedy" in Soho. Two -peculiarly squalid servants, who beat out their master's brains, under -singularly uninteresting circumstances, acted the "Drama" of the Rue -Cochon, and it was a dissolute barmaid who eloped "dramatically" from -Peckham in the dog-cart of her employer. The two varying uses of the -word "lyric" need not be underlined for you, who know the Elizabethans -and the Cavaliers; but perhaps I may say that he who tastes _calix meus -inebrians_ will not be in an "inebriated" condition. It would be -possible to extend these parallel columns almost to infinity; but I -think the list is long enough for our purpose, and "Trench on Words" is -a well-known handbook. But you see my right-hand column word, parallel -with "Emotion"? You see I have written "Feelings," and I suggest that it -will be convenient to speak of feelings when we mean the things of life, -of society, of personal and private relationship, while we may reserve -emotion for the influence produced in man by fine art. Thus it will be -with emotion that we witness the fall of OEdipus, the madness of Lear, -while we feel for our friends and ourselves in misfortune. That seems to -make it plain enough, doesn't it; you see now, clearly, what I mean by -saying that the power of producing an emotional shock cannot be a test -of fine literature. Art must appeal to emotion, and sometimes, no doubt, -with a shock; but it must always be to the emotion of the left-hand -column, never to the "feelings" on the right hand. So you must never -tell me that a book is fine art because it made you, or somebody else, -cry; your tears are, emphatically, not evidence in the court of Fine -Literature. - -I daresay it may have struck you that the tests we have considered -hitherto have been, in the main, popular tests. No doubt many persons -calling themselves critics have praised the art of a book because it has -drawn tears from eyes, or because it has not suffered itself to be put -down, or because it contains easily recognisable portraits of well-known -people, but such critics are to be spelt with a very small initial -letter, and, as I said, I don't think we want to extend that list of -parallels. There is another test that I had forgotten: I suppose there -really are people who believe that a book is fine "because it will do -good," but I don't think we'll argue with them, though I once knew a -liberally-educated man who said a certain book was fine because it -tended "to raise one's opinion of the clergy." So we will reckon our -"popular" tests as done with, and proceed to the more technical solvents -that are proposed by professed men of letters. - -Three of these more literary criteria occur to me at the moment, and I -believe we shall understand them and the position which they represent -better if we take them, at first, at all events, in a mass. I can -conceive, then, that many persons whose opinion one would respect would -state their position in literary criticism somewhat as follows:--"If a -book (they would say) shows keenness of observation, insight into -character, with fidelity to life as the result of these capacities; if -its art (we should say, artifice) in the design and 'laying out' of the -plot, in the contrivance of incident is confessedly admirable, and -finally if it is written in a good style: then you have fine literature. -Fine art, in short, is a clear mirror, and the artist's skill consists -in arranging and selecting such parts of life as he thinks best for his -purpose of reflection." - -Well, now, as to the first point: fidelity to life, clearness of -reflection, the selection being taken for granted, as no one out of an -asylum would maintain that a book must mirror the whole of life, or even -the millionth part of one particular man's life. Come, let us apply the -test in question to one or two of the acknowledged excellencies--to the -"Odyssey" for instance, to the "Morte D'Arthur," to "Don Quixote." Is -the story of Ulysses, in any accepted sense of the phrase "faithful" to -life as we know it? Is it "faithful," that is to say, with the fidelity -of Jane Austen, of Thackeray, of George Eliot, of Fielding? Is there -anything in our experience answering to the episodes of the -Lotus-Eaters, Calypso's Isle, the Cyclops' Cavern, the descent of the -Goddess? Is the "reflection" even a reflection of Homer's own -experience? Had he escaped from the cave under the belly of a ram? Had -he been in the world of one-eyed giants? Were his friends in the habit -of talking in hexameter verse? We may go on, of course, but is it worth -while? It is surely hardly necessary to demonstrate the fact that the -author of the "Morte D'Arthur" had never seen the Graal, that such a -character as Don Quixote never existed in the natural order of things. -We might have gone more sharply to work with this "fidelity" test: we -might have said that poetry being, admittedly fine literature at its -finest, and (admittedly also) being unfaithful to life as we know it -both in matter and manner, that therefore the test breaks down at once. -If fine literature must be faithful to life, then "Kubla Khan" is not -fine literature; which, I think we may say, is highly absurd. - -I daresay you think I have dealt rather crudely, in a somewhat -materialistic spirit, with this criterion of "fidelity to life." I admit -the charge, but you must remember that I am dealing with very bad -people, who understand nothing but materialism. And when these people -tell you in so many words that it is the author's business clearly and -intelligently to present the life--the common, social life around -him--then, believe me, the only thing to be done is to throw "Odyssey" -and "OEdipus," "Morte D'Arthur," "Kubla Khan" and "Don Quixote" straight -in their faces, and to demonstrate that these eternal books were not -constructed on the proposed receipt. Of course if I were treating with -the initiated, if I were commentating and not arguing, I should handle -the great masterpieces in a much more reverent manner. I mean that for -those who possess the secret it skills not to bring in the Cyclops (who -for us is not a giant but a symbol); we have only to bow down before the -great music of such a poem as the Odyssey, recognising that by the very -reason of its transcendent beauty, by the very fact that it trespasses -far beyond the world of our daily lives, beyond "selection" and -"reflection," it is also exalted above our understanding, that because -its beauty is supreme, that therefore its beauty is largely beyond -criticism. For ourselves we do not need to prove its transcendence of -life by this or that extraordinary incident; it is the whole spirit and -essence and sound and colour of the song that affect us; and we know -that the Odyssey surpassed the bounds of its own age and its own land -just as much as it surpasses those of our time and our country. You look -as if you thought I were fighting with the vanquished, but let me tell -you that great people have praised Homer because he depicted truthfully -the men and manners of his time. - -But as I was saying, all this would be too subtle for the enemy, for the -people who maintain that fine literature is a faithful reflection of -life, and think that Jane Austen touched the point of literary -supremacy. With them, as I said, we must be rough; we must ask: Did -Sophocles describe the ordinary life of Athens in his day? No: very -well, then; since the works of Sophocles are fine literature, it follows -that some fine literature does not reflect ordinary life, and therefore -that fidelity to nature is not the differentia of the highest art. - -I wonder whether I ought to caution you again against the ambiguity of -language? We are dealing easily enough with such words as "life" and -"nature," and from what you know of my system you may perhaps have seen -that I have been using these words as the people use them, as those use -them who would say that "Vanity Fair" is a faithful presentation of -life. I thought you would understand this, but I may just mention in -passing that words like "nature," "life" and "truth" or "fidelity" have -also their esoteric values, that (by way of example) the truth of the -scientist and the truth of the philosopher are two very different -things. So it may turn out by and bye that in the occult sense, -"fidelity to life" _is_ the differentia of fine literature; that the -aim of art is truth; that the artist continually mirrors nature in its -eternal, essential forms; but for the present moment, it is understood, -is it not, that these words have been used in their common, everyday -popular significance? The "Dunciad" is a study of man, and Wordsworth's -"Ode on Intimations of Immortality" is a study of man, and the literary -standpoint that we have been attacking is that of Pope and not that of -Wordsworth. - -If I remember, the next test we have to analyse is that of artifice, -often and improperly called art. But I think we have already demolished -this criterion. In distinguishing between art and artifice I pointed out -that the latter merely signifies the adaptation of means to an end, and -has no relation whatever with art properly so-called; it is simply the -mental instrument with which man performs every task and every work of -his daily life; it consists in the rejection of that which is unfit for -the particular purpose in view, and in the acceptance and use of that -which is fit for the desired end and likely to bring it about. It -concerns not creation but execution, and it is I need hardly say as -indispensable to the author as are his pen and ink, and (I might almost -say) is as little concerned as these with the essence of his art. Of -course in works of the very highest genius we may declare that, in a -sense, art has become all in all, that the necessary artifice has been -interpenetrated with art, so that we can hardly distinguish in our minds -between the idea and the realisation of it. In such cases, artifice has -been lifted up and exalted into the heaven of art, and it remains -artifice no longer; but in the view that we are considering it is merely -the adaptation of means to an end, a clever choice of incident, the -knack of putting in and leaving out. The faculty may, as I said, be -glorified and transfigured by genius, but every newspaper reporter must -have more or less of it, and it is clear enough I think (perhaps I may -mention Wilkie Collins once more) that in itself it cannot establish the -claim of any book to be fine literature. - -And lastly we have to deal with style; and here again I must have -recourse to my distinctions. What _is_ a good style? If you mean by a -"good" style, one that delivers the author's meaning in the clearest -possible manner, if its purpose and effect are obviously utilitarian, if -it be designed solely with the view of imparting knowledge--the -knowledge of what the author intends--then I must point out that "style" -in this sense is or should be amongst the accomplishments of every -commercial clerk--indeed, it will be merely a synonym for plain speaking -and plain writing--and in this sense it is evidently not one of the -marks of art, since the object of art is not information, but a peculiar -kind of ęsthetic delight. But if on the other hand style is to mean such -a use and choice of words and phrases and cadences that the ear and the -soul through the ear receive an impression of subtle but most beautiful -music, if the sense and sound and colour of the words affect us with an -almost inexplicable delight, then I say that while Idea is the soul, -style is the glorified body of the very highest literary art. Style, in -short, is the last perfection of the very best in literature, it is the -outward sign of the burning grace within. But we must keep the -systematic consideration of style for some other night; it's not a -subject to be dealt with by the way, and I have only said so much -because it was necessary to draw the line between language as a means of -imparting facts (good style in the sense of our opponents) and language -as an ęsthetic instrument, which is a good, or rather a beautiful style -in our sense. In the latter sense it is the form of fine literature, in -the former sense it is the medium of all else that is expressed in -words, from a bill of exchange upwards. - -It seems to me, then, that we have considered one by one the alternative -tests of fine literature which have been or may be proposed, and we have -come to the conclusion that each and all are impossible. It is no longer -permissible, I imagine, for you or for me to say: "This book is fine -literature because it makes me cry, because it was so interesting that I -couldn't put it down, because it is so natural and faithful to life, -because it is so well (plainly and neatly) written." We have picked -these reasons to pieces one by one, and the result is that we are driven -back on my "word of the enigma"--Ecstasy; the infallible instrument, as -I think, by which fine literature may be discerned from reading-matter, -by which art may be known from artifice, and style from intelligent -expression. At any rate we have got our hypothesis, and you remember -what stress Coleridge laid on the necessity of forming some hypothesis -before entering on any investigation. - -I believe we began to-night with the evening paper, and the strange -glimpse it gives us, through a pinky-green veil, through a cloud of -laborious nonsense about odds and winners and tips and all such foolery, -into that ancient eternal desire of man for the unknown. And that, you -remember, was one of the synonyms that I offered you for ecstasy; and so -in a sense I expect that we shall have the evening paper close beside us -all the way of our long voyage in quest of the lost Atlantis. - - - - -II - - -I think it is a horrible thing to have such a good memory as that. I -recollect, now that you remind me, that I did lay down "Pickwick" _v._ -"Vanity Fair" as a sort of test case of my theory of literature; but you -surely do not expect me to work out the arguments in detail? Of course -if I were giving a series of lectures I should "set a paper" after each -one; but I expect you to content yourself with the suggestion, with the -skeleton map, as it were. Besides, if we take that special case of two -eminent Victorian novels as a concrete instance of the abstract -argument, don't you see that we are answering the particular question -all the while that we are investigating the general proposition? Surely -if you recollect all that we said about fine literature in general, you -won't have much difficulty in adjudicating on the claims of Thackeray. -Don't you see that he never withdraws himself from the common life and -the common consciousness, that he is all the while nothing but a -photographer; a showman with a set of pictures. A consummately clever -photographer, certainly, a showman with a gift of amusing, interesting -"patter" that is quite extraordinary, an artificer of very high merit. -But where will you find Ecstasy in Thackeray? Where is his adoration? -You may search, I think, from one end of his books to the other, without -finding any evidence that he realised the mystery of things; he was -never for a moment aware of that shadowy double, that strange companion -of man, who walks, as I said, foot to foot with each one of us, and yet -his paces are in an unknown world. And (unless you have got any fresh -arguments) I think we decided last week that the book which lacks the -sense of all this is not fine literature. - -I hope you don't think I am abusing Thackeray. I am always reading him, -and I chose his "Vanity Fair" because it strikes me as such a supremely -clever example of its class. I suppose there is nothing more amusing -than the society of a brilliant, observant man of the world. Well, -Thackeray was brilliant and observant _in excelsis_, and besides that, -he understood the artifice of story-telling, and he could write a terse, -clean-cut English which was always sufficient for his purpose. He -contrives the corporal overthrow of the Marquis of Steyne, he shows you -that bald old nobleman sprawling on the floor, and the words that he -uses are his brisk, willing, and capable servants. He has observation, -and artifice, and "style" in that secondary sense which we distinguished -from the real style; from those "melodies unheard" which I called (I -think rather picturesquely) the glorified body of the highest literary -art. But these qualities, we found out, are not, separately or -conjointly, the differentia of fine literature as we understand the -term; and consequently, with all our admiration and all our interest we -are compelled to place Thackeray in the lower form, simply because he is -clearly and decisively lacking in that one essential quality of ecstasy, -because he never leaves the street and the highroad to wander on the -eternal hills, because he does not seem to be aware that such hills -exist. - -Of course I have only taken Thackeray as the representative of his -class, and I chose him, as I remarked, because, for me, he is the most -favourable representative of it. I am thinking, really, of the "plain -man" whom we have engaged in so many forms, and of his "plain" argument -which comes to this--"for me a great book is a book that amuses me -greatly and that I enjoy reading." And I say that Thackeray amuses me -greatly and that I enjoy reading his books immensely, but that, with due -respect to "common sense," such an argument fails to prove that "Vanity -Fair" is fine literature. Other people would, no doubt, have chosen -other books; many would have selected Miss Austen, and I daresay they -would have a good deal to say for their choice. Undoubtedly there is a -severity, a self-restraint, a fineness of observation, a delicacy of -irony in "Pride and Prejudice" which are unmatched of their kind (the -Thackeray of the caricatures, of those queer woodblocks, comes out now -and then in the books, and digression occasionally goes beyond due -bounds); but I named "Vanity Fair" because, personally, I find it more -amusing than "Pride and Prejudice." In neither of these books is there -art in our high sense of the word, and in preferring the one over the -other I am simply saying that I prefer the company of a brilliant and -witty cosmopolitan to that of a very keen and delicate, but very limited -maiden lady, who lives in a remote country town and understands -thoroughly the reason why the vicar bowed so low when a certain -carriage rolled up the high street, and why that pretty, prim girl -crossed over the way when the handsome gentleman from the Hall came out -of the chymist's. Yes, the cosmopolitan at the club window certainly -fails a little in his manners now and then, and the country -gentlewoman's breeding is perfect of its kind, but the circles in which -Pendennis moved are (to me) so infinitely the more entertaining of the -two. - -You see, I think that the question of liking a book or not liking it has -nothing whatever to do with the consideration of fine art. Art is -_there_, if I may say so, just as the Tenth Commandment is there; and if -we don't like them, so much the worse for us. I may find Homer very dull -reading, I may covet your ox and your ass and everything that is yours, -but my limited and somewhat commonplace brains, and my envy of your -prosperity won't alter the fact that the "Odyssey" is fine literature -and that covetousness is wicked. But when we once leave the utterances -of the eternal, universal human ecstasy, which we have agreed to call -art, and descend to these lower levels that we are talking of now, it -seems to me that the question of liking or not liking counts for a good -deal. Not for everything, of course. We must still distinguish: between -plots stupid or ingenious, between observation that is close and keen -and observation that is vague and inaccurate, between artifice and the -want of it, between sentences that are neatly constructed and mere -slipshod. All these things naturally reckon in the account, but when -they have been estimated and allowed their value, you will usually find -that you are influenced still more by your mere liking or disliking of -the subject-matter, and it seems to me quite legitimately. For, if you -look closely into the whole question, you will find that you are judging -these secondary books as you judge of life, as you choose the scene of -your holiday, as you read the newspaper. One man may say that he prefers -to talk to artists, another, quite legitimately, may love the society of -brewers; you may think Norway perfection, I am going to Constantinople; -A. turns at once to the quotation for Turpentine at Savannah, B. folds -down the sheet at the Police News. It is not a question of art, but of -taste, that is of individual humour and constitution; you frequent the -company that suits you, you go to the place you like, you read the news -that happens to be most interesting from your special standpoint. And in -the same way, if I find the conversation of Miss Becky Sharpe, as -reported by Mr W. M. Thackeray, more amusing than the conversation of -Miss Elizabeth Bennett as reported by Miss Jane Austen; it seems to me -that there is no more to be said. Elizabeth's remarks are more skilfully -reported? Very likely, but, granting that, I had rather listen to the -record, imperfect, if you please, of the other lady's conversation. Here -is a speech on Bimetallism, given at great length, and (let us presume) -with great accuracy; here is a short summary of Professor L.'s "Lecture -on the Eleusinian Mysteries," very badly "sub-edited." But, you see, I -happen not to care twopence about Bimetallism, so I turn away from the -careful report, growling; while I cut out that wretched summary of the -Lecture with the purpose of pasting it in my scrap-book, since every -word about the Eleusinian Mysteries has a vivid interest for me. - -It often amuses me to hear people quarrelling about the rival "artistic -merit" of books which have, in most cases, no artistic merits at all. A. -writes a book about greengrocers, and you, who find something -singularly piquant and entertaining in the manners, speech, and habits -of the class in question, pronounce A. to be a "great artist" who has -written a masterpiece. I love dukes, and B's. novel of the peerage -strikes me as a marvel of artistic accomplishment, while I pronounce the -work that has charmed you to be as stupid and tiresome as the class it -represents. Each of us is talking nonsense; there is no art in the -question, which is purely a matter of individual taste. The Stock -Exchange column interests one man, while the latest football news -absorbs the other. That is all. - -Of course, as I said, artifice counts for something: there is a pleasure -in seeing the thing neatly done, and I suppose it is this pleasure that -has secured Miss Austen her fervent admirers. It is a little difficult -to treat this form of pleasure quite fairly; a musician perhaps would -find it difficult to answer the question whether he would rather hear -Palestrina badly rendered or Zingarelli executed to perfection. In the -latter case there would certainly be the charm of exquisite voices in -perfect order and accord, though the music were nothing or worse than -nothing; still, our musician might say, on the other hand, that -Palestrina martyred was better than Zingarelli triumphant. I am afraid -I can imagine myself saying: "Limited country-people, as seen by Jane -Austen, are so 'slow' that they rather bore me, though the author has -portrayed them with wonderful skill," but I can hardly fancy myself -affirming that Becky Sharpe is such an interesting personage that she -would still delight me, even if the author of "Ten Thousand a Year" had -written her history. On the other hand I believe that the plot of -"Jekyll and Hyde" would still have had some fascination, though it had -been treated by the veriest dolt in letters. But that is not a good -example, since "Jekyll and Hyde" is certainly in its conception, though -not in its execution, a work of fine art. Let us take the "Moonstone" -again as an example; I believe then, that if the events related in it -had caught our eyes in a brief newspaper paragraph they would still have -interested. - -It seems to me that, after all, this question of artifice, of "how the -thing is done," comes under the same category as liking and disliking. I -mean it is largely a matter of the personal equation, about which no -very strict laws can be laid down. You might say, for example, that -Becky would entertain you in any hands, however indifferent, provided -that her "facts" were preserved, and I don't see that I could argue the -point with you. It reminds me again of the way in which men choose their -friends; one lays stress on pleasant manners, another on sterling -goodness of character, a third on wit, a fourth on distinction of some -kind; and argument is really voiceless. "Here is a book-case," you may -say, "look how exquisitely it is made." Yes, but I don't want a -book-case; whereas that table, ricketty as it is, will be really useful. -But if you were to say: "Look at Westminster Abbey," you can hardly -imagine my answering: "Bother Westminster Abbey; I want a pig-sty." You -see how, here again, we come to the generic difference between fine -literature and interesting reading matter. We read the "Odyssey" because -we are supernatural, because we hear in it the echoes of the eternal -song, because it symbolises for us certain amazing and beautiful things, -because it is music; we read Miss Austen and Thackeray because we like -to recognise the faces of our friends aptly reproduced, to see the -external face of humanity so deftly mimicked, because we are natural. -The question of our preference for one over the other, is, making due -allowance for analogy, the question of our preference for a table over a -bookcase or _vice versā_, and the workmanship in each case is largely a -matter of detail. And the great poem may be equated with the great -church: each is made for beauty, the one is ecstasy in words, the other -ecstasy in stone. But the church and the pig-sty, on the other hand, are -not to be compared together: incidentally, no doubt, the former is -rainproof or in ill repair, has good or bad acoustic properties, while -the latter may be either an ęsthetic pest in the back-yard, or an -agreeable looking little shed enough. Still, the essence of the church -is beauty, ecstasy; of the sty utility, the safe keeping of pigs. It -would be absurd, you see, to say: "I prefer an abbey to a pig-sty," and -it would be equally absurd to say: "I prefer the 'OEdipus' to 'Pride and -Prejudice'" or "I prefer the Venus of the Louvre to the wax-figures in -the exhibition." Of course these are only analogies, and you mustn't -press them, but they may help to make my meaning clearer, to enforce the -vast distinction between art and artifice. Please don't think that I -wish to establish a proportion: as a pig-sty is to an abbey, so is Jane -Austen to Sophocles. In her case you would have to substitute a neat -Georgian house for "pig-sty" and then I think you would have a very fair -proportion. But all that I wanted to do was to draw the line between -things made for use, to occupy some definite place in relation to our -common daily life; and things made by ecstasy and for ecstasy, things -that are symbols, proclaiming the presence of the unknown world. - -And I chose "Pickwick" as the antithesis to "Vanity Fair" deliberately. -Thackeray (in my private judgment) is the chief of those who have -provided interesting reading-matter; Dickens is by no means in the first -rank of literary artists. I think he is golden, but he is very largely -alloyed with baser stuff, with indifferent metal, which was the product -of his age, of his circumstances in life, of his own uncertain taste. -Just contrast the atmosphere which surrounded the young Sophocles, with -that in which the young Dickens flourished. Both were men of genius, but -one grew up in the City of the Violet Crown, the other in Camden Town -and worse places, one was accustomed to breathe that "most pellucid -air," the other inhaled the "London particular." The wonder is, not -that there are faults in Dickens, but that there is genius of any kind. -I am not going to analyze "Pickwick" any more than I analyzed "Vanity -Fair," but of course you see that, in its conception, it is essentially -one with the "Odyssey." It is a book of wandering; you start from your -own doorstep and you stray into the unknown; every turn of the road -fills you with surmise, every little village is a discovery, a something -new, a creation. You know not what may happen next; you are journeying -through another world. I need not remind you how glorious all this is in -the Odyssey, which of course is so much more beautiful than "Pickwick," -as that glowing Mediterranean Sea, whose bounds on every side were -mystery, is more beautiful than the muddy, foggy Thames, as those -rolling hexameters are more beautiful than Dickens's prose; and yet in -each case the symbol is, in reality, the same; both the heroic song of -the old Ionian world and the comic cockney romance of 1837 communicate -that enthralling impression of the unknown, which is, at once, a whole -philosophy of life, and the most exquisite of emotions. In varying -degrees of intensity you will trace it all through fine literature in -every age and in every nation; you will find it in Celtic voyages, in -the Eastern Tale, where a door in a dull street suddenly opens into -dreamland, in the medięval stories of the wandering knights, in "Don -Quixote," and at last in our "Pickwick" where Ulysses has become a -retired city man, whimsically journeying up and down the England of -sixty years ago. You talk of the "grotesquerie" of "Pickwick," but don't -you see that this element is present in all the masterpieces of the -kind? Remember the Cyclops, remember the grotesque shapes that decorate -the "Arabian Nights," remember the bizarre element, the almost wanton -grotesquerie of many of the "Arthur" romances. In all these cases as in -"Pickwick" the same result is obtained; an overpowering impression of -"strangeness," of remoteness, of withdrawal from the common ways of -life. "Pickwick," is, in no sense, or in no valuable sense, a portrayal, -a copy, an imitation of life in the ordinary sense of "imitation," and -"life"; Pickwick, and Sam, and Jingle, and the rest of them are not -clever reproductions of actual people, (is there any more foolish -pursuit than that of disputing about the "original" of Mr Pickwick?); -the book is rather the suggestion of another life, beneath our own or -beside our own, and the characters, those queer grotesque people, are -queer for the same reason that the Cyclops is queer and the dwarfs and -dragons of medięval romance are queer. We are withdrawn from the common -ways of life; and in that withdrawal is the beginning of ecstasy. There -are sentences in "Pickwick" that give me an almost extravagant delight. -You remember the lines about the Lotus-Eaters. - - ~tōn d' hostis lōtoio phagoi meliźdea karpon, - ouket' apangeilai palin źthelen oude neesthai - all' autou boulonto met' andrasi Lōtophagoisin - lōton ereptomenoi menemen nostou te lathesthai.~ - -Well, do you know there is a brief dialogue in "Pickwick" that seems -almost as enchanted, to me. The scene is the manor-farm kitchen, on -Christmas eve. - -"'How it snows,' said one of the men, in a low voice. - -"'Snows, does it?' said Wardle. - -"'Rough, cold night, sir,' replied the man, 'and there's a wind got up -that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.' - -"'What does Jem say?' inquired the old lady. 'There ain't anything the -matter, is there?' - -"'No, no, mother,' replied Wardle; 'he says there's a snow-drift, and a -wind that's piercing cold.'" - -You know this is the introduction to the Tale of Gabriel Grub, an -admirable legend which Dickens "farsed" with an obtrusive moral. But I -confess that the atmosphere (which to me seems all the wild weather and -the wild legend of the north) suggested by those phrases "a thick white -cloud," and "a wind that's piercing cold" is in my judgment wholly -marvellous. But Dickens, of course, is full of impressions which never -become expressions. You remember that chapter about the lawyer's clerks -in the "Magpie and Stump"? It is always quite pathetic to me to note how -Dickens _felt_ the strangeness, the mystery, the haunting that are like -a mist about the old Inns of Court, and how utterly unable he was to -express his emotion--to find a fit symbol for his meaning. He takes -refuge, as it were, behind Jack Bamber, who tells two very insignificant -legends as to the mystery of the Inns. Dickens feels that these legends -are insignificant, and throws in one that is pure burlesque, and then -changes the subject in despair; the vague impression has refused to be -put into words; probably, indeed, it had stopped short of becoming -thought. But I am afraid that if I once begin to talk about the defects -and faults of Dickens I shall run on for ever, and I think you will be -able to find out his laches quite well for yourself. What I want to -insist on is his sense of mystery, his withdrawal from common life, and, -finally, his ecstasy. I have not proved my case up to the hilt by a -thorough-going analysis of "Pickwick," but I think I have suggested the -"heads" of such an analysis. There is ecstasy in the main idea, in the -thought of the man who wanders away from his familiar streets into -unknown tracks and lanes and villages, there is ecstasy in the -conception of all those queer, grotesque characters, reminders each one -of the strangeness of life, there is ecstasy in the thought of the wild -Christmas Eve, of the fields and woods scourged by "a wind that's -piercing cold," hidden by the thick cloud of snow, there is ecstasy in -that vague impression of the old, dark, Inns, of the "rotten" chambers -that had been shut up for years and years. In a word: "Pickwick" is fine -literature. - -Well, you've got what you wanted; some sort of analysis of my case: -"'Pickwick' _v._ 'Vanity Fair'"; but it must be clearly understood that -I'm not going to "work out" every example. However, I am not sorry that -I have been led to go into this particular case rather fully, because it -is a typical one, and we shall not be obliged to go over the same ground -again. I mean, that having witnessed the dissection of Thackeray, you -will have no need to come to me for my judgment of George Eliot, or of -Anthony Trollope, or--to make a very long list a very short one--of -about ninety-nine per cent of our modern novels. Yes, you have mentioned -a great name, and I, like you, take off my cap to the man who has gone -on his way, without caring for the "public," or the "reviewers," or -anything else, except his own judgment of what is right. But, frankly, -if you pass from the man and come to his work, my plain opinion is this: -that he has written about ordinary life, regarded from an ordinary -standpoint, in a style which is extraordinary certainly, but very far -from beautiful. It is not a beautiful style, since a fine style, though -it may carry suggestion beyond the bourne of thought, though it may be -the veil and visible body of concealed mysteries, is always plain on the -surface. It may be like an ingeniously devised cryptogram, which may -have an occult sense conveyed to initiated eyes in every dot and line -and flourish, but is outwardly as simple and straightforward as a -business letter. But in the works of the writer whom we are discussing -obscurities, dubieties of all kinds are far from uncommon; and in many -of his books there are passages which hardly seem to be English at all. -The words are familiar--most of them--the grammatical construction often -offers no very considerable difficulties--it is rarely, I mean, that one -has to search very long for the nominative of the sentence--but when one -has read the words and parsed them, one feels inclined to think that -after all the passage is not in English but in some other language with -a superficial resemblance to English. Style is not everything? Certainly -not; a book may fail in style, and yet be fine, though not the finest -literature. You have only to open Sir Walter Scott to have highly -conclusive evidence on that point. But the writer we are considering not -only fails in the body of art but even more conspicuously in the soul of -it. Just think for a moment of his story of the very earnest Jew who -fell in love with the baroness who was not very earnest. There was a -false female friend, you remember, and social complications perturbed -the hearts of the curiously assorted lovers, and finally the Jew was -shot in a duel by another, less "detrimental," courtier. Can you -conceive anything more trivial than this? Don't you see that from such a -book as that the _idea_, the soul of fine literature, is completely -lacking? Great books may always be summed up in a phrase, often in a -single word, and that phrase or that word will always signify some -primary and palmary idea. To me the only "idea" suggested by the plot I -have outlined is unimportance; and, as in the case of Thackeray, ecstasy -is entirely absent both from this and from all other of the author's -books. You say that, after all, the plot in question is a plot of the -love of a man for a woman, and that _that_ is an idea in the highest -sense of the word, and an idea which is the most of all fit for the -purpose and the making of the finest literature. I agree with you in the -latter clause of your sentence, but I must point out that the book is -_not_ the story of the love of a man for a woman, it is the story of the -flirtation of a baroness with a German Jew Socialist--a very different -matter. In a word, it is a tale of the accidental, of the particular, -of the inessential; it is completely the play of Hamlet with the part of -Hamlet omitted, and the greatest stress laid on the minor characters. - -It is quite true that when an author writes a romance containing a hero -and a heroine he must tell you who they are, he must give, briefly and -succinctly, the necessary details--names, ages, conditions and so -forth--but if he is a great author he will do this incidentally and make -us feel that such details are incidental. In short, he must poise his -feet on earth, but his way is to the stars. Think of the "Scarlet -Letter," open it again and see how admirably Hawthorne has omitted a -world of unessential details that a lesser man would have put in. He has -left out a whole encyclopędia of useless and tedious information; there -is the dim, necessary background of time and place, but in reality the -scene is Eternity, and the drama is the Mystery of Love and Vengeance -and Hell-fire. Of course fine literature must have its gross and carnal -body, we must know "who's who," for I don't think an old-fashioned -receipt that I remember was ever very successful. Oh, you must have read -some of the tales I mean; they used to flourish in the old "Keepsakes," -and the hero was boldly labelled "Fernando" for all distinction and -description. One might surmise that Fernando was domiciled on the -continent of Europe, but that was all. It was not successful, this -well-meaning school of fiction, and I repeat that the finest literature -must have its accidents--it cannot exist as shining substance alone. It -is just the same with the art of sculpture, with the art of painting. -You cannot look at a Greek Apollo without looking at that part of the -body which conceals the bowels, but I imagine you don't want to treasure -this thought or to insist on it? And I suppose a geologist, looking at a -picture, could tell you whether those wild and terrible rocks were -volcanic or carboniferous; but really one doesn't want to know. Bowels, -geological formation, in sculpture and painting, the social position of -the characters and all other such details in fine literature are -inessential; and the great artist will, as I said, make us feel that -they are inessential. If you want an instance of what I mean read a book -which is very comparable with the German-Jew-Baroness tale that we were -talking about. I mean "Two on a Tower" by Mr Hardy. In that you have -the contrast of social ranks: the "two" are the Lady of the Manor and an -educated peasant, but how utterly all thought of "society" (in any sense -of the word) disappears from those wonderful pages, as you advance and -find that the theme is really Love. Why even the accidents are glorified -and are made of the essence of the book. The old tower standing in the -midst of lonely, red ploughlands far from the highway, is at first only -the convenient place where the young peasant studies astronomy; but as -you read you feel the change coming, the tower is transmuted, glorified; -every stone of it is aglow with mystic light; it is made the abode of -the Lover and the Beloved, it is seen to be a symbol of Love, of an -ecstasy, remote, and passionate, and eternal, dwelling far from the ways -of men. Compare these two books, I say again, and you will know the -chief distinction between fine literature and reading matter. To me, I -confess, the "Jew-book" has not even interest of the lower sort, not by -any means the interest of Thackeray, or Jane Austen or even of poor, -dreary, draggle-tailed George Eliot; but if you are amused by it, I have -no objection to make. You may be amused by the plates of the "Spring -and Summer Novelties" in the lady's paper, if you please; but for -heaven's sake don't come here and tell me that on the whole you prefer -Botticelli's Primavera! Nay, but the fashion-plates are sometimes very -nicely done, and they put in backgrounds, and they are trying to give -the faces some character. Do get it into your head--firmly and -fixedly--that the camera and the soul of man are two entirely different -things. - -You think the "photographic" comparison unfair, in this and other -instances, because of the mechanical element in photography, because of -that camera I have just mentioned? Well, I suppose that it _is_ a little -misleading. The sun and the camera between them certainly do your -picture for you, and as you urge, there is more of artifice in the -merest Sunday-school tale than in the best of photographs. Still, you -must remember that photography too has its artifice, its choice of the -right and the wrong way, and its exercise of judgment; there is a great -deal in it that is not mechanical; and in its essence it is of the same -class as the books I have been alluding to. The means employed are -different, and a higher and finer artifice is required for making books -than for taking photographs, but the end of each is the same, and that -end is to portray the surface of life, to make a picture of the outside -of things. It is on this ground that I defend my use of the analogy, and -you must understand me to speak only of the object which is common to -each, when I compare the secondary writer to a photographer. The -writers, to be sure, have invention in a greater or less degree, but you -will remark that the artists in literature have the power of creation, a -totally different process. Invention is the finding of a thing in its -more or less obscure hiding-place; creation is the making of a new -thing, the invocation of Something from Nothingness. Don Quixote is a -creation; the clergyman in "Pride and Prejudice" is an invention, -Colonel Newcome is, in all probability, a composite portrait, while the -Jew-Socialist who fell in love with the Baroness is simply a portrait of -Ferdinand Lassalle. - -You must remember that while the two classes--fine literature and -reading matter--differ the one from the other generically, the -individuals of each class differ from each other only specifically. Thus -the difference in merit between the "Odyssey" and "Pickwick" is -enormous, but it is a specific difference. In the same way it is hard to -measure with the imagination the difference between "Madame Bovary" and -that famous Sunday-school story "Jackie's Holiday": the former is -immensely clever, the latter is immensely silly; but the two are, -emphatically, of the same genus. In each case the effort of the author -is to "describe life," the aim of Flaubert is absolutely identical with -the aim of Miss Flopkins, and their results differ only as the Frenchman -differs from the Englishwoman, the one being a serious and patient -artificer while the other is a bungling idiot, who obtrudes her very -empty personality and her very trashy ethics instead of studiously -concealing them. Still: a photograph taken in the most famous studio in -London is still a photograph equally with the spotted and misty effort -of the amateur, and no amount of "touching-up" or "finishing," however -patient it may be, will turn a photograph into a work of art. And, in -like manner, no labour, no care, no polishing of the phrase, no patience -in investigation, no artifice in plot or in construction will ever make -"reading-matter" into fine literature. - - - - -III - - -I see that I shall be obliged to keep on reiterating the difference -between fine literature and "literature," or in other words between art -and observation expressed with artifice. I am afraid, that in your heart -of hearts, you still believe that the "Odyssey" is fine literature, and -that "Pride and Prejudice" is fine literature, though the "Odyssey" is -"better" than "Pride and Prejudice." It is that "better" that I want to -get out of your head, that monstrous fallacy of comparing Westminster -Abbey with the charming old houses in Queen Square. You would see the -absurdity of imagining that there can be any degree of comparison -between two things entirely different, if I substituted for "Pride and -Prejudice" some ordinary circulating-library novel of our own times. At -least I hope you would see, though, as I told you a few weeks ago, I -doubt very much whether many people realise the distinction between the -"Odyssey" and a political pamphlet. The general opinion, I expect, is -that both belong to the same class, though the Greek poem is much more -"important" than the pamphlet. I think we succeeded in demonstrating the -falsity of this idea, in showing clearly and decisively that fine -literature means the expression of the eternal human ecstasy in the -medium of words, and that it means nothing else whatsoever. Words, it is -true, are used for other ends than this: they are used in sending -telegrams to stockbrokers, for example, but why should this double -office create any confusion? A tub and a tabernacle may each be made of -wood, but you don't mix the two things up on that account? The other day -you gave me a most amusing account of your landlady's quarrels with her -servant girls. I remember that I laughed consumedly, and at the moment, -that solemn preconisation of the servant Mabel to the effect that her -mistress, Mrs Stickings, was not a "lydy," was more to my taste than the -recitation of the "Ode on a Grecian Urn." But you surely didn't think -that you were making literature all the while? Or that the history of -Mrs Stickings and Mabel would have mysteriously become literature if you -had written it down and got somebody to print it? Or that it would have -been literature if some of the details had been a little exaggerated (I -thought you had embroidered here and there); or if you had made the -whole story up out of your own head? Exactly, you were, as you say, -amusing me by the relation of facts a little altered, compressed, and -embellished, and I am glad that you see that no process of writing or -printing, no variation in the proportion of truth and invention, even to -the total lack of all truth, could have changed an amusing presentation -of the Stickings _ménage_ into fine literature. But, surely, it is so -very obvious. Did any cook ever think that he could change a turkey into -a bird of paradise by careful attention to the _farse_ and the sauce? -The farmer might as well expect to breed early phoenixes for Leadenhall -Market by the simple process of lighting a bonfire in the farmyard. The -young ducks would jump into the blaze, and the transformation would be -the work of a second! There is no more madness in _that_ notion than in -the other one--that one has only to print an amusing, interesting, -life-like, or pathetic tale to make it into fine literature. - -Yes; but what I am afraid is still lurking somewhere in your skull is -this: that if only the stuffing is extremely well made, if only the -sauce is an exquisite concoction, the turkey _is_, somehow or other, -changed into a bird of paradise. That is, to translate the analogy, if -only the plot is very ingenious, if only the construction is well -carried out, if the characters are extremely life-like, if the English -is admirably neat and sufficient, then reading-matter becomes fine -literature. Make the bonfire high enough and your young ducks will be -burned into phoenixes fast enough; let the artifice be sufficiently -artificial and it will be art. Indeed you might as well maintain that a -wooden statue, if it be really well carved, is thereby made into a gold -statue. - -Well, I remember saying one night that you were here that ecstasy is at -once the most exquisite of emotions and a whole philosophy of life. And -it is to the philosophy of life that we are brought, in the last resort. -You know that there are, speaking very generally, two solutions of -existence; one is the materialistic or rationalistic, the other, the -spiritual or mystic. If the former were true, then Keats would be a -queer kind of madman, and the "Morte d'Arthur" would be an elaborate -symptom of insanity; if the latter is true, then "Pride and Prejudice" -is not fine literature, and the works of George Eliot are the works of -a superior insect--and nothing more. You must make your choice: is the -story of the Graal lunacy, or not? You think it is not: then do not talk -any more of turning glass into diamonds by careful polishing and -cutting. Do not say: Mr A. spends five years over a book, and therefore -what he writes is fine literature; Miss B. polishes off five novels in a -year, and therefore she does not write fine literature. Do not say, Mr -Shorthouse has got the name of a man who kept a private school in the -time of Charles I. quite right; therefore "John Inglesant" is fine -literature, while the archęological details in "Ivanhoe" are all wrong, -therefore it is not fine literature. Good Lord! You might as well say: -but my landlady's name is Mrs Stickings, and the girl (who left last -month) was really called Mabel; _therefore_ that story of mine was fine -literature. What's that about sustained effort? Can you turn a deal -ladder into a golden staircase by making it of a thousand rungs? What I -say three times is right, eh? and if I tell the tale of Mrs Stickings so -that it extends to "our minimum length for three volume novels," it -becomes fine literature. - -Well, I really hope that we have at last settled the matter; that fine -literature is simply the expression of the eternal things that are in -man, that it is beauty clothed in words, that it is always ecstasy, that -it always draws itself away, and goes apart into lonely places, far from -the common course of life. Realise this, and you will never be misled -into pronouncing mere reading-matter, however interesting, to be fine -literature; and now that we clearly understand the difference between -the two, I propose that we drop the "fine" and speak simply of -literature. - -But I assure you that, even after having established the grand -distinction, it is by no means plain sailing. Everything terrestrial is -so composite (except, perhaps, pure music) that one is confronted by an -almost endless task of distinguishing matter from form, and body from -spirit. Literature, we say, is ecstasy, but a book must be written about -something and about somebody; it must be expressed in words, it must -have arrangement and artifice, it must have accident as well as essence. -Consider "Don Quixote" as an example; it is, I suppose, the finest prose -romance in existence. Essentially, it expresses the eternal quest of the -unknown, that longing, peculiar to man, which makes him reach out -towards infinity; and he lifts up his eyes, and he strains his eyes, -looking across the ocean, for certain fabled, happy islands, for Avalon -that is beyond the setting of the sun. And he comes into life from the -unknown world, from glorious places, and all his days he journeys -through the world, spying about him, going on and ever on, expecting -beyond every hill to find the holy city, seeing signs, and omens, and -tokens by the way, reminded every hour of his everlasting citizenship. -"From the great deep to the great deep he goes": it is true of King -Arthur and of each one of us; and this, I take it, is the essence of -"Don Quixote," and of all his forerunners and successors. Then, in the -second place, you get the eternal moral of the book, and you will -understand that I am not using "moral" in the vulgar sense. The eternal -moral, then, of "Don Quixote" is the strife between temporal and -eternal, between the soul and the body, between things spiritual and -things corporal, between ecstasy and the common life. You read the book -and you see that there is a perpetual jar, you are continually -confronted by the great antinomy of life. It seems a mere comic -incident when the knight dreaming of enchantment is knocked about, and -made ridiculous; but I tell you it is the perpetual tragedy of life -itself, symbolised. I say that it is, under a figure, the picture of -humanity in the world, that you will find the truth it represents -repeated again and again throughout all history. You know that if one -goes back resolutely to the first principles of things, one finds -oneself, as it were, in a place where all lines that seemed parallel and -eternally divided meet, and so it is with this tragedy symbolised by the -Don Quixote. It is, you may say, the tragedy of the Unknown and the -Known, of the Soul and Body, of the Idea and the Fact, of Ecstasy and -Common Life; at last, I suppose, of Good and Evil. The source of it lies -far beyond our understanding, but its symbol is shown again and again in -Cervantes's page. - -Then, there is a third element in the book. The author intended to write -a burlesque on the current romances of chivalry; and he wrote, I -suppose, the best burlesque that has ever been written, or ever will be -written. If you unhappily so choose, you can shut your eyes to -everything serious and everything beautiful, and read merely of Amadis -and Arthur "taken off," of the highest ideals turned into nonsense, of -the best motives shown to be, in effect, mischievous. You will read how -the knight, in the approved manner of knights, helped the oppressed and -the wretched, and how he usually worsened their condition tenfold. You -may lend your ear to Sancho, grumbling and quoting "common-sense" -proverbs all the road, as he rides on his ass, and if it were not for -the wit and the comedy, you might fancy yourself in a suburban train -bound for the city. Why, if you so please, "Don Quixote" is the -Institute of cynicism, the reduction of every generous impulse to -absurdity. - -Finally, the knight is the mouthpiece of Cervantes himself, especially -towards the end of the second part, where the armour and the fantasy -drop off, piece by piece, and shred by shred, on that mournful, homeward -journey. At last, I say, Don Quixote is almost simply Cervantes, -commenting on men and affairs in Spain, and I think that in those final -chapters the art has vanished together with the armour and the ecstasy. -Yes, I always dread the ending of "Don Quixote." A star drops a line of -streaming fire, down the vault of the sky, and perhaps you may have -seen the ugly, shapeless thing that sinks into the earth. - -But this very brief and imperfect analysis of a great masterpiece of -literary art may give you some idea of the extraordinary complexity of -all literature. As it is I have omitted one most important item in the -account; I have said nothing of the style, because, I am sorry to say -that I have no Spanish, and Cervantes speaks to me through an -interpreter named Charles Jarvis. But, omitting style, you see that we -have, in this particular case, five books in one; we have the utterance -of pure ecstasy, the strife between ecstasy and the common life, the -burlesque of chivalry, the institutes of cynicism, and the comments on -affairs. Each of these different themes is managed with consummate -ability, and (always excepting the last chapters of the book), each -keeps its due place, so that it really rests with the reader, in a -manner, to choose which book he is to read. - -And then, there are other elements which must be accounted for if one is -to judge a book as a whole, fairly and thoroughly. I may be so charmed -with the writer's rapture, with the wonder and beauty of his idea, that -I may forget the fact that the artist must also be the artificer; that -while the soul conceives, the understanding must formulate the -conception, that while ecstasy must suggest the conduct of the story, -common-sense must help to range each circumstance in order, that while -an inward, mysterious delight must dictate the burning phrases and sound -in the music and melody of the words, cool judgment must go through -every line, reminding the author that, if literature be the language of -the Shadowy Companion it must yet be translated out of the unknown -speech into the vulgar tongue. Here then we have the elements of a book. -Firstly the Idea or Conception, the thing of exquisite beauty which -dwells in the author's soul, not yet clothed in words, nor even in -thought, but a pure emotion. Secondly, when this emotion has taken -definite form, is made incarnate as it were, in the shape of a story, -which can be roughly jotted down on paper, we may speak of the Plot. -Thirdly, the plot has to be systematised, to be drawn to scale, to be -carried out to its legitimate conclusions, to be displayed by means of -Incident; and here we have Construction. Fourthly, the story is to be -written down, and Style is the invention of beautiful words which shall -affect the reader by their meaning, by their sound, by their mysterious -suggestion. - -This, then, is the fourfold work of literature, and if you want to be -perfect you must be perfect in each part. Art must inspire and shape -each and all, but only the first, the Idea, is pure art; with Plot, and -Construction, and Style there is an alloy of artifice. If then any given -book can be shown to proceed from an Idea, it is to be placed in the -class of literature, in the shelf of the "Odyssey" as I think I once -expressed it. It may be placed very high in the class; the more it have -of rapture in its every part, the higher it will be: or, it may be -placed very low, because, for example, having once admired the -Conception, the dream that came to the author from the other world, we -are forced to admit that the Story or Plot was feebly imagined, that the -Construction was clumsily carried out, that the Style is, ęsthetically, -non-existent. You will notice that I am never afraid of blaming my -favourites, of finding fault with the books which I most adore. I can do -so freely and without fear of consequences, since having once applied my -test, and having found that "Pickwick," for example, is literature, I -am not in the least afraid that I shall be compelled to eat my words if -flaws in plot and style and construction are afterwards made apparent. -The statue is gold; we have settled that much, and we need not fear that -it will turn into lead, if we find that the graving and carving is poor -enough. Once be sure that your temple _is_ a temple, and I will warrant -you against it being suddenly transmuted into a tub, through the -discovery of scamped workmanship. - -Well, suppose we begin to apply our analysis. Let us take the strange -case of Mr R. L. Stevenson, and especially his "Jekyll and Hyde," which, -in some ways, is his most characteristic and most effective book. Now I -suppose that instructed opinion (granting its existence) was about -equally divided as to the class in which this most skilful and striking -story was to be placed. Many, I have no doubt, gave it a very high place -in the ranks of imaginative literature, or (as we should now say) in the -ranks of literature; while many other judges set it down as an extremely -clever piece of sensationalism, and nothing more. Well, I think both -these opinions are wrong; and I should be inclined to say that "Jekyll -and Hyde" just scrapes by the skin of its teeth, as it were, into the -shelves of literature, and no more. On the surface it would seem to be -merely sensationalism; I expect that when you read it, you did so with -breathless absorption, hurrying over the pages in your eagerness to find -out the secret, and this secret once discovered, I imagine that "Jekyll -and Hyde" retired to your shelf--and stays there, rather dusty. You have -never opened it again? Exactly. I _have_ read it for a second time, and -I was astonished to find how it had, if I may say so, evaporated. At the -first reading one was enthralled by mere curiosity, but when once this -curiosity had been satisfied what remained? If I may speak from my own -experience, simply a rather languid admiration of the ingenuity of the -plot with its construction, combined with a slight feeling of -impatience, such as one might experience if one were asked to solve a -puzzle for the second time. You see that the secret once disclosed, all -the steps which lead to the disclosure become, _ipso facto_, -insignificant, or rather they become nothing at all, since their only -significance and their only existence lay in the secret, and when the -secret has ceased to be a secret, the signs and cyphers of it fall also -into the world of nonentity. You may be amazed, and perplexed, and -entranced by a cryptogram, while you are solving it, but the solution -once attained, your cryptogram is either nothing or perilously near to -nothingness. - -Well, all this points, doesn't it, towards mere sensationalism, very -cleverly done? But, as I said, I think "Jekyll and Hyde" just scrapes -over the border-line and takes its place, very low down, among books -that are literature. And I base my verdict solely on the Idea, on the -Conception that lies, buried rather deeply, beneath the Plot. The -plot, in itself, strikes me as mechanical--this actual physical -transformation, produced by a drug, linked certainly with a theory of -ethical change, but not linked at all with the really mysterious, the -really psychical--all this affects me, I say, as ingenious mechanism and -nothing more; while I have shown how the construction is ingenious -artifice, and the style is affected by the same plague of laboured -ingenuity. Throughout it is a thoroughly conscious style, and in -literature all the highest things are unconsciously, or at least, -subconsciously produced. It has music, but it has no under-music, and -there are no phrases in it that seem veils of dreams, echoes of the -"inexpressive song." It is on the conception, then, alone, that I -justify my inclusion of "Jekyll" amongst works of art; for it seems to -me that, lurking behind the plot, we divine the presence of an Idea, of -an inspiration. "Man is not truly one, but truly two," or, perhaps, a -polity with many inhabitants, Dr Jekyll writes in his confession, and I -think that I see here a trace that Mr Stevenson had received a vision of -the mystery of human nature, compounded of the dust and of the stars, of -a dim vast city, splendid and ruinous as drowned Atlantis deep beneath -the waves, of a haunted quire where a flickering light burns before the -Veil. This, I believe, was the vision that came to the artist, but the -admirable artificer seized hold of it at once and made it all his own, -omitting what he did not understand, translating roughly from the -unknown tongue, materialising, coarsening, hardening. Don't you see how -thoroughly _physical_ the actual plot is, and if one escapes for a -moment from the atmosphere of the laboratory it is only to be confronted -by the most obvious vein of moral allegory; and from this latter light, -"Jekyll and Hyde" seems almost the vivid metaphor of a clever preacher. -You mustn't imagine, you know, that I condemn the powder business as bad -in itself, for (let us revert for a moment to philosophy) man is a -sacrament, soul manifested under the form of body, and art has to deal -with each and both and to show their interaction and interdependence. -The most perfect form of literature is, no doubt, lyrical poetry which -is, one might say, almost pure Idea, art with scarcely an alloy of -artifice, expressed in magic words, in the voice of music. In a word, a -perfect lyric, such as Keats's "Belle Dame Sans Mercy" is _almost_ pure -soul, a spirit with the luminous body of melody. But (in our age, at all -events) a prose romance must put on a grosser and more material envelope -than this, it must have incident, corporeity, relation to material -things, and all these will occupy a considerable part of the whole. To a -certain extent, then, the Idea must be materialised, but still it must -always shine through the fleshly vestment; the body must never be mere -body but always the body of the spirit, existing to conceal and yet to -manifest the spirit; and here it seems to me that Mr Stevenson's story -breaks down. The transformation of Jekyll into Hyde is solely material, -as you read it, without artistic significance; it is simply an -astounding incident, and not an outward sign of an inward mystery. As -for the possible allegory I have too much respect for Mr Stevenson as an -artificer to think that he would regard this element as anything but a -very grave defect. Allegory, as Poe so well observed, is always a -literary vice, and we are only able to enjoy the "Pilgrim's Progress" by -forgetting that the allegory exists. Yes, that seems to me the _vitium_ -of "Jekyll and Hyde": the conception has been badly realised, and by -badly I do not mean clumsily, because from the logical, literal -standpoint, the plot and the construction are marvels of cleverness; but -I mean inartistically: ecstasy, which as we have settled is the synonym -of art, gave birth to the idea, but immediately abandoned it to -artifice, and to artifice only, instead of presiding over and inspiring -every further step in plot, in construction, and in style. All this may -seem to you very fine-drawn and over-subtle, but I am convinced that it -is the true account of the matter, and perhaps you may realise my theory -better if I draw out that analogy of "translation" which I suggested, I -think, a few minutes ago. I was passing along New Oxford Street the -other day, and I happened to look into a shop which displays Bibles in -all languages, and I glanced at the French version, open at the seventh -chapter of the Book of Proverbs. I saw the words "un jeune homme -dépourvu de bon sens," and then, lower down, "comme un boeuf ą la -boucherie," and it was some considerable time before I realised that -these phrases "translated," "a young man void of understanding," and "as -an ox goeth to the slaughter." Now you notice that these are in every -way commonplace examples; there is nothing extraordinarily poetical in -either phrase as it stands in the Authorised Version. I might have made -the contrast much more violent by choosing a passage from the Song of -Songs or Ecclesiastes; and I wonder how "Therefore with Angels and -Archangels" would go into French. But isn't the gulf astounding between -"void of understanding" and "dépourvu de bon sens"? Yet the meaning of -the French is really the same as the meaning of the English; logically, -I should think, the two phrases are exactly equivalent. And yet ... -well, we know perfectly well that "dépourvu de bon sens" in no way -renders that noble and austere simplicity that we reverence in the -English text. - -Now, I think, you ought to see what I have been trying to express about -the gulf that may open always between the conception and the plot, or -story, that does divide the conception from the plot of "Jekyll and -Hyde." Of course the analogy is not perfect, because the _magnum chaos_ -that yawns between the unformulated Idea and the formulated plot, -between pure ecstasy and ecstasy _plus_ artifice, is much vaster than -the distinction between English and French, indeed between the two -former there is almost or altogether the difference of the infinite and -the finite, of soul and body; still, you see how a book is a rendering, -a translation of an Idea, and how a very fine idea may be embodied in a -very mechanical plot. - -You remember the "Socialist and Baroness" novel that we were talking -about the other night. We placed it outside of literature firstly and -chiefly because it was not based on ecstasy, on an idea of any kind, and -secondly, and by way of consequence, because in its execution and detail -it was so thoroughly insignificant, because it played Hamlet with the -part of the Prince omitted. Now I think that it is strong evidence of -the soundness of my literary theory that we are enabled by it to take -two books so utterly dissimilar in manner and method, in story and -treatment, and to judge them both by the same scale. For this is what it -really comes to: we say that the "Tragic Comedians" is not literature -because it simply tells of facts without their significance, because it -deals with the outward show and not with the inward spirit, because it -is accidental and not essential. And in just the same way we say that -"Jekyll and Hyde" (its conception apart) is not literature inasmuch as -it too has the body of a story without the soul of a story, the -incident, the fact, without the inward thing of which the fact is a -symbol. For if you will consider the matter you will see that a fact -_qua_ fact has no existence in art at all. It is not the painter's -business to make us a likeness of a tree or a rock; it is his business -to communicate to us an emotion--an ecstasy, if you please--and that he -may do so he uses a tree or a rock as a symbol, a word in his language -of colour and form. It is not the business of the sculptor to chisel -likenesses of men in marble; the human form is to him also a symbol -which stands for an idea. In the same manner it is not the business of -the literary artist to describe facts--real or imaginary--in words: he -is possessed with an idea which he symbolises by incident, by a story of -men and women and things. He is possessed, let us say, by the idea of -Love: then he must write a story of lovers, but he must never forget -that A. and B., his actual lovers in the tale, with their social -positions, their whims and fancies, their sayings and doings are only of -consequence in the degree that they symbolise the universal human -passion, which in its turn is a copy of certain eternal and ineffable -things. If A. and B. do _not_ do this then they are nothing, and worse -than nothing, so far as art is concerned. "But my tree is like a tree," -says the dull painter, and "my anatomy is faultless," says the bad -sculptor, and "my characters are life-like," says the novelist. - -And one can apply exactly the same reasoning to Mr Stevenson's ingenious -story. I do not know whether there is, or has been, or will be a salt in -existence which can turn a man into another person; that is of not the -slightest consequence to the argument. The result of the powder, as it -is described in the book, is an incident, and it makes no difference to -the critical judgment whether the incident is true or false, probable or -improbable. The only point, absolutely the only point is this: is the -incident significant or insignificant, is it related for its own sake, -or is it posited because it is a sign, a symbol, a word which veils and -reveals the artist's ecstasy and inspiration? The socialist fell in love -with the baroness: it is true, you say, it really happened so in Germany -some twenty-five years ago. But in the book it is insignificant. The -doctor took the powder and became another man; it is probably untrue. -But it is also insignificant; and to the critic of art in literature the -one incident stands precisely on the same footing as the other. - -And, do you know, I am glad I have made this comparison between "Jekyll -and Hyde" and the "Tragic Comedians," because it has struck me that what -I have been saying about the essential element of all literature might -be open to very grave misunderstanding. I have been insisting, with -reiteration that must have tired you, that there is only one test by -which literature may be distinguished from mere reading matter, and that -that test is summed up in the word, ecstasy. And then we admitted a -whole string of synonyms--desire of the unknown, sense of the unknown, -rapture, adoration, mystery, wonder, withdrawal from the common -life--and I daresay I have used many other phrases in the same sense -without giving you any special warning that it was our old friend again -in a new guise. But it has just occurred to me that with all this wealth -of synonyms, I may not have made my meaning perfectly clear. For -example, while I was laying down the law about Dr Jekyll's powder and -its effects, you might have interrupted me with the remark: "But I -thought you said the sense of wonder was characteristic of literature; -and surely the change from Jekyll into Hyde is extremely wonderful." Or -again, when I was belauding the "Odyssey," dwelling on the voyage of -Ulysses amongst strange peoples, you might have put in some modern tale -of strange adventure, and requested me to distinguish between the two, -to justify my praise of the old, and rejection of the new. And we have -mentioned Sunday-school books, always, I think, with a certain _nuance_ -of contempt; but Sunday-school books usually deal with religion, and -religion and adoration are almost synonymous. And so one could go on -with the list, making out, on our premises, with our own test, a -plausible case for books which we know very well are neither literature -nor anything remotely approaching it. And that would look rather like -the collapse of our literary case, wouldn't it? - -Well, the solution of the difficulty seems to me to be sought for in the -remarks I was making just now about "facts" in art. I said, you -remember, that in art, facts as facts have no existence at all. Facts, -incidents, plots, simply form the artistic speech--its mode of -expression, or medium--and if there is no idea behind the facts, then -you have no longer language but gibberish. Just as language is made up -of the letters of the alphabet, arranged in significant words and -sentences; so is the artistic language made up of plots, incidents, -sentences which are informed with significance. If I heap up letters of -the alphabet, and arrange them in an arbitrary collocation, without -meaning, I am forming gibberish, and not a language; and so if I pepper -my pages with extraordinary incidents, without attaching to them any -significance, I am writing, it may be, an exciting, absorbing, -interesting book, but I am not making literature. Indeed, some of the -books that might be mentioned in this connection remind me of a man -swearing: he uses the holiest names but he does so in such a manner that -he excites not reverence and awe but disgust and repulsion. Tell the -bare "plot" of the Odyssey to one of these writers, and hint that it -might be made into a "successful Christmas book for boys," and he will -produce you a book which will contain the Lotus-Eaters, and Calypso and -the Cyclops, but which will have just the same relation to literature as -blasphemy bears to the Liturgy. That seems to me the explanation; one -must say again that mere incident is nothing, that it only becomes -something when it is a symbol of an interior meaning. And, turning this -maxim inside out, as it were, we shall sometimes find that a book which -seems on the surface to be "reading matter" is really literature, and -incidents, apparently insignificant, may turn out, on a closer -examination, to be significant and symbolic in a very high degree. So I -don't think our literary criterion is in any way invalidated by the -occurrence of surprising incidents in very worthless books. Look at "Mr -Isaacs" for example. In a sense it is a "wonderful" book, inasmuch as -it contains incidents which are far removed from common experience; but -you have only to read it to discover that the author had not been -visited by any inspiration of the unseen. One may trace some -acquaintance with theosophical "literature," but not even the dimmest -vision of "the other things." The "other things"? Ah, that is another -synonym, but who can furnish a precise definition of the indefinable? -They are sometimes in the song of a bird, sometimes in the scent of a -flower, sometimes in the whirl of a London street, sometimes hidden -under a great lonely hill. Some of us seek them with most hope and the -fullest assurance in the sacring of the Mass, others receive tidings -through the sound of music, in the colour of a picture, in the shining -form of a statue, in the meditation of eternal truth. Do you know that I -can never hear a jangling piano-organ, contending with the roar of -traffic without the tears--not of feeling but of emotion--coming to my -eyes? - -And that instance--it is grotesque enough--reminds me that I think I -have an explanation of another puzzle that has often perplexed me, and I -daresay has perplexed you. Do you remember the books that you read when -you were a boy? I can think of stories that I read long ago (I have -forgotten the very names of them) that filled me with emotions that I -recognised, afterwards, as purely artistic. The sorriest pirate, the -most wretchedly concealed treasure, poor Captain Mayne Reid at his -boldest gave me then the sensations that I now search for in the -"Odyssey" or in the thought of it; and I looked into some of these -shabby old tales years afterwards, and wondered how on earth I had -managed to penetrate into "faėry lands forlorn" through such miserable -stucco portals. And you, you say, extracted somehow or other, from -Harrison Ainsworth's "Lancashire Witches," that essence of the unknown -that you now find in Poe, and I expect that everybody who loves -literature could gather similar recollections. - -Well, it would be easy enough to solve the problem by saying that the -emotions of children are of no consequence and don't count, but then I -don't think that proposition is true. I think, on the contrary, that -children, especially young children before they have been defiled by the -horrors of "education," possess the artistic emotion in remarkable -purity, that they reproduce, in a measure, the primitive man before he -was defiled, artistically, by the horrors of civilisation. The ecstasy -of the artist is but a recollection, a remnant from the childish vision, -and the child undoubtedly looks at the world through "magic casements." -But you see all this is unconscious, or subconscious (to a less degree -it is so in later life, and artists are rare simply because it is their -almost impossible task to translate the emotion of the sub-consciousness -into the speech of consciousness), and as you may sometimes see children -uttering their conceptions in words that are nonsense, or next door to -it, so nonsense or at any rate very poor stuff suffices with them to -summon up the vision from the depths of the soul. Suppose we could catch -a genius at the age of nine or ten and request him to utter what he -felt; the boy would speak or write rubbish, and in the same way you -would find that he read rubbish, and that it excited in him an ineffable -joy and ecstasy. Coleridge was a Bluecoat boy when he read the "poems" -of William Lisle Bowles, and admired them to enthusiasm, and I am quite -sure that at some early period Poe had been enraptured by Mrs Radcliffe, -and we know how Burns founded himself on Fergusson. When men are young, -the inward ecstasy, the "red powder of projection" is of such efficacy -and virtue that the grossest and vilest matter is transmuted for them -into pure gold, glistering and glorious as the sun. The child (and with -him you may link all primitive and childlike people) approaches books -and pictures just as he approaches nature itself and life; and a -wonderful vision appears where many of us can only see the common and -insignificant. - -But all this has been a digression; it has come by the way in a talk -about worthless and insignificant books. But I think that we should by -this time have brought our testing apparatus into working order; we -should be able to criticise any given book on some ground or principle, -not on the rule of thumb of "it sent me to sleep," or "it kept me -awake." And I think that what I have already remarked about the -subconscious element in literature should have answered that question -about "books with a purpose." As a matter of fact I believe that they -are mostly trash, but it is not a case for _ą priori_ reasoning; you -must test each book by itself. Mr Stevenson was, I believe, an artist at -heart, but we have seen how the artificer overcame the artist in "Jekyll -and Hyde," and in like manner there have been cases of people who were -artificers, and even preachers, at heart, who were forced to succumb to -the concealed, subconscious artist, when pen touched paper. For example; -first logically analyze "Lycidas"; you will be disgusted just as Dr -Johnson, who had no analysis but the logical, was disgusted. Forget your -logic, your common-sense, and read it again as poetry; you will -acknowledge the presence of an amazing masterpiece. An unimportant -lament over an unimportant personage, constructed on an affected -pseudo-pastoral plan, full of acrid, Puritanical declamation and abuse, -wantonly absurd with its mixture of the nymphs and St Peter; it is not -only wretched in plan but clumsy in construction, the artifice is -atrocious. And it is also perfect beauty! It is the very soul set to -music; its austere and exquisite rapture thrills one so that I could -almost say: he who understands the mystery and the beauty of "Lycidas" -understands also the final and eternal secret of art and life and man. - - - - -IV - - -Do you know that when we last talked _belles lettres_ the whole evening -went by (or at least I think so) without my saying anything about -"Pickwick"? I hope you noted the omission in your diary, if you keep -one, because I find it difficult to talk much about literature, without -drawing some illustration from that very notable, and curious, and -unappreciated book. Yes, I maintain the justice of the last epithet in -spite of circulation, in spite of popularity, and in spite of "Pickwick -'literature.'" You may like a book very much and read it three times a -year without appreciating it, and if a great book is really popular it -is sure to owe its popularity to entirely wrong reasons. There are -people, you know, who study Homer every day, because he throws so much -light on the manners and customs of the ancients, and if a book of our -own time is both great and popular, you may be sure that it is loved for -its most peccant parts, just as nine people out of ten will recall the -"Raven" and the "Bells" if the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe is mentioned. - -After all, I needn't have excused myself for my constant references to -Dickens's masterpiece, since I have already informed you that, like -Coleridge, I love a "cyclical" mode of discoursing; and I honestly think -that if you want to understand something about the Mysteries or the Fine -Arts (which are the expression of the mysteries) it is the only way. A -proposition in Euclid is demonstrated and done with, since nothing can -be added to a mathematical proof; but literature is different. It is -many-sided and many-coloured, and variable always; you can consider it -in half-a-dozen ways, from half-a-dozen standpoints, and from -half-a-dozen judgments, each of which will be true and perfect in -itself, and yet each will supplement the other. Two or three weeks ago I -think I tried to show you what a complex organism any given book -reveals, if one examines it with a little attention, and if one specimen -be so curiously and intricately fashioned, you may imagine the -complexity of the whole subject. - -But I have a more particular reason for turning once more to the -"Posthumous Papers." We have noted that that which at first sight seems -significant, may turn out to be insignificant, and I think that in -passing I hinted that the reverse was sometimes the case. Very good; and -the especial instance that is in my mind is the enormous capacity for -strong drink exhibited by Mr Pickwick and all his friends and -associates. Of course you've noticed it; perhaps you have thought it a -nuisance and a blemish from the artistic standpoint, just as many "good -people" have found it a nuisance and a blemish from the temperance or -teetotal standpoint. You may have felt quite certain that a set of men -who were always drinking brandy and water, and strong ale, and -milk-punch, and madeira, who constantly drank a great deal too much of -each and all of these things, would be extremely unpleasant companions -in private life; I daresay you have been thankful that you never knew Mr -Pickwick or any of his followers. You know, I expect, by personal -experience, that a man whose daily life is a pilgrimage from one whiskey -bar to another is, in most cases, an extremely tedious and unprofitable -companion; and it is undeniable that the "Pickwickians" rather made -opportunities for brandy and water than avoided them. And in an -indirect manner, you feel that all this makes you like the book less. - -But (I can no more miss an opportunity of digression than Mr Pickwick -could keep on the coach if there were a chance of drinking his favourite -beverage) do you know that there are really people who make their liking -or disliking of the characters the criterion of literature--of romances, -I mean? We touched on this some time ago, and I remember saying that in -the case of such secondary books as Jane Austen's and Thackeray's, it -was permissible enough to go where one was best amused, that one had a -right to say, "Yes, the artifice may be the better here, but the -characters are much more amusing there, and I had rather talk to the -cosmopolitan whose manners are now and then a little to seek, than to -the maiden lady in the village, whose decorum is so unexceptionable." -But I confess that at the time it had not dawned upon me that there are -people who try to judge fine art--the true literature--on the same -grounds. I believe, however, that such is the case; I believe, indeed, -that the egregious M. Voltaire was dimly moved by some such feeling when -he wrote his famous "criticism" of the prophet Habakkuk. What (he must -have said to himself) would they think in the _salons_ of a man who -talked like this:-- - - And the everlasting mountains were scattered, - The perpetual hills did bow: - His ways are everlasting? - -Evidently Habakkuk could never hope for a second invitation; and -_therefore_ he wrote rubbish. And I believe, as I said, that there are -many people who more or less unconsciously judge literature by this -measure, by asking, "Would these people be pleasant to meet? would one -like to hear this kind of thing in one's drawing-room?" And this is well -enough with secondary books, since they contain nothing but -"characters," and "incidents," and "scenes," and "facts"; but it is by -no means well in literature, in which, as we found out, all these things -are symbols, words of a language, used, not for themselves, but because -they are significant. Remember our old definition--ecstasy, the -withdrawal, the standing apart from common life--and you will see that -we may almost reverse this popular method of judgment, and turn it into -another test, or rather another way of putting the test, of art. For, if -literature be a kind of withdrawal from the common atmosphere of life, -we shall naturally expect to find its utterance, both in matter and -manner, wholly unsuitable for the drawing-room or the street, and its -"characters" persons whom we cannot imagine ourselves associating with -on pleasant or comfortable terms. Neither you nor I would be very happy -on Ulysses's boat, we should soon become irritated with Don Quixote, we -should hardly feel at home with Sir Galahad. It is true that all the -good there is in men is this--that at rare intervals, in certain lonely -moments of exaltation they do feel for the time a faint stirring of the -beautiful within them, and _then_ they would adventure on the Quest of -the Graal; but as you know few of us are saints, fewer, perhaps, are men -of genius; we are sunk for the most part of our days in the common life, -and our care is for the body and for the things of the body, for the -street and the drawing-room, and not for the perpetual, solitary hills. -So you see that if you read a book and can say of the characters in it: -"I wish I knew them," there is very strong reason to suspect that the -book in question is not literature, though it may well be a pleasant -picture of pleasant people. - -Yes, I was expecting that question. I should have been sorry if your -sense of humour had _not_ prompted you to ask whether the drinking of -too much milk-punch constituted a withdrawal from the common life, a -profound and lonely ecstasy. But don't you remember that when we were -discussing "Pickwick" before, and comparing it with the "Odyssey," I -suddenly deserted Homer, and brought in Sophocles? I think I contrasted, -very briefly, the education of the dramatist with the education of the -romance writer, the London of the 'twenties and 'thirties with the city -of the Violet Crown, the fate of him, - - ~aei dia lamprotatou - bainontos habrōs aitheros~ - -with that of the other who tried to find the way through the evil and -hideous London fog. - -Well, you might have been inclined to ask, why Sophocles? But do you -remember for whose festivals, in whose honour the Greek wrote his dramas -and his choral songs? It was the god of wine who was worshipped and -invoked at the Dionysiaca, in the praise of Dionysus the chorus sang and -danced about the altar, and all the drama arose from the celebration of -the Bacchic mysteries. So you get, I think, a pretty fair proportion: as -the Athens of Sophocles is to the Cockneydom of Dickens, so is the cult -of Dionysus to the cult of cold punch and brandy and water. The interior -meaning is in each case the same; the artistic expression has lamentably -deteriorated, in the degree that the artistic atmosphere on the banks of -Fleet Ditch, the "mother of dead dogs," was inferior to the artistic -atmosphere on the banks of the Ilissus. - -I expect you have gathered from all this talk the point I want to make: -that the brandy and water and punch business in "Pickwick," which at -first sight seems trivial and insignificant and even disgusting, is, in -fact, full of the highest significance. Don't you notice the insistence -with which the writer dwells on drinking, the unction and enthusiasm -with which he describes it? We have admitted the poverty of the -"materials" with which Dickens works, and of course it would be as idle -to expect him to write a choral song in honour of Dionysus as it would -be to expect him to write in Greek. He expressed himself as best he -could, in the "language" (that is with the incidents and in the -atmosphere) that he knew, but there can be no possible doubt as to his -meaning. In a word, I absolutely identify the "brandy and water scenes" -with the Bacchic cultus and all that it implies. - -This is "a little too much for you" is it? Well, let us take another -well-known book, the "Gargantua" and "Pantagruel." You know it well, and -I have only to remind you of the name to remind you that as "Pickwick" -has been said to "reek with brandy and water," so does Rabelais -assuredly reek of wine. The history begins:-- - - "Grandgousier estoit bon raillard en son temps, aimant ą boire - net," - -it ends with the Oracle of the Holy Bottle, with the word - - "_Trinch_ ... un mot panomphée, celebré et entendu de toutes - nations, et nous signifie, _beuvez_;" - -and I refer you to the allocution of Bacbuc, the priestess of the -Bottle, at large. "By wine," she says, "is man made divine," and I may -say that if you have not got the key to these Rabelaisian riddles much -of the value--the highest value--of the book is lost to you. You know -how they drink, those strange figures, the giants and their followers, -you know the aroma of the vintage, the odour of the wine vat that fills -all those marvellous and enigmatic pages, and I tell you that here again -I recognise the same signs as in "Pickwick," the same music as that of -the dithyrambic choruses in honour of Dionysus, which were eventually -amplified into that magnificent literary product, the Greek drama. And -if we wish to penetrate the secret we must not forget the Hebrew -psalmist, with his _calix meus inebrians quam pręclarus est_. And -remember, too, if you feel inclined to shudder at the milk-punch, that -the words which I have just quoted might be rendered, "how splendid is -this cup of wine that makes me drunk!" and we may say that, in a manner, -poor Dickens did so render them, since, as I have reminded you he -belonged, after the flesh, to the Camden Town of the 'twenties, and was -forced to use its unbeautiful dialect because he knew no other. - -And after all, then, what does this Bacchic cultus mean? We have seen -that under various disguises the one spirit appeared in Greece, in the -France of the Renaissance, and in Victorian England, and that in each -instance there is an apparent glorification of drunkenness. The Greeks, -indeed, a sober people by necessity, as all Southerners are, -impersonated the genius of intoxication, and made excessive drinking, as -it would seem, an elaborate religion, with rites and festivals and -mysteries. The Tourainian, whose personal habit was that not of a -drunkard, but of a learned physician and restorer of ancient letters, -who probably drank very much in the manner of the good curé I once knew -("My God!" he said to me, after the third small glass of small white -wine, "'tis a veritable debauch!"), has, on the face of it, dedicated -all his enormous book to the same cause, so that to read Pantagruel is -like walking through a French village in the vintage season, when the -whole world, as Zola unpleasantly and nastily expresses it "pue le -raisin." Thirdly, Dickens, who loved to talk of concocting gin-punch, -and left it, when concocted, to be drunk by his guests, shows us Mr -Pickwick "dead drunk" in the wheel-barrow. And, for a final touch of -apparent absurdity, you remember that the Dionysus myth represents wine -as a civilising influence! You may well think of the public-house at -the corner, and ask yourself how strong drink can contribute to -civilisation. - -Well, that is, in very brief outline, the problem and the puzzle; and I -may say at once that to the literalist, the rationalist, the materialist -critic, the problem is quite insoluble. But to you and me, who do not -end in any kind of _ist_, the enigma will not be quite so hopeless. Let -us get back to our maxim that, in literature, facts and incidents are -not present for their own sake but as symbols, as words of the language -of art; it will follow, then, that the incidents of the Dionysus myth, -the incidents of "Pantagruel" and "Pickwick" are not to be taken -literally, but symbolically. We are not to conclude that the Greeks were -a race of drunkards, or that Rabelais and Dickens preached habitual -excess in drink as the highest virtue; we are to conclude that both the -ancient people and the modern writers recognised Ecstasy as the supreme -gift and state of man, and that they chose the Vine and the juice of the -Vine as the most beautiful and significant symbol of that Power which -withdraws a man from the common life and the common consciousness, and -taking him from the dust of the earth, sets him in high places, in the -eternal world of ideas. And, after all, I cannot do better than quote at -length the sermon of Bacbuc, priestess of the Dive Bouteille. - - "Et icy maintenons que non rire, ains boire, est le propre de - l'homme: je ne dis boire simplement et absolument, car aussi bien - boivent les bestes: je dis boire vin bon et frais. Notez, amis, que - de vin, divin on devient: et n'y a argument tant seur, ni art de - divination moins fallace. Vos academiques l'afferment, rendans - l'etymologie de vin lequel ils disent en Grec ~OINOS~, estre comme - _vis_, force, puissance. Car pouvoir il a d'emplir l'ame de toute - verité, tout savoir et philosophie. Si avez noté ce qui est en - lettres Ioniques escrit dessus la porte du temple, vous avez peu - entendre qu'en vin est verité cachée." - -You see how that passage lights up the whole book, and you see what -Rabelais meant in the Prologue to the first book by that reference to -"certain little boxes such as we see nowadays in apothecaries' shops, -the which boxes are painted on the outside with joyous and fantastic -figures ... but within they hold rare drugs, as balm, ambergris, amomum, -musk, civet, certain stones of high virtue, and all manner of precious -things." I do not know whether you have read any of our English -commentators on Rabelais, if not, I would not advise you to do so, -unless you take pleasure in futility. For instance they take the passage -from the prologue, and seeing the hint that something is concealed, try -by some complicated chain of argument to show that Rabelais veiled his -attacks on the Church under a mask of "wild buffoonery." Of course the -attacks on the Church (the "secondary" and comparatively unimportant -element in the book, fairly answering to the attacks on books of -Chivalry in the Don Quixote) are as open as any attack can well be, and -anyone who finds a veil drawn between Rabelais' dislike for the clergy -and his expression of it must have a very singular notion of what -constitutes concealment, and a still more singular misapprehension of -the motive-forces which make and shape great books. Art, you may feel -quite assured, proceeds always from love and rapture, never from hatred -and disdain, and satire of every kind _qua_ satire is eternally -condemned to that Gehenna where the pamphlets, the "literature of the -subject," and the "life-like" books lie all together. In "Don Quixote" -one perceives that Cervantes loved the romances he condemns, and the -satire is therefore good-humoured, and, one may say, does his book -little harm or none at all; but Rabelais had been harshly treated by the -friars, and his consequent ill-humour, his very violent abuse _are_ in -disaccord with the eternal melodies which may be discerned in -"Pantagruel," noted there under strange symbols. Yes, the satire in -Rabelais is an "accident," which one has to accept and to make the best -of; some of it is amusing enough, "joyous and fantastic," like the "apes -and owls and antiques" that adorn the little boxes of the apothecaries, -some of it is a little acrid, as I said; but let us never forget that -the essence of the book is its splendid celebration of ecstasy, under -the figure of the vine. - -You know I have not opened the door; I have only put the key into your -hands, in this as in other instances. There are things, which, strange -to say, are better left unsaid, and this, no doubt, Rabelais perceived -when he devised his symbolism and set many traps in the paths of the -shallow commentator. It was not from dread of the consequences of -attacking the clergy that he devised curious veils and concealments, -since, as I have noted, his hatred of the church is quite open and -unconcealed. He chose the method of symbolism, firstly because he was -an artist, and symbolism is the speech of art; and secondly because the -high truth that he prophesied was not, and is not, fit for vulgar ears. -The secret places of the human nature are not heedlessly to be exposed -to the uninitiated, who would merely profane this occult knowledge if -they had it. By consequence the "Complete Works of Rabelais" are -obtainable in Holywell Street, and many, seeking the libidinous, have -found merely the tiresome, and have cursed their bargain. - -No, I will positively say no more. The key is in your hands, and with it -you may open what chambers you can. There is only this to be mentioned: -that, if I were you, I would not be "afraid with any amazement" should -Mr Pickwick's overdose of milk punch prove, ultimately, a clue to the -labyrinth of mystic theology. - -There are, however, one or two minor points in Rabelais that may be -worth notice. I might, you know, analyze it as I attempted to analyze -"Don Quixote." There is in "Gargantua" and "Pantagruel" that same -complexity of thought and construction: you may note, first of all, the -great essence which is common to these masterpieces as to all -literature--ecstasy, expressed in the one case under the similitude of -knight-errantry, in the other by the symbol of the vine. Then, in -Rabelais you have another symbolism of ecstasy--the shape of -_gauloiserie_, of gross, exuberant gaiety, expressing itself by -outrageous tales, outrageous words, by a very cataract of obscenity, if -you please, if only you will notice how the obscenity of Rabelais -transcends the obscenity of common life; how grossness is poured out in -a sort of mad torrent, in a frenzy, a very passion of the unspeakable. -Then, thirdly, there is the impression one collects from the book: a -transfigured picture of that wonderful age: there is the note of the -vast, interminable argument of the schools, and for a respond, the -clear, enchanted voice of Plato; there is the vision, there is the -mystery of the vast, far-lifted Gothic quire; and those fair, ornate, -and smiling _chāteaux_ rise smiling from the rich banks of the Loire and -the Vienne. The old tales told in farmhouse kitchens in the Chinonnais, -the exultation of the new learning, of lost beauty recovered, the joy of -the vintage, the old legends, the ancient turns of speech, the new style -and manner of speaking: so to the old world answers the new. Then one -has the satire of clergy and lawyers--the criticism of life--analogous, -as I said with much that is in Cervantes, and so from divers elements -you see how a literary masterpiece is made into a whole. - -But now, do you know, I am going to make a confession. You have heard me -say more than once that in art, in literature properly so called, liking -and disliking count for nothing. We have understood, I think, that when -once amusing reading matter has been put out of court, the question of -how often, with what absorption one reads a work of art, matters -nothing. Well, I want to contradict, or rather to modify that axiom; we -have been speaking of three great books, each of which I believe firmly -to be true literature--"Pickwick," "Don Quixote," and "Pantagruel." Here -is my confession. I read "Pickwick," say, once a year, "Don Quixote," -once every three years, while I read Rabelais in fragments perhaps once -in six years. You might suppose that I have indicated the order of -merit? Well, I have, but you must reverse the order, since I firmly -believe that "Pantagruel" is the finest of the three. We will leave -Dickens out of account, since we are agreed that though the message was -that of angels, the accent and the speech were of Camden town; he, that -is to say, approaches most nearly to the common life, to the common -passages in which we live, and hence he, naturally, pleases us the most -in our ordinary and common humours. But, of the other two, I confess -that Cervantes pleases me much the more; the vulgarity of Dickens is -absent or rather it is concentrated in Sancho, in a much milder form -than that of "Pickwick," for a Spanish peasant of the sixteenth century, -with all his "common-sense," and practical reason, is less remote from -beauty than the retired "business man" of the early nineteenth century; -just as poor Mr Pickwick, an honest, kindly creature, is vastly superior -to the blatant, pretentious, diamond-bedecked swindlers who represent -the city in our day. But Cervantes, who lacks, as I say, the -"commonness" of Dickens, has something of the urbanity, the -cosmopolitanism of Thackeray, he is, to a certain degree, a Colonel -Newcome of his time, but he has seen the world more sagaciously than -Colonel Newcome ever could. So while Rabelais appals me with his -extravagance, his torrents of obscene words, I am charmed with the good -humoured and observant companionship of Cervantes. - -And hence I conclude that "Pantagruel" is the finer book. It may sound -paradoxical to say so, but don't you see that the very _grotesquerie_ of -Rabelais shows a further remove from the daily round, a purer metal, -less tinged with the personal, material, interest than "Don Quixote." -Mind you, I find greater deftness, a finer artifice in Cervantes, who I -think expressed his conception the more perfectly, but I think that the -conception of Rabelais the higher, precisely because it is the more -remote. Look at the "Pantagruel"; consider those "lists," that more than -frankness, that ebullition of grossness, plainly intentional, designed: -it is either the merest lunacy, or else it is sublime. Don't you -remember the trite saying "extremes meet," don't you perceive that when -a certain depth has been passed you begin to ascend into the heights? -The Persian poet expresses the most transcendental secrets of the Divine -Love by the grossest phrases of the carnal love; so Rabelais soars above -the common life, above the streets and the gutter by going far lower -than the streets and the gutter: he brings before you the highest by -positing that which is lower than the lowest, and if you have the -prepared, initiated mind, a Rabelaisian "list" is the best preface to -the angelic song. All this may strike you as extreme paradox, but it has -the disadvantage of being true, and perhaps you may assure yourself of -its truth by recollecting the converse proposition--that it is when one -is absorbed in the highest emotions that the most degrading images will -intrude themselves. No; you are right: this is not the psychology of the -"scientific" persons who write hand-books on the subject, it is not the -psychology of the "serious" novelists, of those who write the annals of -the "engaged"; but it happens to be the psychology of man. - -I don't know that very much can be made of the signification of the -characters in "Pantagruel," as I hardly think that Rabelais was anxious -to be systematic or consistent in delineating them. I believe that there -are two reasons for the gigantic stature of Pantagruel, or perhaps -three. The form of the whole story came from popular legends about a -giant named Gargantua, and that is the first and least important reason. -Secondly the "giant" conception does something to remove the book from -common experience; it is a sign-post, warning you _not_ to expect a -faithful picture of life, but rather a withdrawal from life and from -common experience, and you are in a position to appreciate the value of -that motive, since I have never ceased from telling you that it is the -principal motive of all literature. And, thirdly, I hesitate and doubt, -but nothing more, whether the giant Pantagruel, he who is "all thirst" -and ever athirst, may not be a hint of the stature of the perfect man, -of the ideal man, freed from the bonds of the common life, and common -appetites, having only the eternal thirst for the eternal vine. -Candidly, I am inclined to favour this view, but only as a private -interpretation; it may be all nonsense, and I shall not be offended or -surprised if you can prove to me that it is nonsense. But have you -noticed how Pantagruel is at once the most important and the least -important figure in the book? He is the most important personage; he is -the hero, the leader, the son of the king, the giant, wiser than any or -all of his followers: formally, he is to Rabelais that which Don Quixote -is to Cervantes. And yet, actually, he is little more than a vague, -tremendous shadow; the living, speaking, impressive personages are -Frčre Jean and Panurge, who occupy the stage and capture our attention. -Doesn't this rather suggest to you the part played by the "real" man in -life itself; a subordinate, unobtrusive part usually, hidden very often -by an exterior, which bears little resemblance to the true man within. -You know Coleridge says that:-- - -"Pantagruel is the Reason; Panurge the Understanding--the pollarded man, -the man with every faculty except the reason. I scarcely know an example -more illustrative of the distinction between the two. Rabelais had no -mode of speaking the truth in those days but in such form as this; as it -was, he was indebted to the king's protection for his life." - -I must cavil at the last sentence, in which Coleridge seems to hint that -Rabelais was in danger because he had hinted the distinction between the -Reason and the Understanding. With all respect to Coleridge, Rabelais -might have gone to the limits of psychology and metaphysics without -incurring any danger; he was threatened on account of his very open -satire of the church and the clergy, which, as I have pointed out, is as -plain spoken as satire well can be. Still, I think that Coleridge, -using the technical language of German philosophy, had a glimpse of the -truth, and Mr Besant's remark that Panurge is a careful portrait of a -man without a soul is virtually the same definition in another -terminology. As I have already said, I don't think that Rabelais kept -his characters within the strict limits of consistence--they are only -significant, perhaps, now and then--and I want to say, again, that I -speak under correction in this matter, not feeling at all sure of my -ground. But I am inclined to think that Pantagruel, Panurge, and the -Monk are not so much three different characters, as the representative -of man in his three persons. Frčre Jean is, perhaps, the natural man, -the "healthy animal," Panurge is the rational man, and Pantagruel, as I -said, is the spiritual, or perfect man, who looms, gigantic, in the -background, almost invisible, and yet all important, and the three are, -in reality, One. If I may apply the case to our own subject, I may say -that while Pantagruel conceives the idea, Panurge writes the book, and -Brother John has the courage to take it to the publishers. The first is -the artist, the second the artificer, and the third the social being, -ready to battle for his place in the material world. The giant is -always calm, since his head is high above earth--_vidit nubes et -sidera_--but the other two have to face the compromises of life, and -suffer its defeats. All this may be purely fantastical; and at any rate -I am sure that anyone who knows his Rabelais could pick many holes in my -interpretation. For example, I said that the monk was the "healthy -animal," and Panurge the rational man; but there are occasions when -Panurge assumes the character of the unhealthy beast, the hairy-legged, -hybrid, creature of the Greek myth, who uses the superior human artifice -for ends that are wholly bestial or worse than bestial. Still; is this a -valid objection? Are there not such men in life itself? Is it not, -perhaps, the peculiar and terrible privilege of humanity that it may, if -it pleases, prostitute its most holy and most blessed gifts to the worst -and most horrible uses? And does not each one of us feel that, -potentially, at all events, there is such a being within him, not -yielded to, perhaps, for a moment, yet always present, always ready to -assume the command. The greatest saints, we are told, have suffered the -most fiery temptations; in other words--Pantagruel is always attended by -_Panurge diabolicus_. I have talked once or twice of the Shadowy -Companion, but one must not forget that there is the Muddy Companion -also; a being often of exquisite wit and deep understanding, but given -to evil ways if one do not hold him in check. - -But, in any case, I think I have shown that the Pantagruel is one of the -most extraordinary efforts of the human mind, full of "Pantagruelism"; -and that word stands for many concealed and wonderful mysteries. - -It is not in the least a "pleasant," or a "life-like," or even an -"interesting" book; I think that when one knows of the key--or rather of -the keys--one opens the pages almost with a sensation of dread. So it is -a book that one consults at long intervals, because it is only at rare -moments that a man can bear the spectacle of his own naked soul, and a -vision that is splendid, certainly, but awful also, in its constant -apposition of the eternal heights and the eternal depths. - - - - -V - - -I have been waiting for that question for a very long time, and I only -wonder that you have been able to restrain yourself so well--through -such a series of what I know you believe to be paradoxes, though I have -assured you that I deal merely in the plainest truth. But, after all, -your question is quite a legitimate one, and I remember when I first -began to think of these things I went astray--simply because I did not -recognise the existence of the difficulty that has been bothering you, -ever since that talk of ours about the _haulte sagesse Pantagrueline--et -Pickwickienne_, and perhaps before it. - -Yes, I will put the question in its plainest, crudest form, and I will -make you ask, if you please, whether Charles Dickens had any -consciousness of the interior significance of the milk-punch, strong -ale, and brandy and water which he caused Mr Pickwick and his friends to -consume in such outrageous quantities. It sounds plain enough and simple -enough, doesn't it, and yet I must tell you that to answer that -question fairly you must first analyze human nature, and I needn't -remind you that _that_ is a task very far from simple. "Man" sounds a -very simple predicate, as you utter it; you imagine that you understand -its significance perfectly well, but when you begin to refine a little, -and to bring in distinctions, and to carry propositions to their -legitimate bounds, you find that you have undertaken the definition of -that which is essentially indefinite and probably indefinable. And, -after all, we need not pitch on this term or on that, there is no need -to select "man" as offering any especial difficulty, for, I take it, -that the truth is that all human knowledge is subject to the same -disadvantage, the same doubts and reservations. _Omnia exeunt in -mysterium_ was an old scholastic maxim; and the only people who have -always a plain answer for a plain question are the pseudo-scientists, -the people who think that one can solve the enigma of the universe with -a box of chemicals. - -But all this is a caution--necessary I suppose--that you need not expect -me to give you a plain, cut and dried answer to your question whether -literature is a conscious production--or, in more particular form--was -Dickens aware that by milk-punch he meant ecstasy? I shall "ask you -another" in the approved Scotch manner. You were telling me that as you -came along this evening you had to stop for five minutes at the corner -of the Caledonian Road to watch the exquisite grace of two slum-girls of -fourteen or fifteen, dancing to the rattling tune of a piano-organ. You -spoke of the charm of their movements--_motus Ionici_, some of them, I -fear--of the purely ęsthetic delight there was in the sight of young -girls, disguised as horrible little slatterns, leaping and dancing as -young girls have always leapt and danced, I suppose, from the time of -the cave-dwellers onwards. Well, but do you suppose that this charm you -have remarked was conscious? Do you think that Harriet and Emily -realised that they were of the kin of the ecstatic dancers of all time, -that they were beautiful because they were naturally expressing by a -symbol that is universal, the universal and eternal ecstasy of life? -Look back in your memory for illustrations; I, as you know, am rather -the enemy of facts, and it is rarely that I am able to support a theory -by a systematic _catena_ of instances and authorities. But, if one had -the industry and energy, one might make a most curious history of the -dance. Remember the Hebrew dances of religious joy, of ecstasy in its -highest form, remember that strange survival of the choristers' dance -before the high altar in Spain on certain solemn feasts, a survival -which has persisted in spite of the strong Roman influences which make -for rigid uniformity. Think of the Greek Menads and Bacchantes, of the -Dionysiac chorus in the theatre, of our old English peasants "treading -the mazes," and dancing round the maypole, of dances at Breton -_Pardons_, of the fairies, supposed to dance in the forest glade beneath -the moon. Why, dancing is as much an expression of the human secret as -literature itself, and I expect it is even more ancient; and Harriet and -Emily, leaping on the pavement, to that jingling, clattering tune, were -merely showing that though they were the children of the slum, and the -step-children of the School Board, they were yet human, and partakers of -the universal sacrament. - -But if you ask, were they conscious of all this, it will be very -difficult to give a direct answer. I need hardly say that they could not -have put their very real emotion into the terms I have used--nor perhaps -into any terms at all--and yet they know the delight of what they do, -as much as if they had been initiated in all the mysteries. If someone -with the genius of Socrates for propounding searching questions could -"corner" Harriet and Emily, and face and overcome that preliminary, -inevitable "garn," it is possible that he might find that they were -fully conscious of the reasons why they danced and delighted in dancing; -just as Socrates demonstrated to the slave that he was perfectly -acquainted with geometry; but failing a Socrates, and using words in -their usual senses, I suppose we must say that they are not conscious. -They dance and leap without calculation, as they eat and drink, and as -birds sing in springtime; and very much the same answer must be given to -the similar question as to literature. - -I said that to answer the riddle fully and completely, one would have to -make an analysis of human nature; and, in truth, the problem is simply a -problem of the consciousness and subconsciousness, and of the action and -interaction between the two. I will not be too dogmatic. We are in -misty, uncertain and unexplored regions, and it is impossible to chart -all the cities and mountains and streams, and fix with the nicety of -the ordnance survey their several places on the map--but I am strangely -inclined to think that all the quintessence of art is distilled from the -subconscious and not from the conscious self; or, in other words, that -the artificer seldom or never understands the ends and designs and -spirit of the artist. Our literary architects have all, I think, builded -better than they knew, and very often, I expect, the draughtsman who -sees the triumph and enjoys it in his manner, takes all the credit to -himself, and ludicrously imagines that it is his careful drawing and -amplification of the sketch, and following the scale, that have created -the high and holy house of God. There is a queer instance of what I mean -in Dickens's preface to the later editions of "Pickwick"--I put the book -up on a high shelf the other day, and I can't be bothered getting it -down and verifying the quotation--but I believe the author, after -telling us that the original design was to give opportunities to the -etcher Seymour, goes on to recapitulate, as it were, the achievements of -the book, and his list of triumphs is much more amusing than any list in -Rabelais. The law of imprisonment for debt has been altered! Fleet -Prison has been pulled down! The School-Board is coming! Lawyers' -clerks have nicer manners! Parliamentary elections are a little better, -but they might be better still! and one wonders that he does not -announce that, in consequence of the publication of "Pickwick," medical -students have given up brandy for barley-water. It is evident, you see, -that Dickens thought (or thought that he thought, for it is very -difficult to be exact) that his masterpiece of the _picaresque_, his -epitome of Pantagruelism, was written to correct abuses, and looking -back, many years after its publication, he congratulates himself that -most of these abuses have been corrected, and (one can almost hear him -say) _ergo_, it is a very fine book. He was impelled to write this -nonsense of the preface because he was, by comparison, "educated"; -Harriet, the dancer, would probably tell you, if you succeeded in -penetrating beyond "garn," that she danced because she liked it; but, -granting that the poisoning process had been carried out more -successfully in the case of Emily, she might, conceivably, reply that -she danced "becos it's 'elthy, and Teacher says as 'ow it cirkilates the -blood." Emily, you see, obtained the prize for Physiology, as well as -for French and the Piano-Forte; she is thus enabled to give "reasons," -and they are quite as valuable as the "reasons" of Dickens, explaining -the merits of "Pickwick." You know that pompous old fool Forster, who -took in Dickens at times, sniffed a little at "Pickwick," and thought -the later books, with their ingenious plots, and floods of maudlin -tears, and portentous "character-drawing," immense advances, and I -suppose the master felt obliged to justify himself for that first -enterprise--to show that he had not really been inspired, but had -written a useful tract! You remember he "explains" Stiggins; he warns -you not to be under any misconceptions, not to suppose that Stiggins -satirises a, b, or c, since he is only aimed at x, y, and z. Can you -conceive that a medięval artist in gurgoyles, having perfected for our -eternal joy, a splendid grinning creature, lurking on the parapet, and -having endowed him, greatly to our oblectation, with the tail of a -dragon, the body of a dog, the feet of an eagle, the head of a bull in -hysterics, with a Franciscan cowl, by way of finish, should afterwards -explain that no offence was intended to Father Ambrose, the prior over -the way? - -So it seems fairly plain, doesn't it, that in the case of Dickens, at -all events, there was no very clear consciousness of what had been -achieved, and I believe that you would find the rule hold good with -other artists in a greater or less degree. With Dickens it holds in a -very high degree, just because there was that tremendous gulf I have so -often spoken about between his inward and his outward self; because, -with the soul of rare genius, his intelligence lived in those dreary, -dusty London streets, because the artificer, even while he carried out -the artist's commands, understood very little what he was doing. But one -can trace the same working in other cases. Take the case of Mr Hardy, -for instance. You remember what I said about his "Two on a Tower"; I -praised it for its ecstatic passion, for that revelation of a great -rapture, for its symbolism, showing how one must withdraw from the -common ways, from the dusty highroad and the swarming street, and go -apart into high, lonely places, if one would perceive the high, eternal -mysteries. I did not say so in so many words, but you no doubt saw that -I was indicating that which is, in my opinion, valuable in Mr Hardy's -work, that which makes his books literature. And I am sure he would most -decidedly and entirely disagree with me, and if you want to know why I -am sure, I refer you to his later books, to his "Tess" and "Jude." You -know how the "Tess" was talked about, how it remade the author from the -commercial standpoint, simply because it contained, with many beautiful -things, many absurd "preachments," much pseudo-philosophy of a kind -suited to the intelligence of persons who think that "Robert Elsmere" is -literature. If Mr Hardy had been a conscious artist, if he had -understood, I mean, what makes the charm and the wonder of "Two on a -Tower," he could never have adulterated the tale of "Tess" with a -free-thinking tract, he would never have turned "Jude" into a long -pamphlet on secondary education for farm labourers, with agnostic notes. -It is pathetic in the latter book amidst much weary and futile writing -to come across a passage here and there that shows the artist striving -for utterance, longing to sing us his incantations, in spite of the -preacher, who howls him down. Think of that distant vision of Oxford -from the lonely field, of all those clustering roofs and spires, wet -with rain, suddenly kindling into glancing, and scintillant fire, at the -sunset; and then remember, with what sorrow, that this is but an oasis -in a barren land of blundering argument. It is almost as if literature -had become "literature"--the "literature of the subject"--and one must -only rejoice that the artist still lives even if the enemy has shut him -up in prison. You can trace the struggle all through the book: "Sue" was -an artistic conception, a very curious but a very beautiful revelation -of some strange elements in the nature and in the love of women; but how -difficult it is to detect this--the real Sue--underneath the surface, -which makes Sue seem the prophetess of the "Woman Question," or whatever -the contemporary twaddle on the subject was called. Conceive the -"Odyssey" so handled that it seems like a volume in a "technical series" -dealing with "Seamanship and Navigation," think what might have happened -if the Rabelais who had been put in the dark cell of Fontenay-le-Comte -had completely gained the upper hand, and had silenced that other -Rabelais--that solitary and rapturous soul who had seen as in a glass -the marvellous face of man. Well, the five books of the "Pantagruel" -would have conveyed to us, no doubt with some eloquence and vigour, the -highly unimportant fact that Franēois Rabelais, runaway Franciscan -friar, did not like Franciscan friars; and now that the centuries have -gone by we see how (comparatively) worthless such a book as that would -have been. Fortunately Pantagruel was too strong for the forces of -Panurge and Frčre Jean combined, and so they have been able to do little -harm to the book. - -And how one wishes that it might be so with Mr Hardy! It is not as if he -had no "body" for his conceptions; his studies of peasant folk do very -well as backgrounds for his dramas, though, of course, his work in this -way, good as it is, is not his element of real value. But it is -inoffensive always, sometimes amusing, and it might well suffice him in -his more material moments, when he feels the necessity of descending -from the solitary heights into the pleasant, populous valleys and -villages of common life. But his true work is--as it is the work of all -artists--the shaping for us of ecstasy by means of symbols; and for him -the symbol which he understands is, no doubt, the passion of love, and -with it the symbol of red, lonely ploughlands, of deep overshadowed -lanes that climb the hills and wander into lands that we know not, of -dark woods that hide a secret, of strange, immemorial barrows where one -may have communion with the souls of the dead. The passion of love, the -passion of the hills--no artist could desire more exquisite or -significant symbols than these, nor need he seek for more beautiful -forms for the expression of the perfect beauty. And Mr Hardy has chosen -to be a pamphleteer, to voice for us our poor, ignorant contemporary -chatter: it is as if an angel's pen were to be occupied in inditing -"Society Small Talk!" - -But it proves the unconsciousness of Mr Hardy's art; and here, by the -way, I am moved to revert to the case of Rabelais. How far, you may ask, -was he conscious of what he was saying, and I see you remember that -passage I quoted from the last book--the splendid declaration of the -Priestess Bacbuc that "by wine is man made divine." That passage, and -indeed many other passages in the final chapters, would seem to show -that the author had worked consciously, and I certainly think the point -worth our consideration. You will remember that I stated my rule without -bigotry; I rather proposed it as a pious opinion--to the effect that in -literature the finest things are not designed. And I confess, that at -first sight, this matter of Bacbuc and her allocution looks rather like -an exception to the rule, a proof that Rabelais, at all events, -understood clearly what he was doing. - -Well; it may have been so; for Rabelais was, as I think I have shown, a -very exceptional man, whom it would be difficult to place in any class. -But I hardly think this _is_ an instance of the proverbial (and -fallacious) exception that proves the rule. In the first place I believe -that some French editors have grave doubts whether Rabelais wrote the -fifth book at all; but I am not inclined to press this point. _My_ point -is that the allocution of Bacbuc and all those chapters which describe -the Oracle of the Holy Bottle are the last in the book--the last words -of the author; and I am in no way concerned to defend the position that -an author must always remain unconscious of the work that he has done. -As a matter of fact I think that always, or almost always, he is -unconscious while he is writing; but I see no reason why the revelation -may not come to him afterwards, especially in such a case as the -"Pantagruel," which was the affair of many years--of a lifetime, indeed. -In the beginning of production, in the youth, the springtime of artistic -work, the creative influence prevails, and this, it seems to me, always -or almost always operates secretly; but in later years the critical -spirit is apt to assert itself, and this will lead, very naturally, -to the artist's understanding more plainly the nature of his -accomplishment. Rabelais had a long, wonderful career; his life was -full of incident, of violent breaks, and his books were produced at -intervals, and it seems to me very possible that, towards the end, he -may have reflected on what he had done, and have understood in part, at -all events, the sense of the amazing message that he had delivered. -This, I think, is the explanation of the "Holy Bottle" chapters, and you -will note that, admirable as criticism, they are inferior as art to -those astounding early pages where there is no hint of conscious -workmanship, but rather evidence of a man for whom the world has been -transformed, who has been visited by an astounding vision. He takes an -old, popular story about a giant, he takes the vine that flourishes in -his native Chinonnais, he takes the New Learning that seems to him like -the New Wine, he takes the gross tale of the farmhouse and the tavern, -the rank speech of the people, and with these elements, with these -"facts," he symbolises the revelation that he has received. He writes, -he writes on, he writes madly, and every line is written in a fury of -delight; but, I think I may say, there is at the moment of writing, no -conscious apperception of all that that torrent of words conveys and -implies. _That_ may well come later; one may well begin with legend: -"Grandgousier was a good drinker," and end with the interpretation: "All -truth and every philosophy is contained in wine"; but I believe that if -Rabelais had perceived this at the beginning he would have been not an -artist but a philosopher. - -Well; if you are content with this comment on Bacbuc, I should like to -give you a very curious instance of our own day, in which the -unconscious artist has been subdued by the conscious preacher. You -remember those very notable books: "Keynotes" and "Discords"? I have not -seen them for some time, so I am afraid my criticism will be very loose -and general, but I think that the two volumes mark very well the fatal -descent from the higher to the lower ground. In the first, it seems to -me, there is a somewhat slight, but very genuine, note of ecstasy; -I mean that you can collect a certain distinct image of real -womanhood--not the laboured, foolish, inane psychology of Mr Meredith -and those who work with him--not the analysis of the surface, of the -"society" woman, belonging to a particular grade, and a particular -period, but of the very woman who remains really the same in all social -grades and in all ages. I remember thinking when I read "Keynotes" that -it was a "lonely" book; it hinted, I think, a soul apart, and afar from -the secondary, tertiary problems of an organised civilisation, and -though there was an undertone of "preaching" and arguing, the total -impression was curiously and beautifully artistic. I found, if I -remember rightly, that subordination of the accidental to the essential -that I praised in "Two in a Tower," and I am the more convinced that -this is so by my own recollections. I have forgotten all about social -conditions, if any such things are indicated; I only think of women and -of men, of the true, inalterable human nature; and here, it seems to me, -you have a very high achievement. But the next volume "Discords" took -distinctly lower ground. The artifice was better, the stories, as -stories, were told with more skill and more deftness than anything in -"Keynotes"; but there was no more literature; there was only the -"literature of the subject." The incidents were no longer symbols of an -emotion; they had become the basis of an agitation, concerning which my -curiosity never led me to inquire further: and there you see another -proof of the unconsciousness of art. If the author of "Keynotes" had -understood her achievement "Discords" would never have been written. One -might continue the _catena_ almost _ad infinitum_: would not Wordsworth, -supposing him to have been a conscious artist, have rather cut off his -right hand than have suffered such a _magisterium_ as the "Ode on -Intimations of Immortality" to have the companionship of the enormous -mass of futility and stupidity which constitutes the greater part of the -"Complete Works"? - -Well, there is the evidence that must guide us in answering the question -you propounded, and it shows, conclusively enough, I think, that art is -not, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, a conscious product. -Perhaps it would be a perilous dogmatism, on the other hand, to -definitely pronounce it to be unconscious; and I expect we had better -take refuge in the subconscious, that convenient name for the -transcendental element in human nature. For myself, I like best my old -figure of the Shadowy Companion, the invisible attendant who walks all -the way beside us, though his feet are in the Other World; and I think -that it is he who whispers to us his ineffable secrets, which we -clumsily endeavour to set down in mortal language. I think that while -the artist works he is conscious of joy and of nothing more; he works -beautifully but he could give no _rationale_ of the process, and when he -endeavours to explain himself, we are often perplexed by this strange -spectacle of a man wholly ignorant of his own creation. Consider again -the grotesqueness of that preface to "Pickwick"; it is really as if a -great sculptor, congratulated on his achievement, should answer that his -Venus was indeed beautiful--because it tended to improve the marble -industry and the general knowledge of anatomy. - -And after all the conclusion does return to us from other than literary -sources. You cannot conceive a builder of the fourteenth century -hesitating as to the respective merits of Romanesque, Norman, First and -Second Pointed; to him there was only one possible method, and he built, -as he spoke, without calculation and without conscious effort, only -knowing the joy of his work. So indeed we all speak and live when we are -not bound by convention and acquired usages and manners, and you see -that art, properly so called, takes its place in the great scheme of -things; it is no studied contortion, no strange trick acquired by the -late ingenuity of man, but as "natural" (and as supernatural) as the -blossoming of a flower, and the singing of the nightingale. Art, indeed, -is wholly natural, artifice is more or less acquired, the creature of -reason, of experiment, of systematised intelligence. It is doubtful, I -suppose, whether the natural, untaught man has of himself, by endowment, -any artifice at all; doubtful, perhaps, whether, in the beginning, his -artifice was not the product of his art; whether he did not learn to -speak with artifice because he had received from nature the art of -singing; certainly the child, entering the world, has not the inborn -artifice of the swallow and the bee. This artifice, it seems, man has -been forced to acquire by slow and painful degrees, and perhaps it only -differs from the artifice of animals in that it has been aided and -reinforced by imagination, that is by art, that is by the power the -human soul possesses of projecting itself into the unknown, and -adventuring in the realm of nothingness. Man, I mean, could never have -invented the telephone, had he not first created it, had he not -conceived the possibility of its existence, when as yet, it was -non-existent, and so his artifice will always be progressive, and -distinguished from the artifice of animals. - -But art is born with man, and is of the essence, the very differentia of -man. It is of his very inmost being, and therefore, I suppose, is -removed from his consciousness simply because it is within and not from -without. You may say that I have been vague, that I have not solved the -problem I propounded, that I have not clearly explained whether the -Greeks knew what they did when they worshipped Dionysus, whether -Rabelais was conscious of an inner meaning in his praise of wine, -whether Dickens understood the value of his punch and brandy. But if I -have been vague it is because man, in the last analysis, is a tremendous -mystery, because he is a complex being, because he is at once -Pantagruel, and Panurge, and Frčre Jean, because he is both Don Quixote -and Sancho Panza. In some cases Pantagruel and Panurge seem to speak a -common language, to be able to communicate the one with the other: if -Rabelais wrote the "Dive Bouteille" chapters, he certainly understood -much of that which he had expressed in symbols. Sometimes the two seem -like foreigners in one home, Pantagruel dictates, and Panurge the scribe -writes down his words, hardly or not at all comprehending the magic -symbols that he expresses. So Dickens ludicrously misinterprets his own -"Pickwick." And, doubtless, this understanding of the artificer of the -artist varies in an almost infinite chain of _nuances_: there have been -artists, perhaps, who have worked like men under the influence of -haschish, who have opened their mouths and prophesied, and then -recovering from the possession, have sat up and stared, and asked where -they were, and what they had been doing. Indeed, it may be that this was -the condition of the working of art in the very dawn of human life, for -this, no doubt, is the explanation of that old equation in which bards, -magicians, seers, prophets, and madmen ranked all together as men who -spoke and worked miracles, things unintelligible to the "common sense," -to the understanding which regulates and arranges the affairs of the -common life. All these were alike men of the mountains, men who withdrew -from the camp, and went apart into high solitary places, into the lonely -wilderness, into the forest, and in such retirements and cells they -uttered the voices that came to them, speaking words that were -unintelligible to themselves. - -On the other hand there may have been artists in whom the two persons -have been happily reconciled, who have not only the "gift of tongues" -but also the gift of the interpretation of tongues. Even these, I think, -are always "possessed," ecstatic, rapt from their common nature at the -moment of inspiration, but afterwards, when the magic song is done, they -awake and return and remember, and understand, in a measure at least, -the meaning of their prophecies. They never wholly understand, they are -never able to express in rational terms the _whole_ force of the -message, for the good reason that the language of the soul infinitely -transcends the language of the understanding; because art is, indeed, -the sole channel by which the highest and purest truth can reach us. You -may, perhaps, succeed in giving a Boer "some notion" of a Greek chorus -through the medium of the "Taal," but it would be vain to dream of -translating almost perfect beauty into that poor medium, framed for the -temporary and corporal necessities of rough and illiterate farmers. And -so, however well an artist or those who appreciate his work may -"understand" his meaning, they do but "understand" a little; since the -tongue of art has many words which have no rendering in the speech of -the understanding. - -Here, then, is another form of our text which enables us to separate art -from artifice, literature from reading matter. Artifice is explicable; -you remember that someone has said Thackeray was simply the ordinary -clubman _plus_ genius and a style. We must correct his phrases: but if -you substitute an "immense talent of observation" for genius, and a -"great gift of expression" for style, I think the definition admirable. -Thackeray, in short, is the clubman of heightened faculties; he differs -not in quiddity but in quality and quantity from his neighbour at the -window; he looks more closely than Tom Eaves, and he can give you the -result of his inspection in better phrases and with a better system, but -he looks at the same things from the same standpoint, and you and I can -admire his work and be amused and delighted by it, but we have no sense -of miracle, of transcendent vision and achievement. We simply see a man -who does the things that we do, but does them with a far greater -dexterity: you may watch an acrobat with an immense admiration, but you -recognise that you, too, are potentially an acrobat, that with a little -training you, too, could hang by the heels, though not with such grace, -nor for so long a time. - -But art is always miraculous. In its origin, in its working, in its -results it is beyond and above explanation, and the artist's -unconsciousness is only one phase of its infinite mysteries. - - - - -VI - - -I am afraid that at our last conversation I rather spoke to you "as if -you were a public meeting." Not precisely in that manner, perhaps, since -no public meeting that I can imagine would have stood me for a moment, -but I fear that I was what is called "high-flown." And yet how can one -avoid that reproach? Look here: let us suppose an examination paper, and -the following questions set. - -1. Explain, in rational terms, the "Quest of the Holy Graal." State -whether in your opinion such a vessel ever existed, and if you think it -did not, justify your pleasure in reading the account of the search for -it. - -2. Explain, logically, your delight in colour. State, in terms that -Voltaire would have understood, the meaning of the phrase, "the beauty -of line." - -3. What do you mean by the word "music"? Give the rational explanation -of Bach's Fugues, showing them to be as (1) true as Biology and (2) -useful as Applied Mechanics. - -4. Estimate the value of Westminster Abbey in the Avoirdupois measure. - -5. "The light that never was on land or sea." What light? - -6. "Faery lands forlorn." Draw a map of the district in question, -putting in principal towns, and naming exports. - -7. Show that, "heaven lies about us in our infancy" must mean "wholesome -maternal influences surround us in our childhood." - -You say that is all nonsense? that one cannot express art of any kind in -the terms of rationalism? Well, I agree with you that it _is_ nonsense; -that the tables of weights and measures give no ęsthetic guide to the -value of Westminster Abbey; but if we agree on this I am afraid that we -must be content to be called high-flown. Having once for all settled -that "common sense" has nothing to do with literary art, we must be, I -suppose, uncommon, and (apparently) nonsensical if we want to talk about -it to any profit. That is what it comes to, after all. If literature be -a kind of dignified reporting, in which the reporter is at liberty to -invent some incidents and leave out others, and to arrange all in the -order that pleases him best; then, let us have as much "common sense" -and "rationalism" as you please, and the more the better; but if -literature is a mysterious ecstasy, the withdrawal from all common and -ordinary conditions--well, I suppose, we had better be mystics when we -discuss the subject, and frankly confess that with its first principles -logic has nothing to do. I suppose that there are only two parties in -the world: the Rationalists and the Mystics, and one's vote on -literature goes with one's party. One might leave the matter there, and -amiably agree to differ with the other side, but I, personally, have the -ferocity to insist, that my side, the mystical, is wholly right, and the -other, the rationalist, wholly wrong, and moreover I shall be so -indecent as to prove the truth of my position. But, I have done so, and -with that "Examination Paper" I just read out to you. For if rationalism -be the truth, then all literature, all that both sides agree in thinking -the finest literature is simple lunacy, and all the world of the arts -must go into the region of mania. Take the lowest, the simplest -instance. Here is a knife with a wooden handle, and the handle has -certain curious carved designs on it, which do _not_ enable it to be -held better. Why is this knife better, more to be valued, than that -other knife, which is not decorated at all? It does not cut better; it -does not justify its existence and purpose as a knife more than the -other; where is its superiority? Because I find pleasure in seeing those -designs? But _why_ do I find any pleasure in ornament? What is the -rationalistic justification for that pleasure? By logical definition a -knife is an instrument for cutting, and nothing else; the plain cuts as -well as the ornate; _why_ then are you sorry if you lose the one, while -you don't care twopence for the loss of the other? You have at last to -answer that you have a joy which you cannot in any way define in the -purely decorative pattern; and with that answer the whole system of -rationalism topples over. Rationalism may say to you: Either give a -definite reason for going to Mass, or leave off going. You have only to -answer: Your command is based on the premiss that one should do nothing -without being able to give a definite reason for it. But I can give no -definite reason for liking--the Odyssey or a curiously carved knife--and -yet you confess that I am right in liking these things. Then I have -proved the contradictory of your premiss, as you have admitted that -there are things that one may do without being able to give a definite -reason for doing them: _ergo_, I shall not neglect the "parson's bell." - -Of course, all this is altogether outside of my business; but I confess -I am fond of carrying things to their limits. You remember how poor S. -T. C. used to talk, humbly and yet proudly, of "my system," though I am -afraid "my system," never emerged from the state of fragments and -_disjecta membra_. And I too, though I have only broken morsels and -ruinous stones to show for the splendid outlines and indicated arches of -Coleridge, still like to follow up an argument whithersoever it will -lead me, regardless of consequences; and this, I am sure, should count -for righteousness with our friends the rationalists. I love to start a -_sorites_, something as follows: I admire that odd but beautiful little -decorative scheme on the seventeenth century chest, and therefore, I -think poetry, as poetry, finer than prose, as prose. Hence I approve of -"Ritualism" in the service of the church, and from the same premiss I -draw the conclusion that Keats was a poet and that Pope was not. Pope -not being a poet, it follows that to "intone" is in every way better -than to "read" the Liturgy and the Offices, and "reading" the service -being wrong, you will easily infer that I dislike Mr Frith's pictures. -And after learning that I do not care for the "Derby Day," you will -scarcely require my opinion as to the (theoretical) righteousness of the -first Reform Bill, and from my attitude towards Lord John Russell's -measure, you can, of course, guess my opinion on the respective merits -of the French and English languages as literary instruments. And French -being vastly inferior to English, it necessarily follows that the -English Reformation was a great (though perhaps unavoidable) misfortune. -Hence, you see, admiring certain lines cut in an old oaken box, I am led -by the strictest logic to dislike the religious policy of Edward VI., -with all the other consequences in order; and on the other hand if I saw -no sense in that rude ornament I should be an Atheist, or at the -mildest, an attendant at Pleasant Sunday Afternoons, with George Eliot -for my favourite reading. - -Yes, I like my theories to "work through," and I confess that my belief -in the truth of "my system" is very much strengthened by the fact that -it does "work through," that it seems to me justified by the facts of -life. I mean that the premiss which enables me to declare Keats to be a -poet and Pope not to be a poet does really enable me to pronounce -democracy to be a bad system in theory; and the premiss baldly stated is -simply this: that logic does not cover life, or in other words, that -life cannot be judged by the rules of logic, of common sense. - -But yet I am using logic all the time, you say? Certainly, but I am -using it in its right place, to do the work for which it is competent. -If I say that a scythe is not exactly the instrument for performing a -surgical operation, I am not therefore bound to have my meadow mown with -a bistoury? A microscope is good and a telescope is good, but it is the -microscope that one uses in bacteriology. You know, don't you, that ever -since that unhappy Reformation of ours people have been talking nonsense -about the Aristotelian logic, and fumbling, in the most grotesque -manner, for some "new" logic. Our great false prophet Bacon (a wretch -infinitely more guilty than Hobbes) began it in England with his "Novum -Organum"; and if you wish to really estimate "educated" folly, to touch -the bottom of the incredible depths to which a man of information may -sink, read Macaulay's comparison of the "old" philosophy and the "new" -philosophy. The essayist says that the "old" philosophy was no good, -because it never led up to the steam-engine and the telegraph post. -Isn't it almost humiliating to think that we have to acknowledge -ourselves of the same genus as that "brilliant" Macaulay? But if I told -you that the Greek Alphabet was no good because it has never grilled a -single steak you would probably get uneasy and make for the door, and if -you were charitable you would tell the landlady that I ought to be -"taken care of." But such a remark as that is no whit more lunatic than -Macaulay's "comparison" between philosophy, properly so called, and -physical science applied to utilitarian purposes. Well, all the -portentous stuff that has been written about logic is nonsense of -exactly the same kind. The scholastic logic, people said, won't discover -the truth. That is perfectly true, but then the scholastic logic was not -intended to discover truth. It will draw conclusions from truths already -discovered, from premisses granted, but it wont make premisses any more -than a scythe will make grass. And, it is, curiously enough, the very -class of people who despise the formal logic, who insist on your giving -logical reasons for actions and emotions which are altogether outside -the jurisdiction of logic. With one breath they say: Aristotle is -useless, because the "Organon" could never have led men to discover the -stomach-pump; and with the next breath they ask you what you mean by -admiring the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" if you can't give any logical reason -for your admiration. Your religion doesn't rest on a logical foundation, -they say. But does anything of any consequence rest on a logical -foundation? Can you reduce the "Morte d'Arthur" into valid syllogisms in -_Barbara_, can you "disprove" Salisbury Cathedral by the aid of -_Celarent_. What is the "rational" explanation of our wonder and joy at -the vision of the hills? Are a great symphony, the swell and triumph of -the organ, the voices of the choristers, to be tested by the process of -the understanding? But perhaps I am misjudging the people who ask these -questions. When they say that logic does not discover truth, they -doubtless mean by logic that formal analysis of the ratiocinative -process that is rightly so called; but I am inclined to think that when -they condemn religious or artistic emotions because they are -"illogical," they mean by "illogical" that which does not conduce to the -ease and comfort of the digestive apparatus or the money-making faculty. -They are terrible fellows, you know, some of these persons. For example, -I asked, with a tone of undue triumph, I am afraid, for the "reason why" -we experience awe and delight in the presence of the hills. But in -certain quarters my problem would be very quickly solved. I should be -told, more in sorrow than in anger, that my emotion at the sight of -certain shapes of earth was due to the fact that hill air was highly -ozonised, and that the human race had acquired an instinctive pleasure -in breathing it, greatly to its digestive profit. And if I tried to turn -the tables by declaring that I experienced an equal, though a different -delight in the spectacle of a desolate, smoking marsh, where a red sun -sinks from a world of shivering reeds, I suppose I should hear that some -remote ancestor of mine had found in some such place "pterodactyls -plentiful and strong on the wing." And if I like the woods, it was -because a monkey sat at the root of my family tree, and if I love an -ancient garden it is because I am "second cousin to the worm." - -There: I confess it is difficult to keep one's temper with these people, -but one must try to do so. Do you remember how Trunnion's marriage was -delayed? The bridegroom set out bravely with his retinue for the -parish-church, where the bride waited a whole half hour--in vain. A -messenger was sent who saw: - -"The whole troop disposed in a long field, crossing the road obliquely, -and headed by the bridegroom and his friend Hatchway, who finding -himself hindered by a hedge from proceeding farther in the same -direction, fired a pistol and stood over to the other side, making an -obtuse angle with the line of his former course; and the rest of the -squadron followed his example, keeping always in the rear of each other -like a flight of wild geese. - -"Surprised at this strange method of journeying, the messenger came up -... and desired he would proceed with more expedition. To this message -Mr Trunnion replied, 'Hark ye, brother, don't you see we make all -possible speed? Go back, and tell those who sent you, that the wind has -shifted since we weighed anchor, and that we are obliged to make short -trips in tacking, by reason of the narrowness of the channel; and that, -as we lie within six points of the wind, they must make some allowance -for variation and leeway.' 'Lord, sir!' said the valet, 'what occasion -have you to go zig-zag in that manner? Do but clap spurs to your horses, -and ride straight forward, and I'll engage you shall be at the church -porch in less than a quarter of an hour.' 'What! right in the wind's -eye?' answered the commander. 'Ahey! brother, where did you learn your -navigation?'" - -You see Commodore Trunnion's "logic" was perfect, only it was the logic -of seamanship and not of riding to church on horseback. There are a good -many people at the present day who are quite unable to get to church in -time, for "reasons" as valid as Trunnion's; and when I hear of "the -scientific basis of literature" I am always a little reminded of those -scarecrows straggling in short tacks from one side of the lane to the -other on their way to the wedding. The moral is, you know, that they -didn't get there. - -I tackled a materialist once on very similar lines. He began by saying -that time and thought devoted to religion (they never see that art and -religion stand or fall together, religion being the foundation of the fine -arts) were an utter waste of time as they only diverted us from -consideration of the present world, which we ought to study to the utmost; -and he went on to praise some saying of Confucius on the folly of -troubling about the future things. Then I went for him. He had to admit -that agriculture is good, and I pointed out to him that England was -changed from a savage wilderness into a pleasant garden by the monastic -houses. He agreed that to found and endow hospitals and alms-houses was -not precisely a waste of time, and I showed him that such institutions -were begun by the religion of the past and carried on by the religion of -the present. Then he allowed, in response to my Socratic question, that -painting was something, and I demonstrated that all painting arose from -the religious impulse, that the greatest paintings in the world were meant -to adorn churches. Then he admitted the value of architecture, and he got -the Parthenon, all the medięval cathedrals, and the wonderful mound -temples of Ceylon right at his head. He granted me that travel civilised, -and I rubbed in the pilgrimage; he confessed that he liked to read the -Latin and Greek classics--sometimes--and he received from me information -as to the monastic scriptorium, and its part in the preservation of the -old literature. As for the blessedness of forming one's character on the -teaching of Confucius; there happened to be an article in the morning's -paper on the Mandarin class! Well, my rationalist hadn't anything to say -to it at all, with the exception of some vague remark that the Romans made -roads, which, considering the state of England in the sixth century, was -about as helpful as the somewhat similar remark of Mr F's. Aunt--that -there are milestones on the Dover Road. I told him that the only Roman -civilisation which contributed to the making of our country was that -brought over by St Austin; and he had to allow that his statement that -religion was a waste of time, an elaborate form of idleness, was, to put -it mildly, not proven. Then he said kindly but firmly that religion wasn't -rational, and I used up most of the arguments that I have used to-night; I -mean, I showed him that it is good to paint pictures, to write poems, to -devise romances, and to compose symphonies, and that it is also good to -meditate and enjoy all these things. Hence, he was forced to admit, that -his suppressed premiss had been disproved, and that he must no longer -say: "that which is not rational is absurd." - -And then, I think, the fun really began. I carried the war into the very -camp of the enemy; that is, into actual, observable life, into the every -day world of fact and experience. You talk about "reason," I said, and I -presume you won't mind if I substitute, occasionally, "common sense" for -reason, as I think that in your phraseology the two terms are very -fairly equated. Very well, then, don't you think that there is a good -deal of common sense in many of the actions of animals? Take the case of -the small birds who mob an owl all day, in order that their enemy may be -kept awake, and so unable to hoot at night. Take the case of the ants, -who milk the aphides, and go slave-hunting. Take the bees, who rise to -an emergency, and remedy, with singular contrivance, the threatened lack -of a queen. Take the dog, who brought a wounded fellow to the hospital -where he had been cured. All these are instances of common sense, aren't -they, as rational as the telegram "Sell Cobras at once"? Very good; -animals, then, have a plentiful supply of reason, and not of a mere -mechanical reason, but of reason that can rise to the height of -unforeseen cases, and remedy unexpected evils. When the experimenter -tilted the bees' house to one side, so that the equilibrium was in -danger, a sufficient number of bees climbed up, and placed themselves on -the other side so that they constituted a balance; here there was no -mechanism, but a calculated and rational contrivance. Animals, then, -have reason and its effect artifice; the adaptation of means to secure -ends. But, then, how about instinct? By what motion does the swallow -make her nest in spring? Can the bee demonstrate the advantages of the -hexagon cell? Does the fly, laying its eggs, here and there, in this or -in that according to its kind, in meat or in dung, or in the crevices of -a wall, rationally foresee that it is providing for the future grub its -only possible food? No; but then animals, even, perform "irrational" -actions; though they have common sense they do things which must be -troublesome to them, at some instance, which is not common sense. But if -a bluebottle lays her eggs in my beef, and knows not why, perhaps I, a -man, may sing the _Sanctus_, and pray that I may be joined _cum angelis -et archangelis, cum thronis et dominationbus, Cumque omni militiā -cęlestis exercitus_. - -And consider our own human life; the great _coups_ of war, commerce, -diplomacy, of all the conduct of life, are often, or usually, the result -of "intuitions," that is of irrational and inexplicable mental -processes, which elude all analysis. If the knowledge, the successful -and triumphant knowledge of men and affairs and strategy were a -"rational" product; then, indeed, Carlyle's dictum were true, and each -one of us were, at choice, a man of genius in diplomacy, or business, or -battle. We know that it is not so, and that no man by taking thought can -make himself, say, a Stonewall Jackson. And we have all heard of the -"woman's reason"--"I don't know why I am sure that x = a, but I am -sure"--and this extremely irrational process often corresponds with the -truth. So, I finished up, your "reason" far from being the despot of the -world, turns out to be a humble, though useful, deputy-assistant -councillor-general, and is by no means a prerogative force, even in -affairs of common, everyday existence. Why, "reason," alone and -unassisted, won't enable you to make a decent living by selling ribbons -and laces, and you have been trying to make me accept its dictation in -the highest affairs of the soul. You have been appealing from the -King's Majesty in Council to the Magistrates of Little Pedlington in -Petty Sessions assembled! - -Then my rationalist made a point. You know, he said, that some men seem -to have an almost miraculous skill in solving mathematical problems: -would you, therefore, give up teaching the ordinary arithmetic? I was -not alarmed; I pointed out that the analogy was not quite perfect. The -case, I said, was this. A certain number of "problems" were, -confessedly, beyond the jurisdiction of the "ordinary arithmetic" -altogether, but offered no difficulties to the "lightning calculator," -who obtained results that were demonstratively correct, and I therefore -thought it well to trust to him in all problems of a similar character, -even though the "ordinary arithmetic," confessedly incompetent, assured -me that his answers were wholly unreliable--a case of a schoolboy, well -on in Colenso, scouting the Binomial Theorem because one couldn't prove -it by Practice or the Rule of Three. I left then, unanswered, and I -suppose my friend passed the rest of the evening in showing that -Salisbury Cathedral was "opposed" to the facts of Biology, and that -Sisters of Charity are to be classed with criminal lunatics. - -But, you know, I was the real lunatic. You would not have "argued" with -me if I _had_ disparaged the Greek alphabet, because it never grilled a -single steak; I hinted the course you would probably have pursued if I -had chanced to make such an alarming remark. And why should I argue with -the sect of Macaulay, with the tribe which utters such stuff as this: - -"Assuredly if the tree which Socrates planted and Plato watered is to be -judged of by its flowers and leaves, it is the noblest of trees. But if -we take the homely test of Bacon--if we judge the tree by its -_fruits_--our opinion of it may be less favourable. When we sum up the -useful truths which we owe to that philosophy, to what do they -amount.... But when we look for something more--for something which adds -to the comfort or alleviates the calamities of the human race--we are -forced to own ourselves disappointed." - -No; there is, really, nothing to be said. If the Learned Pig found voice -and articulate speech and expressed his scorn of the poet's art, since -it added nothing to the pleasures of the wash-tub, we might wonder but -we should not argue; and it were idle to contend with a Laughing -Jackass, contemptuously amused by the chanting of the cathedral choir. - -And, perhaps, you are wondering what all this talk of mine has to do -with our main subject--literature? But don't you see that all the while -I have merely been reiterating our old conclusions in a new phraseology? -I may have appeared to you to be the last of the Cavaliers, gallantly -contending for the rights of Holy Church, but, in reality, I have been -showing, at every step, that Jane Austen's works are not literature. -Yes, but it is so. If the science of life, if philosophy, consisted of a -series of mathematical propositions, capable of rational demonstration, -then, "Pride and Prejudice" would be the highest pinnacle of the -literary art; but if not, but oh! if we, being wondrous, journey through -a wonderful world, if all our joys are from above, from the other world -where the Shadowy Companion walks, then no mere making of the likeness -of the external shape will be our art, no veracious document will be our -truth; but to us, initiated, the Symbol will be offered, and we shall -take the Sign and adore, beneath the outward and perhaps unlovely -accidents, the very Presence and eternal indwelling of God. - -We have tracked Ecstasy by many strange paths, in divers strange -disguises, but I think that now, and only now, we have discovered its -full and perfect definition. For Artifice is of Time, but Art is of -Eternity. - - - - -APPENDIX - - -Poe was not altogether right in saying that the object of poetry was -Beauty as distinguished from Truth. I don't for a moment suppose that -his meaning was amiss, but I hardly like his expression of it. I should -contend, on the other hand, that poetry ~kat' exochźn~, and literature, -generally, are the sole media by which the very highest truth can be -conveyed. Poe, no doubt, meant to state a proposition which is true and -self-evident--that poetry has nothing to do with scientific truth, or -facts, or information of any kind, and I say that that proposition is -self-evident, because we have already seen that in literature, facts as -facts, have no existence at all. They are only "words" in the language -of literary art, and are used as symbols of something else. That A. is -in love with B. is a "scientific truth," a fact; but if it be not also a -symbol, it has no literary existence whatever; and this of course is -what Poe wished to say--literature is not a matter of information. - -But I doubt, after all, whether Poe had quite grasped the theory of -literature, of all the arts. You remember that he says that he yields to -no man in his love of the truth; and unless he meant the highest truth -the statement is almost nonsensical. No one, I should imagine, surely -not Poe, would express his enthusiasm for facts as facts, would adore -correct information in the abstract. You remember what Rossetti -said--that he neither knew nor cared whether the sun went round the -earth or the earth round the sun--and so far as art is concerned this -is, no doubt, the expression of the true faith, which, from what we know -of Poe, would be his faith also. We should therefore conclude that by -truth he meant philosophical truth, the highest truth, the essential -truth as distinguished from the accidental, the universal as -distinguished from the particular. Yet in the next breath he contrasts -this Truth with Beauty, being clearly under the impression that they -were two different things. Of course he was completely mistaken. In the -last analysis it is entirely true that "Beauty is Truth and Truth -Beauty": they are one and the same entity seen from different points of -view. You will see how this fits in with all we have been saying about -literature lately: how we can if we please put our test of literature -into yet another phraseology. For instance: "Vanity Fair" is -information, while "Pickwick" is Truth; the one tells you a number of -facts about Becky Sharpe and other people, while the other symbolises -certain eternal and essential elements in human nature by means of -incidents. And, as I said, it is doubtful whether truth in this, its -highest and its real significance, can be adequately expressed in any -other way. All the profound verities which have been revealed to man -have come to him under the guise of myths and symbols--such as the myth -of Dionysus--and truth in the form of a mathematical demonstration or a -"rational" statement is a contradiction in terms. Yet note the profound -vice of language; we are obliged to use the same word to imply things -which are separated by an immeasurable gulf. It is "true" that Mrs -Stickings sent away Ethelberta to-night (you imparted that interesting -fact, and I rely on your testimony), and the "Don Quixote" is "true": -that is, it conveys to us by means of symbols the verities of our own -nature. - -But Poe had not grasped the essential distinction between literature -and "literature." He thought that poetry alone should be beautiful, or -as we should say, ecstatic; he did not see that the qualities which make -poetry to be what it is must also be present in prose if it is to be -something more than "reading-matter." Poetry of course is literature in -its purest state; it is, as I think I once said, _almost_ the soul -without the body; at its highest it is _almost_ pure art unmixed with -the alloy of artifice. And to carry on the analysis, the finest form of -poetry is necessarily the lyrical. Where you get the element of -narrative, you are apt also to get the element of prose; there have to -be passages linking the raptures together, and these will, probably or -indeed necessarily, run on lower levels. - -Of course primitive man had moods in which rapture seemed to embrace -everything, to invest every detail of existence with its own singular -and inexplicable glory. A meal by the seashore, the dry wood flaming and -crackling on the sand, the roasting goat's flesh, the honey-sweet wine, -dark and almost as glorious as the sea itself--a mere dinner of -half-savages, one might think it, but it too seems to have its solemnity -and its inner meaning. I believe this element in the early poetry has -often been noticed; people have wondered at the _naļve_ delight with -which the writers describe the work of man's hands, and they are, I -think, inclined to account for it on the ground that then everything was -new. This might pass, perhaps, since as you, no doubt, perceive, -"everything new" means "everything unknown" (that which is known is no -longer new), but I hardly think that the explanation can stand in its -present form. I am not at all up in the theories which assign this or -that age to the appearance of man on the earth, but I presume that on -the gentlest and most antiquated computation man must have long known -the world before Homer wrote; so one scarcely sees that human skill and -art, the knack of making things and the gift of adorning them, could -have been novelties, or in any sense, "things unknown." I repeat I know -nothing or next to nothing about these dates in anthropology, but one -has heard something about the neolithic age, and the palęolithic age, -about the very early man who scratched the rude likeness of a reindeer -on the brute's own bone, and so there hardly seems room for this theory -of novelty. And besides, as we have seen, the rapture is universal or -all but universal; it colours the whole of life, including the meal by -the seashore; and there, we see, there was no possibility of invention -or sense of newness. No; the theory is tempting, and it would fall in -perfectly, as I daresay you see, with all that we have concluded about -literature, but I really think that it must be definitely abandoned. No; -it seems to me that primitive man, Homeric man, medięval man, man, -indeed, almost to our own day when the School Board (and other things) -have got hold of him, had such an unconscious but all-pervading, -all-influencing conviction that he was a wonderful being, descended of a -wonderful ancestry, and surrounded by mysteries of all kinds, that even -the smallest details of his life partook of the ruling ecstasy; he was -so sure that he was miraculous that it seemed that no part of his life -could escape from the miracle, so that to him every meal became a -sacrament. - -It is the attitude of the primitive man, of the real man, of the child, -always and everywhere; it may be briefly summed up in the phrase: things -are because they are wonderful. This, of course, is the atmosphere in -which poets ought to live, and in which poetry should be produced. -Formerly it was natural to all men or almost all; now, perhaps, it has -to be regained by a conscious effort; and the difficulty of the effort, -the impossibility of sustaining it for long, explain the supremacy of -lyrical poetry. If you lived in a world that could regard a common meal -as a sacrament, you could be supreme in narrative poetry; but, that -atmosphere wanting, we have to be content for the most part with the -lyric, with the simple incantation, without any description of the -circumstance or occasion. - -Yet prose, though it yields in much to the world, must still keep the -same ideal before it as poetry. I say, distinctly, that the only -essential, defining difference between the two is to be sought in the -"numbering" of poetry, in the fact that art, in its intensest raptures, -in its most truly "natural" moment, desires and obtains the strictest -and most formal laws. It is, I suppose, immaterial what these laws are, -rhyme, assonance, accents, feet, alliteration, all testify to the -important and essential rule that freedom is chiefly free when it is -most bound and bounded by restrictions which _we_ should call -artificial, which are, in truth, in the highest sense, natural. And -this, I am sure, is the only possible distinction that can be -established between such a book as the "Odyssey" and such a book as the -"Morte d'Arthur." Neither is "prosaic" in the common sense of the word; -each is "poetical"; but the Greek book is poetry because it is numbered, -and the English is prose because it lacks number. Of course there are -difficult cases; hybrids, as there always are, whatever laws one may lay -down. - - * * * * * - -That word "natural" is another of the many traps that language sets us. -I think that its real meaning has become almost reversed. Take the -average man to church, and ask him his opinion of the "intoning," and in -nine cases out of ten he will say that it may be pretty, but that it is -very unnatural. He means, of course, that speaking is natural, and that -singing--"numerosity" of tone--is not natural, is, in a word, -artificial. He is utterly wrong. It is artificial to speak in the -ordinary manner, while the priests' chant, and every chant are purely -natural. For the proof of this you have only to read a little--a very -little--about primitive, or "natural" peoples, or, more simply, to -listen to children at play. You will always find that where convention -has not cast out nature, some kind of "sing-song," some sort of chant is -the entirely natural utterance of man in his most fervent, that is, his -most natural moments. Listen to half-a-dozen children (children, you -must remember, are all "primitives" and therefore natural) playing some -game, learning their lesson at school. Their voices are pretty sure to -fall into a very rude, but a distinctly measured, chant. The Greek drama -was intoned, the Koran is intoned, the Welsh preacher of to-day at the -impassioned height of eloquence begins to chant, the Persian -passion-plays are recited in a sing-song. Nay, but listen only to our -great tragic actor. Quite unconsciously, I am sure, he has elaborated -for himself a distinctly musical and measured utterance, so that a -skilful musician, provided with scored paper, could note Irving's -delivery of many passages, as if it were music. The Chinese language, I -am told, depends largely on the tonal variations which distinguish the -meaning of one word from that of another; you will find the same thing -in the Norwegian; and the Jewish "cantillation," which is "sing-song" in -a very simple form, bears witness to the truth--that "speaking" is -acquired, conventional, and artificial, while "singing" is natural. All -this would be perfectly clear in itself, would require no demonstration -of any kind, if it were not for the fact that we have, somehow or other, -got into the way of making the very impudent assumption that man is only -natural when he is doing business on the Stock-Exchange or reading -leading-articles. It seems almost too nonsensical an assumption to put -into words, but I really do believe that "at the back of our heads" -there is a sort of vague, floating idea that there never were any real -men at all till the period of the first Reform Bill, and I suppose that -before very long Lord John Russell will be pushed back into the region -of myth, and the foundation of the School Board will be the era of true -humanity. I say, this sounds too ridiculous, but examine yourself and -see whether you don't dimly believe that before the advent of trousers -the whole world was really "play-acting," that existence in the days of -laced coats was, in a way, a kind of phantasmagoria, and that a man who -wore chain-mail was hardly a man. I believe it really is so, and you -will find the same nonsense influencing religious opinion. Take your -average Protestant, and I am much mistaken if you do not discover that -he believes some grotesque preacher, in his greasy black suit, mouthing -platitudes at his conventicle to be somehow more "natural" than the -priest, clad in the mystical robes of his office, chanting Mass at the -altar. But in literature--why this perversion of the word influences the -whole of criticism. Jane Austen, we say, is natural, and Edgar Allan Poe -is unnatural, or as it is sometimes expressed, inhuman. Of course, if -you wish for the truth, the proposition must be reversed, unless you are -willing to believe that a Company Prospectus is, somehow, more natural -and more human than, say, Tennyson's "Fatima." If you think that the -real man is the stomach, there is, of course, an end of the discussion; -but then we should have to admit that all the greatest artists of the -world were maniacs. But you see clearly, don't you, that all these -questions as to what we shall get for dinner, and whom shall we meet at -dinner, and in what order shall we go into dinner, and how shall we -behave at dinner, are in no sense natural, since they are all so purely -temporary, since they will be answered by one age in a manner that will -seem wholly "unnatural" to the next. That, I think, is truly natural -which is unchanging, which belongs to men always, at all times, and in -all ages. In this sense, ecstasy is natural to man, and it finds -expression in the arts, in poetry, in romance, in singing, in melody, in -dancing, in painting, in architecture. Many animals have sufficient -artifice to shelter themselves from the weather, no animal has -architecture, or the art of beauty in building; many animals, or all -animals, have the faculty of communicating with one another by means of -signs, but man alone has the art of language. - - * * * * * - -Has it ever struck you while I have been talking of ecstasy in books, -that it is nearly always a question of degree, of more or less? I think -I indicated as much while I was talking about "Pickwick"; I showed how -the ecstatic conception had been alloyed with much baser matter, in -other words that there was much in "Pickwick" that was by no means -literature. And, I daresay, though I am not sure, that if you were to go -through your Meredith you might succeed in finding some passages and -sentences which are literature, and for all I know there may be hints -of rapture between the lines of "Pride and Prejudice." Still, we do not -call a man poet on the strength of a single line. - -But sometimes one is confronted with books which are really very -difficult to judge, and this sometimes happens because the ecstasy, the -true literary feeling, supposing it to be present, is present not here -or there, not in a phrase or in a particular passage, but throughout, in -a very weak solution, if one may borrow the phraseology of physical -science. We read such books, and are puzzled, feeling that, somehow, -they are literature, only we can't say why, since on the face of it they -seem only to be entertaining reading. Do you know that I can conceive -many people who would find something of this difficulty in Mark Twain's -"Huckleberry Finn"? Here you have a tale of the rude America of forty or -fifty years ago, of a Mississippi village, full of the most ordinary -people, of a boy and a negro who "run away." I don't think anyone with -the slightest perception of literature could read it without -experiencing extraordinary delight, but I can imagine many people would -be a good deal puzzled to justify the pleasure they had received. The -"stuff" of the book is so very common and commonplace, isn't it, it -seems so frankly a rough bit of recollection drawn up from the author's -boyish days with jottings added from the time when he was a pilot on one -of the river-boats--it is all so apparently devoid of "literary" feeling -that I am sure many a reader must have felt greatly ashamed of his huge -enjoyment. To me "Huckleberry Finn" is not a very difficult case. That -flight by night down the great unknown, rolling river, between the dim -marshy lands and the high "bluffs" of the other shore comes in my mind -well under the great "Odyssey" class; it has, indeed, the old, -unquenchable joy of wandering into the unknown in a more acute degree -than "Pickwick," which, as we have seen, is to be reckoned under the -same heading. In a word it is pure romance, and you will note that the -story is told by a boy, and that by this method a larger element of -wonder is secured, for even in this absurd age children are allowed to -be amazed at the spectacle of the world. In the mouth of a man the tale -would necessarily have lost somewhat of its "strangeness," since partly -from affectation, partly from vicious training, partly from the -absorption of the "getting-on" process, grown-up people have largely -succeeded in quenching the sense of mystery which should be their -principal delight. You have only to read the average book of travels to -see how this affectation (or perversion of the soul) has deprived the -seeing being of his sight. Dip into a book--say a book on China--and you -will probably find that Pekin streets are dusty in summer and muddy in -winter, and that the author caught cold through imprudent bathing. So it -is well for us that Mark Twain put his story in the mouth of an -"infant," who is frankly at liberty to express his sense of the marvels -of the world. Later, there is an introduction of the "literary" feeling; -those chapters about Jim's "Evasion" are very Cervantic in their -artifice and method, but, to my thinking, they have lost the spirit, -though they preserve the body. They are most amusing reading, but they -are burlesque and nothing more than burlesque; and from them one can -almost imagine what "Don Quixote" would have been if it had been written -by a very clever man, by an artificer who was not an artist. But the -earlier chapters are wonderfully fine, and I think that it would be -difficult to find a more successful rendering of the old "wandering" -theme with modern language. - - * * * * * - -But there is another writer who is much more difficult to account for--I -mean Miss Wilkins. I confess I find her tales delightful, and I often -read them, but as you know I am not content to rest on my own pleasure -in literary criticism. We are no longer talking of the great -masterpieces, of the gigantic achievements of such men as Homer, -Sophocles, Rabelais, Cervantes; we agreed that when we spoke of these -great, enduring miracles of art, it was best to lay aside all question -of liking or not liking, of reading often or reading seldom. But when -one comes to modern days, to books which have yet to prove their merit -by the test of their endurance, it is pardonable if one is sometimes a -little confused, if one fails to discriminate at once between the merely -interesting and the really artistic. I may be so delighted with a book -for reasons that have nothing to do with art, that, by an unconscious -trick of the mind, I persuade myself that I am reading literature while -there is only reading-matter. And at one time I was inclined to think -that I had "confused" Miss Wilkins in this manner. For, on the surface, -you have in her books merely village tales of New Englanders, tales -often sentimental, often trivial enough, and sometimes, it would seem, -of hardly more than local interest. Hardly can one conceive the -possibility of any ecstasy in these pleasant stories; for they deal, -ostentatiously, with the surface of things, with a breed of Englishmen -whose chief pride it was to hide away and smother all those passions and -emotions which are the peculiar mark of man as man. - -Yet, I believe that I can justify my love of Miss Wilkins's work on a -higher ground than that of mere liking. In the first place I agree with -Mr T. P. O'Connor, who pointed out very well that the passion does come -through the reserve, and occasionally in the most volcanic manner. He -selects a scene from "Pembroke," in which the young people play at some -dancing game called "Copenhagen," and Mr O'Connor shows that though the -boys and girls of Pembroke knew nothing of it, they were really animated -by the spirit of the Bacchanals, that the fire and glow of passion, of -the youthful ecstasy, burst through all the hard crusts of Calvinism -and New England reserve. And we have agreed that if a writer can make -passion for us, if he can create the image of the eternal human ecstasy, -we have agreed that in such a case the writer is an artist. - -But I think that there are other things, more subtle, more delicately -hinted things in Miss Wilkins's tales; or rather I should say that they -are all pervaded and filled with an emotion, which I can hardly think -that the writer has realised. Well, I find it difficult to express -exactly what I mean, but I think that the whole impression which one -receives from these tales is one of loneliness, of isolation. Compare -Miss Wilkins with Jane Austen, the New England stories with "Pride and -Prejudice." You might imagine, at first, that in one case as in the -other there is a sense of retirement, of separation from the world, that -Miss Austen's heroines are as remote from the great streams and -whirlpools of life as any "Jane Field" or Charlotte of Massachusetts. -But in reality this is not so. The people in the English novels are in -no sense remote; they are merely dull; they cannot be remote, indeed, -since they are not human beings at all but merely the representatives of -certain superficial manners and tricks of manner which were common in -the rural England of ninety years ago. "Remoteness" is an affection of -the soul, and wicker-figures, dressed up in the clothes of a period, -cannot have any such affections predicated of them; and consequently -though Emma or Elizabeth may appear very quaint to us from the contrast -between the manners of the 'tens and the 'nineties, they cannot be -remote. But that does seem to me the quality of those books of Miss -Wilkins's; the people appear to be very far off from the world, to live -in an isolated sphere, and each one lives his own life, and dwells apart -with his own soul, and in spite of all the trivial chatter and -circumstance of the village one feels that each is a human being moved -by eminently human affections. - - * * * * * - -It seems to me that one of the most important functions of literature is -to seize the really fine flavours of life and to preserve them, as it -were, in permanent form. When we were talking about "Huckleberry Finn," -for example, I remember that I spoke of it as the story of a boy who "runs -away." But what a curious magic there is in these words "runs away." -Doesn't it, when you come to examine the phrase, exhale the very essence -and spirit of romance? Some time ago I reminded you that the essential -thing is concealed under all manner of grotesque and unseemly forms, that -one can detect a veritable human passion under the cry of the news-boy, -shouting, "All the winners!" So I think that phrase, "run away," carries -to us its meaning and significance. For, after all, what did all the -heroes of romance do but "run away"? They left the region of the known, -the familiar fields or the familiar shores, and adventured out in the -great waste of the unexplored, into the forest or upon the sea. Here, -perhaps, you have the true interpretation of the phrase "divine -discontent," for surely only that is divine which revolts from the -commonness of the common life, which is conscious of things beyond, of -better things, of a world which transcends all daily experience. I said -once, I think, that the English passion for trading goes very well with -the supremacy of English poetry, since poetry and shop-keeping are but -different expressions of the one idea; and here again you find -confirmation of the theory in that very marked English characteristic--the -desire of wandering, of "going on and on" in the manner of a knight -errant or a fairy tale hero. Of course, in practice, this really divine -impulse is corrupted by all kinds of earthly, secondary motions; and just -as the love of a venture which is at the root of trade often or always -ends in a very vulgar wish to make money and more money and to set up a -brougham and confound the Smiths, so the great joy of exploration, of -running away from the mapped and charted land has for its issues the -"development of markets," the "progress of civilisation," the profitable -sale of poison, and all manner of base and blackguardly manoeuvres. But, -of course, one expects all this; it is the inevitable mixture of the lower -with the higher which characterises all our human ways. Still the higher -motive dwells within us--I suspect, indeed, that if it were not for the -higher the lower could hardly flourish--and so when you hear that a boy -has run away to sea or elsewhere I wish you to think kindly of him as a -survival of the most primitive and important human passions. Yes, I think -I am right in saying that the lower things of humanity only flourish in -consequence of the existence of the higher. Take the French nation, for -example. It is infinitely more bent on gain for the mere sake of gain -than the English; it is ready to work harder, to give more time, to live -more unpleasantly, to eat less and to drink less than the English; and all -in the pursuit of money. Rationally, in short, the French should be -infinitely better men of business than the English; and yet we know that -this is not so, that the English is, _par excellence_, the business -nation. Seriously, I believe, that this is so because the French are -money-grubbers and nothing more, because they hate a "risk" of any kind, -because they abhor any kind of mercantile venturing into the unknown. In -other words, they engage in money-making simply for the sake of making -money: they have no joy of the hazard, they will never deserve the title -of "merchant adventurers," and, _therefore_, they remain in truth a nation -of shopkeepers and of second-rate shopkeepers. Sir, a man of acute -intelligence would, in the seventeenth century, have deduced the future -state of French and English commerce, of French and English colonization -from a comparison between Shakespeare and Racine. I have no doubt that the -Phoenicians were shopkeepers of the French kind, and hence their -extinction, their shadowy survival merely in the history of their -conquerors. - - * * * * * - -You think the Roman Empire a formidable objection to my theory, because -Roman literature and Roman art show, in general, so little of the -imaginative, adventurous faculty? I think the objection _is_ formidable, -but I believe that it can be redargued, as Dominie Sampson used to say. -The Roman Empire was such a purely military settlement, wasn't it? it -was, if one may say so, a garrisoning of the world, not in any way a -real colonizing in the Greek and the English sense. And in the second -place, do you know that I have grave doubts whether we know very much of -the Roman spirit from the Roman literature. How far into the English -character would the works of the excellent Dr. Johnson carry us? One -hardly finds Chaucer, the Elizabethans, the Cavalier poets, Keats or -Wordsworth in "Rasselas" and "The Rambler," and I have always suspected -that Latin literature was in a great measure "Johnsonized," periwigged, -hidden and perverted by the irresistible flood of Greek culture. It may -be a paradox, but I have a very strong conviction that the Missal and -the Breviary tell us more about the true Latin character than Cicero and -Horace. But we must be thankful that in the sixteenth and early -seventeenth centuries England stood aloof from the continent of Europe, -and that when it did borrow it transformed and transmuted so that the -original entirely lost its foreign character. I always think that change -of Madame de Querouaille into Madam Carewell such a wonderful instance -of our nationalism--our transforming force! If it had been otherwise, if -we had grovelled before the literature of France or Spain or Italy, as -Rome grovelled before the literature of Greece--well, perhaps, English -literature would have meant "Chevy Chace" and a few old ballads, and the -eighteenth century! I hate the Reformation, but perhaps it saved our -literature, simply by isolating the nation. - - * * * * * - -I claimed, I think, literary merit for Miss Wilkins because her books -give out an impression of loneliness. I think that is so, but I should -like to point out that "loneliness" is merely another synonym for that -one property which makes the difference between real literature and -reading-matter. If you look into the French literature of the last two -hundred years and complain of its elegant nothingness, of its wholly -secondary character, I would point out that it is second-rate because it -is the expression, not of the lonely human soul, like a star, dwelling -apart, but of society, of the _ruelles_, of the _salon_, of polite -company, of the _café_ and the _boulevard_. I am not making an -accusation, I am adopting the terms of the eminent M. de Brunetičre, who -tells us, I think, that French literature is beautiful because it is -firstly sociable, and secondly because it is a kind of a long "talk to -ladies." I hardly think that I need go into the merits of the question; -you and I, I take it, are convinced of the vast immeasurable inferiority -of Racine to Shakespeare (with these two names one sums up the whole -debate), but I am quite sure that M. de Brunetičre has given the true -reason of the French literature being on the distinctly low level. It is -always Thackeray, it is always Pope, it is always Jane Austen; it is, in -our sense of the word, not literature at all, though, to be sure, its -artifice is often of the most exquisite description. Of course I do not -speak of the ultimate reason--that is to be sought, I presume, in the -mental constitution of the nation--but when one reads M. de Brunetičre's -account of the formation of modern French letters, and notes his -insistance on the social element as the chief factor, one may be pretty -sure that this social factor is responsible for the pleasant nullities -which we all know. You may feel pretty certain, I think, that real -literature has always been produced by men who have preserved a certain -loneliness of soul, if not of body; the masterpieces are not generated -by that pleasant and witty traffic of the drawing-rooms, but by the -silence of the eternal hills. Remember; we have settled that literature -is the expression of the "standing out," of the withdrawal of the soul, -it is the endeavour of every age to return to the first age, to an age, -if you like, of savages, when a man crept away to the rocks or to the -forests that he might utter, all alone, the secrets of his own soul. - -So this is my plea for Miss Wilkins. I think that she has indicated this -condition of "ecstasis"; she has painted a society, indeed, but a -society in which each man stands apart, responsible only for himself and -to himself, conscious only of himself and his God. You will note this, -if you read her carefully, you will see how this doctrine of awful, -individual loneliness prevails so far that it is carried into the -necessary and ordinary transactions of social life, often with results -that are very absurd. Many of the people in her stories are so -absolutely convinced of their "loneliness," so certain that there are -only two persons in the whole universe--each man and his God--that they -do not shrink from transgressing and flouting all the social orders and -regulations, in spite of their very strong and social instinct drawing -them in the opposite direction. You remember the man who vowed that -under certain circumstances he would sit on the meeting-house steps -every Sunday? He kept his vow--for ten years I think--and he kept it in -spite of his profound horror of ridicule, of doing what other people -didn't do, in spite of his own happiness; but he kept it because he -realised his "loneliness," because he saw quite clearly that he must -stand or fall by his own word and his own promise, and that the opinions -of others could be of no possible importance to him. The instance is -ludicrous, even to the verge of farce, and yet I call it a witness to -the everlasting truth that, at last, each man must stand or fall alone, -and that if he would stand, he must, to a certain extent, live alone -with his own soul. It is from this mood of lonely reverie and ecstasy -that literature proceeds, and I think that the sense of all this is -diffused throughout Miss Wilkins's New England stories. - - * * * * * - -You ask me for a new test--or rather for a new expression of the one -test--that separates literature from the mass of stuff which is not -literature. I will give you a test that will startle you; literature is -the expression, through the ęsthetic medium of words, of the dogmas of -the Catholic Church, and that which in any way is out of harmony with -these dogmas is not literature. Yes, it is really so; but not exactly in -the sense which you suppose. No literal compliance with Christianity is -needed, no, nor even an acquaintance with the doctrines of Christianity. -The Greeks, celebrating the festivals of Dionysus, Cervantes recounting -the fooleries of Don Quixote, Dickens measuring Mr Pickwick's glasses of -cold punch, Rabelais with his thirsty Pantagruel were all sufficiently -Catholic from our point of view, and the cultus of Aphrodite is merely -a symbol misunderstood and possibly corrupted, and if you can describe -an initiatory dance of savages in the proper manner, I shall call you a -good Catholic. You say that "Robert Elsmere" is not literature, and you -are perfectly right, but I hope you don't condemn it because it contains -arguments directed against the Catholic Faith? These, from our own -standpoint, are simply nothing at all, not reckoning either way. We pass -them over, just as we should pass over a passage on quadratic equations -pleasantly interpolated by an author into the body of his romance. -The conscious opinions of a writer are simply not worth twopence in -the court of literature; who cares to enquire into the theology of -Keats? But when we find not only the consciousness but also the -subconsciousness permeated by the impression that man is a logical, -"rationalistic" creature and nothing more, when the total impression of -the human being gathered from the book is of a simply demonstrating and -demonstrable animal; then, we may be perfectly assured that we have not -to deal with literature. It is the subconsciousness, remember, alone -that matters; and (to put it again theologically) you will find that -books which are not literature proceed from ignorance of the -Sacramental System. Thackeray was an unconscious heretic, while George -Eliot was a conscious one, but each was ignorant of the meaning of -Sacramentalism, and so, making allowance for the fact that the one was a -clever man, while the other was a dull, industrious woman, you have from -each a view of life that is substantially the same, and entirely false. -Each was profoundly convinced that there _are_ milestones on the Dover -Road, and each, in his several way, was so intent on the truth of this -proposition (and it _is_ a perfectly true one) that the secret of the -scenery and the secret of Canterbury Cathedral are altogether to seek in -their books. Certainly the gentleman is a delightful companion, and the -milestones seem few indeed while we are on the way, while with the other -guide we feel like a girls' school, compelled to listen to the "now, -young ladies" and the "lessons" which every object on the road suggests. -Still, the total view is much the same, the same in genus if not in -species, and you may add Flaubert to your companions on the road and you -will be in the same case. But read a chapter of "Don Quixote"; you will -not be aware of the existence of the milestones, since your gaze is -fixed on the mystery of the woods, and you are a pilgrim to the blissful -shrine beyond. Don't imagine that you can improve your literary chances -by subscribing the Catechism or the Decrees of the Council of Trent. No; -I can give you no such short and easy plan for excelling; but I tell you -that unless you have assimilated the final dogmas--the eternal -truths--upon which those things rest, consciously if you please, but -subconsciously of necessity, you can never write literature, however -clever and amusing you may be. Think of it, and you will see that from -the literary standpoint, Catholic dogma is merely the witness, under a -special symbolism, of the enduring facts of human nature and the -universe; it is merely the voice which tells us distinctly that man is -_not_ the creature of the drawing-room and the Stock Exchange, but a -lonely awful soul confronted by the Source of all Souls, and you will -realise that to make literature it is necessary to be, at all events, -subconsciously Catholic. - - * * * * * - -Have you noticed how many of the greatest writers, so far from desiring -that compliment of "fidelity to life" do their best to get away from -life, to make their books, in ordinary phraseology, "unreal?" I do not -know whether anybody has compared the facts before or made the only -possible inference from them; but you remember how Rabelais professes to -derive his book from a little mouldy manuscript, found in a tomb, how -Cervantes, beginning in _propria persona authoris_, breaks off and -discovers the true history of "Don Quixote" in the Arabic Manuscript of -Cid Hamet Benengeli, how Hawthorne prologises with the custom-house at -Salem, and lights, in an old lumber-room, on the documents telling him -the history of the "Scarlet Letter." "Pickwick" was a transcript of the -"Transactions" or "Papers" of the Pickwick Club, and Tennyson's "Morte -D'Arthur" shelters itself, in the same way, behind the personality of an -imaginary writer. There is a very profound significance in all this, and -you find a trace of the same instinct in the Greek Tragedies where the -final scene, the peripeteia, is not shown on the stage, but described by -a "messenger." The fact is that the true artist, so far from being the -imitator of life, endures some of his severest struggles in endeavouring -to get away from life, and until he can do this he knows that his labour -is all in vain. It would be amusing to trace all the various devices -which have been used to secure this effect of separation, of withdrawal -from the common track of common things. I have just pointed out one, the -hiding of the author, as it were, behind a mask, and in the Greek Play -the analogous talking of what has happened in place of visibly showing -it, but there must be many more. From this instinct I imagine arises the -historical novel in all its forms, you make your story remote by placing -it far back in time, by the exhibition of strange dresses and unfamiliar -manners. Or again you may get virtually the same effect by using the -remoteness of space, by playing on the theme "far, far away" which -really calls up a very similar emotion to that produced by the other -theme of "long, long ago," or "once on a time," as the fairy tale has -it. Briefly we may say that all "strangeness" of incident, or plot, or -style makes for this one end; and of course you see that all this is -only the repetition of our old text in another form. It is, perhaps, -hardly necessary to give the caution that, on the principle of -_corruptio optimi_, there is nothing more melancholy than the book which -has the body of fine literature without the soul, which uses literary -methods without understanding. You needn't ask for proofs of that -proposition; our memories are aghast with recollections of futile -"historical novels," of the terrific school of the "two horsemen," and -every Christmas brings its huge budget of those dreadful "boys' books," -which carry commonplace to the very ends of the earth, and occasionally -penetrate to the stars. And in style, too, what can be more depressing -than the style which is meant to be "strange" and is only flatulent? In -many cases of course such books as I have alluded to are mere survivals -of tradition, conventions of bookmaking which bear witness to the fact -that pirates and treasure-hoards were once symbols of wonder, and the -extravagancies of style are probably to be accounted for in the same -way. At some remote period it may, possibly, have been effective to call -the sun, "the glorious orb," and even now some minds may be made to -realise the strangeness of great flights of birds by the phrase "the -feathered Zingari of the air"; but if one is a little sophisticated one -feels the pathos and the futility of such efforts. The writer has felt -and experienced the wonder of things--the beauty of the sun and the -hieroglyphic mystery of the figures that the birds make in the air--and -he feels, quite rightly, that to describe wonders one must suggest -wonder by words. Unfortunately, he breaks down at this point, and falls -back on unhappy phrases that give the very opposite impression to that -which he wishes to excite. Here you have the whole history of "poetic -diction." The instinct is in itself an entirely right one, and I need -hardly say that the masters--those who have the secret--can use archaic -forms, obsolete constructions, conventional phrases even, with -miraculous effect. But the beginner would do well to be wary of these -things, and to turn his face resolutely away from "flowery meads" and -all the family of inversions. How is one to know when such phrases may -be used? If I could give you the answer to that question I should be -also giving you the secret of making literature, and from all our talks -I expect you have gathered this much at all events--that the art of -literature, with all the arts, is quite incommunicable. Many kinds of -artifice, even, are unteachable--I could not write or be taught to write -one of those George Eliot novels that I have been abusing with such -hearty good will--but art is by its very definition quite without the -jurisdiction of the schools, and the realm of the reasoning process, -since art is a miracle, superior to the laws. - - - PRINTED BY - TURNBULL AND SPEARS, - EDINBURGH - - - * * * * * - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - -The variant spellings "bookcase" and "book-case", "bookmaking" and -"book-making", "milk punch" and "milk-punch", "subconsciousness" and -"sub-consciousness", "Morte D'Arthur" and "Morte d'Arthur" are all used in -this text. - -The four Greek quotations are indicated by tildes ~like this~. Words in -italics are indicated by underscores _like this_. - -There is no consistency in the use of italics, single quotes or double -quotes. For example _Vanity Fair_, "Vanity Fair" and 'Vanity Fair' all -appear. - -OE and oe ligatures have been replaced by OE and oe respectively. - -The spellings "gurgoyles" (p. 132), "insistance" (p. 196), "ecstasis" -(p. 196) and "extravagancies" (p. 204) have been left unchanged. - -The following amendments have been made: - -1)Full stop (period) added after "Sophocles" on p. 53, after "runs away" -on p. 189 and after "Dr" in "Dr Johnson" on p. 193. - -2) Full stop replaced by question mark after "unreal" on p. 214. - -A Table of Contents has been added. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hieroglyphics, by Arthur Machen - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIEROGLYPHICS *** - -***** This file should be named 40241-8.txt or 40241-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/4/40241/ - -Produced by David Starner, Margo Romberg and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - -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. 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