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diff --git a/492-h/492-h.htm b/492-h/492-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..35ff109 --- /dev/null +++ b/492-h/492-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2763 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Essays in the Art of Writing, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Essays in the Art of Writing, by Robert Louis +Stevenson + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Essays in the Art of Writing + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + + + +Release Date: October 16, 2012 [eBook #492] +[This file was first posted on February 21, 1996] + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS IN THE ART OF WRITING*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1905 Chatto & Windus edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1><span class="GutSmall">ESSAYS IN THE</span><br /> +ART OF WRITING</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">BY<br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative logo" +title= +"Decorative logo" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CHATTO & WINDUS</span><br /> +1905</p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On Some Technical Elements of Style in Literature</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Morality of the Profession of Letters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Books which have Influenced Me</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Note on Realism</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>My First Book: ‘Treasure Island’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Genesis of ‘The Master of Ballantrae’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Preface To ‘The Master of Ballantrae’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>ON SOME +TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF STYLE IN LITERATURE <a +name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3" +class="citation">[3]</a></h2> +<p>There is nothing more disenchanting to man than to be shown +the springs and mechanism of any art. All our arts and +occupations lie wholly on the surface; it is on the surface that +we perceive their beauty, fitness, and significance; and to pry +below is to be appalled by their emptiness and shocked by the +coarseness of the strings and pulleys. In a similar way, +psychology itself, when pushed to any nicety, discovers an +abhorrent baldness, but rather from the fault of our analysis +than from any poverty native to the mind. And perhaps in +æsthetics the reason is the same: those disclosures which +seem fatal to the dignity of art seem so perhaps only in the +proportion of our ignorance; and those conscious and unconscious +artifices which it seems unworthy of the serious artist to employ +were yet, if we had the power to trace them to their springs, +indications of a delicacy of the sense finer than we conceive, +and hints of ancient harmonies in nature. This ignorance at +least is largely irremediable. We shall never learn the +affinities of beauty, for they lie too deep in nature and too far +back in the mysterious history of man. The amateur, in +consequence, will always grudgingly receive details of method, +which can be stated but never can wholly be explained; nay, on +the principle laid down in <i>Hudibras</i>, that</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘Still +the less they understand,<br /> +The more they admire the sleight-of-hand,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>many are conscious at each new disclosure of a diminution in +the ardour of their pleasure. I must therefore warn that +well-known character, the general reader, that I am here embarked +upon a most distasteful business: taking down the picture from +the wall and looking on the back; and, like the inquiring child, +pulling the musical cart to pieces.</p> +<p>1. <i>Choice of Words</i>.—The art of literature +stands apart from among its sisters, because the material in +which the literary artist works is the dialect of life; hence, on +the one hand, a strange freshness and immediacy of address to the +public mind, which is ready prepared to understand it; but hence, +on the other, a singular limitation. The sister arts enjoy +the use of a plastic and ductile material, like the +modeller’s clay; literature alone is condemned to work in +mosaic with finite and quite rigid words. You have seen +these blocks, dear to the nursery: this one a pillar, that a +pediment, a third a window or a vase. It is with blocks of +just such arbitrary size and figure that the literary architect +is condemned to design the palace of his art. Nor is this +all; for since these blocks, or words, are the acknowledged +currency of our daily affairs, there are here possible none of +those suppressions by which other arts obtain relief, continuity, +and vigour: no hieroglyphic touch, no smoothed impasto, no +inscrutable shadow, as in painting; no blank wall, as in +architecture; but every word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph +must move in a logical progression, and convey a definite +conventional import.</p> +<p>Now the first merit which attracts in the pages of a good +writer, or the talk of a brilliant conversationalist, is the apt +choice and contrast of the words employed. It is, indeed, a +strange art to take these blocks, rudely conceived for the +purpose of the market or the bar, and by tact of application +touch them to the finest meanings and distinctions, restore to +them their primal energy, wittily shift them to another issue, or +make of them a drum to rouse the passions. But though this +form of merit is without doubt the most sensible and seizing, it +is far from being equally present in all writers. The +effect of words in Shakespeare, their singular justice, +significance, and poetic charm, is different, indeed, from the +effect of words in Addison or Fielding. Or, to take an +example nearer home, the words in Carlyle seem electrified into +an energy of lineament, like the faces of men furiously moved; +whilst the words in Macaulay, apt enough to convey his meaning, +harmonious enough in sound, yet glide from the memory like +undistinguished elements in a general effect. But the first +class of writers have no monopoly of literary merit. There +is a sense in which Addison is superior to Carlyle; a sense in +which Cicero is better than Tacitus, in which Voltaire excels +Montaigne: it certainly lies not in the choice of words; it lies +not in the interest or value of the matter; it lies not in force +of intellect, of poetry, or of humour. The three first are +but infants to the three second; and yet each, in a particular +point of literary art, excels his superior in the whole. +What is that point?</p> +<p>2. <i>The Web</i>.—Literature, although it stands +apart by reason of the great destiny and general use of its +medium in the affairs of men, is yet an art like other +arts. Of these we may distinguish two great classes: those +arts, like sculpture, painting, acting, which are representative, +or, as used to be said very clumsily, imitative; and those, like +architecture, music, and the dance, which are self-sufficient, +and merely presentative. Each class, in right of this +distinction, obeys principles apart; yet both may claim a common +ground of existence, and it may be said with sufficient justice +that the motive and end of any art whatever is to make a pattern; +a pattern, it may be, of colours, of sounds, of changing +attitudes, geometrical figures, or imitative lines; but still a +pattern. That is the plane on which these sisters meet; it +is by this that they are arts; and if it be well they should at +times forget their childish origin, addressing their intelligence +to virile tasks, and performing unconsciously that necessary +function of their life, to make a pattern, it is still imperative +that the pattern shall be made.</p> +<p>Music and literature, the two temporal arts, contrive their +pattern of sounds in time; or, in other words, of sounds and +pauses. Communication may be made in broken words, the +business of life be carried on with substantives alone; but that +is not what we call literature; and the true business of the +literary artist is to plait or weave his meaning, involving it +around itself; so that each sentence, by successive phrases, +shall first come into a kind of knot, and then, after a moment of +suspended meaning, solve and clear itself. In every +properly constructed sentence there should be observed this knot +or hitch; so that (however delicately) we are led to foresee, to +expect, and then to welcome the successive phrases. The +pleasure may be heightened by an element of surprise, as, very +grossly, in the common figure of the antithesis, or, with much +greater subtlety, where an antithesis is first suggested and then +deftly evaded. Each phrase, besides, is to be comely in +itself; and between the implication and the evolution of the +sentence there should be a satisfying equipoise of sound; for +nothing more often disappoints the ear than a sentence solemnly +and sonorously prepared, and hastily and weakly finished. +Nor should the balance be too striking and exact, for the one +rule is to be infinitely various; to interest, to disappoint, to +surprise, and yet still to gratify; to be ever changing, as it +were, the stitch, and yet still to give the effect of an +ingenious neatness.</p> +<p>The conjurer juggles with two oranges, and our pleasure in +beholding him springs from this, that neither is for an instant +overlooked or sacrificed. So with the writer. His +pattern, which is to please the supersensual ear, is yet +addressed, throughout and first of all, to the demands of +logic. Whatever be the obscurities, whatever the +intricacies of the argument, the neatness of the fabric must not +suffer, or the artist has been proved unequal to his +design. And, on the other hand, no form of words must be +selected, no knot must be tied among the phrases, unless knot and +word be precisely what is wanted to forward and illuminate the +argument; for to fail in this is to swindle in the game. +The genius of prose rejects the <i>cheville</i> no less +emphatically than the laws of verse; and the <i>cheville</i>, I +should perhaps explain to some of my readers, is any meaningless +or very watered phrase employed to strike a balance in the +sound. Pattern and argument live in each other; and it is +by the brevity, clearness, charm, or emphasis of the second, that +we judge the strength and fitness of the first.</p> +<p>Style is synthetic; and the artist, seeking, so to speak, a +peg to plait about, takes up at once two or more elements or two +or more views of the subject in hand; combines, implicates, and +contrasts them; and while, in one sense, he was merely seeking an +occasion for the necessary knot, he will be found, in the other, +to have greatly enriched the meaning, or to have transacted the +work of two sentences in the space of one. In the change +from the successive shallow statements of the old chronicler to +the dense and luminous flow of highly synthetic narrative, there +is implied a vast amount of both philosophy and wit. The +philosophy we clearly see, recognising in the synthetic writer a +far more deep and stimulating view of life, and a far keener +sense of the generation and affinity of events. The wit we +might imagine to be lost; but it is not so, for it is just that +wit, these perpetual nice contrivances, these difficulties +overcome, this double purpose attained, these two oranges kept +simultaneously dancing in the air, that, consciously or not, +afford the reader his delight. Nay, and this wit, so little +recognised, is the necessary organ of that philosophy which we so +much admire. That style is therefore the most perfect, not, +as fools say, which is the most natural, for the most natural is +the disjointed babble of the chronicler; but which attains the +highest degree of elegant and pregnant implication unobtrusively; +or if obtrusively, then with the greatest gain to sense and +vigour. Even the derangement of the phrases from their +(so-called) natural order is luminous for the mind; and it is by +the means of such designed reversal that the elements of a +judgment may be most pertinently marshalled, or the stages of a +complicated action most perspicuously bound into one.</p> +<p>The web, then, or the pattern: a web at once sensuous and +logical, an elegant and pregnant texture: that is style, that is +the foundation of the art of literature. Books indeed +continue to be read, for the interest of the fact or fable, in +which this quality is poorly represented, but still it will be +there. And, on the other hand, how many do we continue to +peruse and reperuse with pleasure whose only merit is the +elegance of texture? I am tempted to mention Cicero; and +since Mr. Anthony Trollope is dead, I will. It is a poor +diet for the mind, a very colourless and toothless +‘criticism of life’; but we enjoy the pleasure of a +most intricate and dexterous pattern, every stitch a model at +once of elegance and of good sense; and the two oranges, even if +one of them be rotten, kept dancing with inimitable grace.</p> +<p>Up to this moment I have had my eye mainly upon prose; for +though in verse also the implication of the logical texture is a +crowning beauty, yet in verse it may be dispensed with. You +would think that here was a death-blow to all I have been saying; +and far from that, it is but a new illustration of the principle +involved. For if the versifier is not bound to weave a +pattern of his own, it is because another pattern has been +formally imposed upon him by the laws of verse. For that is +the essence of a prosody. Verse may be rhythmical; it may +be merely alliterative; it may, like the French, depend wholly on +the (quasi) regular recurrence of the rhyme; or, like the Hebrew, +it may consist in the strangely fanciful device of repeating the +same idea. It does not matter on what principle the law is +based, so it be a law. It may be pure convention; it may +have no inherent beauty; all that we have a right to ask of any +prosody is, that it shall lay down a pattern for the writer, and +that what it lays down shall be neither too easy nor too +hard. Hence it comes that it is much easier for men of +equal facility to write fairly pleasing verse than reasonably +interesting prose; for in prose the pattern itself has to be +invented, and the difficulties first created before they can be +solved. Hence, again, there follows the peculiar greatness +of the true versifier: such as Shakespeare, Milton, and Victor +Hugo, whom I place beside them as versifier merely, not as +poet. These not only knit and knot the logical texture of +the style with all the dexterity and strength of prose; they not +only fill up the pattern of the verse with infinite variety and +sober wit; but they give us, besides, a rare and special +pleasure, by the art, comparable to that of counterpoint, with +which they follow at the same time, and now contrast, and now +combine, the double pattern of the texture and the verse. +Here the sounding line concludes; a little further on, the +well-knit sentence; and yet a little further, and both will reach +their solution on the same ringing syllable. The best that +can be offered by the best writer of prose is to show us the +development of the idea and the stylistic pattern proceed hand in +hand, sometimes by an obvious and triumphant effort, sometimes +with a great air of ease and nature. The writer of verse, +by virtue of conquering another difficulty, delights us with a +new series of triumphs. He follows three purposes where his +rival followed only two; and the change is of precisely the same +nature as that from melody to harmony. Or if you prefer to +return to the juggler, behold him now, to the vastly increased +enthusiasm of the spectators, juggling with three oranges instead +of two. Thus it is: added difficulty, added beauty; and the +pattern, with every fresh element, becoming more interesting in +itself.</p> +<p>Yet it must not be thought that verse is simply an addition; +something is lost as well as something gained; and there remains +plainly traceable, in comparing the best prose with the best +verse, a certain broad distinction of method in the web. +Tight as the versifier may draw the knot of logic, yet for the +ear he still leaves the tissue of the sentence floating somewhat +loose. In prose, the sentence turns upon a pivot, nicely +balanced, and fits into itself with an obtrusive neatness like a +puzzle. The ear remarks and is singly gratified by this +return and balance; while in verse it is all diverted to the +measure. To find comparable passages is hard; for either +the versifier is hugely the superior of the rival, or, if he be +not, and still persist in his more delicate enterprise, he fails +to be as widely his inferior. But let us select them from +the pages of the same writer, one who was ambidexter; let us +take, for instance, Rumour’s Prologue to the Second Part of +<i>Henry IV.</i>, a fine flourish of eloquence in +Shakespeare’s second manner, and set it side by side with +Falstaff’s praise of sherris, act iv. scene iii.; or let us +compare the beautiful prose spoken throughout by Rosalind and +Orlando; compare, for example, the first speech of all, +Orlando’s speech to Adam, with what passage it shall please +you to select—the Seven Ages from the same play, or even +such a stave of nobility as Othello’s farewell to war; and +still you will be able to perceive, if you have an ear for that +class of music, a certain superior degree of organisation in the +prose; a compacter fitting of the parts; a balance in the swing +and the return as of a throbbing pendulum. We must not, in +things temporal, take from those who have little, the little that +they have; the merits of prose are inferior, but they are not the +same; it is a little kingdom, but an independent.</p> +<p>3. <i>Rhythm of the Phrase</i>.—Some way back, I +used a word which still awaits an application. Each phrase, +I said, was to be comely; but what is a comely phrase? In +all ideal and material points, literature, being a representative +art, must look for analogies to painting and the like; but in +what is technical and executive, being a temporal art, it must +seek for them in music. Each phrase of each sentence, like +an air or a recitative in music, should be so artfully compounded +out of long and short, out of accented and unaccented, as to +gratify the sensual ear. And of this the ear is the sole +judge. It is impossible to lay down laws. Even in our +accentual and rhythmic language no analysis can find the secret +of the beauty of a verse; how much less, then, of those phrases, +such as prose is built of, which obey no law but to be lawless +and yet to please? The little that we know of verse (and +for my part I owe it all to my friend Professor Fleeming Jenkin) +is, however, particularly interesting in the present +connection. We have been accustomed to describe the heroic +line as five iambic feet, and to be filled with pain and +confusion whenever, as by the conscientious schoolboy, we have +heard our own description put in practice.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘All night | the dreàd | less +àn | gel ùn | pursùed,’ <a +name="citation21"></a><a href="#footnote21" +class="citation">[21]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>goes the schoolboy; but though we close our ears, we cling to +our definition, in spite of its proved and naked +insufficiency. Mr. Jenkin was not so easily pleased, and +readily discovered that the heroic line consists of four groups, +or, if you prefer the phrase, contains four pauses:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘All night | the dreadless | angel | +unpursued.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Four groups, each practically uttered as one word: the first, +in this case, an iamb; the second, an amphibrachys; the third, a +trochee; and the fourth, an amphimacer; and yet our schoolboy, +with no other liberty but that of inflicting pain, had +triumphantly scanned it as five iambs. Perceive, now, this +fresh richness of intricacy in the web; this fourth orange, +hitherto unremarked, but still kept flying with the others. +What had seemed to be one thing it now appears is two; and, like +some puzzle in arithmetic, the verse is made at the same time to +read in fives and to read in fours.</p> +<p>But again, four is not necessary. We do not, indeed, +find verses in six groups, because there is not room for six in +the ten syllables; and we do not find verses of two, because one +of the main distinctions of verse from prose resides in the +comparative shortness of the group; but it is even common to find +verses of three. Five is the one forbidden number; because +five is the number of the feet; and if five were chosen, the two +patterns would coincide, and that opposition which is the life of +verse would instantly be lost. We have here a clue to the +effect of polysyllables, above all in Latin, where they are so +common and make so brave an architecture in the verse; for the +polysyllable is a group of Nature’s making. If but +some Roman would return from Hades (Martial, for choice), and +tell me by what conduct of the voice these thundering verses +should be uttered—‘<i>Aut Lacedæmonium +Tarentum</i>,’ for a case in point—I feel as if I +should enter at last into the full enjoyment of the best of human +verses.</p> +<p>But, again, the five feet are all iambic, or supposed to be; +by the mere count of syllables the four groups cannot be all +iambic; as a question of elegance, I doubt if any one of them +requires to be so; and I am certain that for choice no two of +them should scan the same. The singular beauty of the verse +analysed above is due, so far as analysis can carry us, part, +indeed, to the clever repetition of L, D, and N, but part to this +variety of scansion in the groups. The groups which, like +the bar in music, break up the verse for utterance, fall +uniambically; and in declaiming a so-called iambic verse, it may +so happen that we never utter one iambic foot. And yet to +this neglect of the original beat there is a limit.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of +arts,’ <a name="citation24"></a><a href="#footnote24" +class="citation">[24]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>is, with all its eccentricities, a good heroic line; for +though it scarcely can be said to indicate the beat of the iamb, +it certainly suggests no other measure to the ear. But +begin</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Mother Athens, eye of Greece,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>or merely ‘Mother Athens,’ and the game is up, for +the trochaic beat has been suggested. The eccentric +scansion of the groups is an adornment; but as soon as the +original beat has been forgotten, they cease implicitly to be +eccentric. Variety is what is sought; but if we destroy the +original mould, one of the terms of this variety is lost, and we +fall back on sameness. Thus, both as to the arithmetical +measure of the verse, and the degree of regularity in scansion, +we see the laws of prosody to have one common purpose: to keep +alive the opposition of two schemes simultaneously followed; to +keep them notably apart, though still coincident; and to balance +them with such judicial nicety before the reader, that neither +shall be unperceived and neither signally prevail.</p> +<p>The rule of rhythm in prose is not so intricate. Here, +too, we write in groups, or phrases, as I prefer to call them, +for the prose phrase is greatly longer and is much more +nonchalantly uttered than the group in verse; so that not only is +there a greater interval of continuous sound between the pauses, +but, for that very reason, word is linked more readily to word by +a more summary enunciation. Still, the phrase is the strict +analogue of the group, and successive phrases, like successive +groups, must differ openly in length and rhythm. The rule +of scansion in verse is to suggest no measure but the one in +hand; in prose, to suggest no measure at all. Prose must be +rhythmical, and it may be as much so as you will; but it must not +be metrical. It may be anything, but it must not be +verse. A single heroic line may very well pass and not +disturb the somewhat larger stride of the prose style; but one +following another will produce an instant impression of poverty, +flatness, and disenchantment. The same lines delivered with +the measured utterance of verse would perhaps seem rich in +variety. By the more summary enunciation proper to prose, +as to a more distant vision, these niceties of difference are +lost. A whole verse is uttered as one phrase; and the ear +is soon wearied by a succession of groups identical in +length. The prose writer, in fact, since he is allowed to +be so much less harmonious, is condemned to a perpetually fresh +variety of movement on a larger scale, and must never disappoint +the ear by the trot of an accepted metre. And this +obligation is the third orange with which he has to juggle, the +third quality which the prose writer must work into his pattern +of words. It may be thought perhaps that this is a quality +of ease rather than a fresh difficulty; but such is the +inherently rhythmical strain of the English language, that the +bad writer—and must I take for example that admired friend +of my boyhood, Captain Reid?—the inexperienced writer, as +Dickens in his earlier attempts to be impressive, and the jaded +writer, as any one may see for himself, all tend to fall at once +into the production of bad blank verse. And here it may be +pertinently asked, Why bad? And I suppose it might be +enough to answer that no man ever made good verse by accident, +and that no verse can ever sound otherwise than trivial when +uttered with the delivery of prose. But we can go beyond +such answers. The weak side of verse is the regularity of +the beat, which in itself is decidedly less impressive than the +movement of the nobler prose; and it is just into this weak side, +and this alone, that our careless writer falls. A peculiar +density and mass, consequent on the nearness of the pauses, is +one of the chief good qualities of verse; but this our accidental +versifier, still following after the swift gait and large +gestures of prose, does not so much as aspire to imitate. +Lastly, since he remains unconscious that he is making verse at +all, it can never occur to him to extract those effects of +counterpoint and opposition which I have referred to as the final +grace and justification of verse, and, I may add, of blank verse +in particular.</p> +<p>4. <i>Contents of the Phrase</i>.—Here is a great +deal of talk about rhythm—and naturally; for in our +canorous language rhythm is always at the door. But it must +not be forgotten that in some languages this element is almost, +if not quite, extinct, and that in our own it is probably +decaying. The even speech of many educated Americans sounds +the note of danger. I should see it go with something as +bitter as despair, but I should not be desperate. As in +verse no element, not even rhythm, is necessary, so, in prose +also, other sorts of beauty will arise and take the place and +play the part of those that we outlive. The beauty of the +expected beat in verse, the beauty in prose of its larger and +more lawless melody, patent as they are to English hearing, are +already silent in the ears of our next neighbours; for in France +the oratorical accent and the pattern of the web have almost or +altogether succeeded to their places; and the French prose writer +would be astounded at the labours of his brother across the +Channel, and how a good quarter of his toil, above all <i>invita +Minerva</i>, is to avoid writing verse. So wonderfully far +apart have races wandered in spirit, and so hard it is to +understand the literature next door!</p> +<p>Yet French prose is distinctly better than English; and French +verse, above all while Hugo lives, it will not do to place upon +one side. What is more to our purpose, a phrase or a verse +in French is easily distinguishable as comely or uncomely. +There is then another element of comeliness hitherto overlooked +in this analysis: the contents of the phrase. Each phrase +in literature is built of sounds, as each phrase in music +consists of notes. One sound suggests, echoes, demands, and +harmonises with another; and the art of rightly using these +concordances is the final art in literature. It used to be +a piece of good advice to all young writers to avoid +alliteration; and the advice was sound, in so far as it prevented +daubing. None the less for that, was it abominable +nonsense, and the mere raving of those blindest of the blind who +will not see. The beauty of the contents of a phrase, or of +a sentence, depends implicitly upon alliteration and upon +assonance. The vowel demands to be repeated; the consonant +demands to be repeated; and both cry aloud to be perpetually +varied. You may follow the adventures of a letter through +any passage that has particularly pleased you; find it, perhaps, +denied a while, to tantalise the ear; find it fired again at you +in a whole broadside; or find it pass into congenerous sounds, +one liquid or labial melting away into another. And you +will find another and much stranger circumstance. +Literature is written by and for two senses: a sort of internal +ear, quick to perceive ‘unheard melodies’; and the +eye, which directs the pen and deciphers the printed +phrase. Well, even as there are rhymes for the eye, so you +will find that there are assonances and alliterations; that where +an author is running the open A, deceived by the eye and our +strange English spelling, he will often show a tenderness for the +flat A; and that where he is running a particular consonant, he +will not improbably rejoice to write it down even when it is mute +or bears a different value.</p> +<p>Here, then, we have a fresh pattern—a pattern, to speak +grossly, of letters—which makes the fourth preoccupation of +the prose writer, and the fifth of the versifier. At times +it is very delicate and hard to perceive, and then perhaps most +excellent and winning (I say perhaps); but at times again the +elements of this literal melody stand more boldly forward and +usurp the ear. It becomes, therefore, somewhat a matter of +conscience to select examples; and as I cannot very well ask the +reader to help me, I shall do the next best by giving him the +reason or the history of each selection. The two first, one +in prose, one in verse, I chose without previous analysis, simply +as engaging passages that had long re-echoed in my ear.</p> +<p>‘I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, +unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her +adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland +is to be run for, not without dust and heat.’ <a +name="citation33"></a><a href="#footnote33" +class="citation">[33]</a> Down to ‘virtue,’ the +current S and R are both announced and repeated unobtrusively, +and by way of a grace-note that almost inseparable group PVF is +given entire. <a name="citation34"></a><a href="#footnote34" +class="citation">[34]</a> The next phrase is a period of +repose, almost ugly in itself, both S and R still audible, and B +given as the last fulfilment of PVF. In the next four +phrases, from ‘that never’ down to ‘run +for,’ the mask is thrown off, and, but for a slight +repetition of the F and V, the whole matter turns, almost too +obtrusively, on S and R; first S coming to the front, and then +R. In the concluding phrase all these favourite letters, +and even the flat A, a timid preference for which is just +perceptible, are discarded at a blow and in a bundle; and to make +the break more obvious, every word ends with a dental, and all +but one with T, for which we have been cautiously prepared since +the beginning. The singular dignity of the first clause, +and this hammer-stroke of the last, go far to make the charm of +this exquisite sentence. But it is fair to own that S and R +are used a little coarsely.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>‘In Xanady did Kubla Khan</p> +</td> +<td><p>(KĂNDL)</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> A stately pleasure dome decree,</p> +</td> +<td><p>(KDLSR)</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Where Alph the sacred river ran,</p> +</td> +<td><p>(KĂNDLSR)</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Through caverns measureless to man,</p> +</td> +<td><p>(KĂNLSR)</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Down to a sunless sea.’ <a +name="citation35"></a><a href="#footnote35" +class="citation">[35]</a></p> +</td> +<td><p>(NDLS)</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<p>Here I have put the analysis of the main group alongside the +lines; and the more it is looked at, the more interesting it will +seem. But there are further niceties. In lines two +and four, the current S is most delicately varied with Z. +In line three, the current flat A is twice varied with the open +A, already suggested in line two, and both times +(‘where’ and ‘sacred’) in conjunction +with the current R. In the same line F and V (a harmony in +themselves, even when shorn of their comrade P) are admirably +contrasted. And in line four there is a marked subsidiary +M, which again was announced in line two. I stop from +weariness, for more might yet be said.</p> +<p>My next example was recently quoted from Shakespeare as an +example of the poet’s colour sense. Now, I do not +think literature has anything to do with colour, or poets anyway +the better of such a sense; and I instantly attacked this +passage, since ‘purple’ was the word that had so +pleased the writer of the article, to see if there might not be +some literary reason for its use. It will be seen that I +succeeded amply; and I am bound to say I think the passage +exceptional in Shakespeare—exceptional, indeed, in +literature; but it was not I who chose it.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The BaRge she sat iN, like a BURNished +throNe<br /> +BURNT oN the water: the POOP was BeateN gold,<br /> +PURPle the sails and so PUR* Fumèd +that * per<br /> +The wiNds were love-sick with them.’ <a +name="citation36"></a><a href="#footnote36" +class="citation">[36]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>It may be asked why I have put the F of +‘perfumèd’ in capitals; and I reply, because +this change from P to F is the completion of that from B to P, +already so adroitly carried out. Indeed, the whole passage +is a monument of curious ingenuity; and it seems scarce worth +while to indicate the subsidiary S, L, and W. In the same +article, a second passage from Shakespeare was quoted, once again +as an example of his colour sense:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A mole cinque-spotted like the crimson +drops<br /> +I’ the bottom of a cowslip.’ <a +name="citation37a"></a><a href="#footnote37a" +class="citation">[37a]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is very curious, very artificial, and not worth while to +analyse at length: I leave it to the reader. But before I +turn my back on Shakespeare, I should like to quote a passage, +for my own pleasure, and for a very model of every technical +art:</p> +<blockquote><p>But in the wind and tempest of her frown,<br /> + + +W. P. V.<a name="citation37b"></a><a href="#footnote37b" +class="citation">[37b]</a> F. (st) (ow)<br /> +Distinction with a loud and powerful fan,<br /> + + +W. P. F. (st) (ow) L.</p> +<p>Puffing at all, winnows the light away;<br /> + + +W. P. F. L.<br /> +And what hath mass and matter by itself<br /> + + +W. F. L. M. A.<br /> +Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.’ <a +name="citation38"></a><a href="#footnote38" +class="citation">[38]</a><br /> + + +V. L. M.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>From these delicate and choice writers I turned with some +curiosity to a player of the big drum—Macaulay. I had +in hand the two-volume edition, and I opened at the beginning of +the second volume. Here was what I read:</p> +<p>‘The violence of revolutions is generally proportioned +to the degree of the maladministration which has produced +them. It is therefore not strange that the government of +Scotland, having been during many years greatly more corrupt than +the government of England, should have fallen with a far heavier +ruin. The movement against the last king of the house of +Stuart was in England conservative, in Scotland +destructive. The English complained not of the law, but of +the violation of the law.’</p> +<p>This was plain-sailing enough; it was our old friend PVF, +floated by the liquids in a body; but as I read on, and turned +the page, and still found PVF with his attendant liquids, I +confess my mind misgave me utterly. This could be no trick +of Macaulay’s; it must be the nature of the English +tongue. In a kind of despair, I turned half-way through the +volume; and coming upon his lordship dealing with General Cannon, +and fresh from Claverhouse and Killiecrankie, here, with +elucidative spelling, was my reward:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Meanwhile the disorders of Kannon’s +Kamp went on inKreasing. He Kalled a Kouncil of war to +Konsider what Kourse it would be advisable to taKe. But as +soon as the Kouncil had met, a preliminary Kuestion was +raised. The army was almost eKsKlusively a Highland +army. The recent vKktory had been won eKsKlusively by +Highland warriors. Great chie<i>f</i>s who had brought siKs +or Se<i>v</i>en hundred <i>f</i>ighting men into the <i>f</i>ield +did not think it <i>f</i>air that they should be out<i>v</i>oted +by gentlemen <i>f</i>rom Ireland, and <i>f</i>rom the Low +Kountries, who bore indeed King James’s Kommission, and +were Kalled Kolonels and Kaptains, but who were Kolonels without +regiments and Kaptains without Kompanies.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A moment of FV in all this world of K’s! It was +not the English language, then, that was an instrument of one +string, but Macaulay that was an incomparable dauber.</p> +<p>It was probably from this barbaric love of repeating the same +sound, rather than from any design of clearness, that he acquired +his irritating habit of repeating words; I say the one rather +than the other, because such a trick of the ear is deeper-seated +and more original in man than any logical consideration. +Few writers, indeed, are probably conscious of the length to +which they push this melody of letters. One, writing very +diligently, and only concerned about the meaning of his words and +the rhythm of his phrases, was struck into amazement by the eager +triumph with which he cancelled one expression to substitute +another. Neither changed the sense; both being +mono-syllables, neither could affect the scansion; and it was +only by looking back on what he had already written that the +mystery was solved: the second word contained an open A, and for +nearly half a page he had been riding that vowel to the +death.</p> +<p>In practice, I should add, the ear is not always so exacting; +and ordinary writers, in ordinary moments, content themselves +with avoiding what is harsh, and here and there, upon a rare +occasion, buttressing a phrase, or linking two together, with a +patch of assonance or a momentary jingle of alliteration. +To understand how constant is this preoccupation of good writers, +even where its results are least obtrusive, it is only necessary +to turn to the bad. There, indeed, you will find cacophony +supreme, the rattle of incongruous consonants only relieved by +the jaw-breaking hiatus, and whole phrases not to be articulated +by the powers of man.</p> +<p><i>Conclusion</i>.—We may now briefly enumerate the +elements of style. We have, peculiar to the prose writer, +the task of keeping his phrases large, rhythmical, and pleasing +to the ear, without ever allowing them to fall into the strictly +metrical: peculiar to the versifier, the task of combining and +contrasting his double, treble, and quadruple pattern, feet and +groups, logic and metre—harmonious in diversity: common to +both, the task of artfully combining the prime elements of +language into phrases that shall be musical in the mouth; the +task of weaving their argument into a texture of committed +phrases and of rounded periods—but this particularly +binding in the case of prose: and, again common to both, the task +of choosing apt, explicit, and communicative words. We +begin to see now what an intricate affair is any perfect passage; +how many faculties, whether of taste or pure reason, must be held +upon the stretch to make it; and why, when it is made, it should +afford us so complete a pleasure. From the arrangement of +according letters, which is altogether arabesque and sensual, up +to the architecture of the elegant and pregnant sentence, which +is a vigorous act of the pure intellect, there is scarce a +faculty in man but has been exercised. We need not wonder, +then, if perfect sentences are rare, and perfect pages rarer.</p> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>THE +MORALITY OF THE PROFESSION OF LETTERS <a +name="citation47a"></a><a href="#footnote47a" +class="citation">[47a]</a></h2> +<p>The profession of letters has been lately debated in the +public prints; and it has been debated, to put the matter mildly, +from a point of view that was calculated to surprise high-minded +men, and bring a general contempt on books and reading. +Some time ago, in particular, a lively, pleasant, popular writer +<a name="citation47b"></a><a href="#footnote47b" +class="citation">[47b]</a> devoted an essay, lively and pleasant +like himself, to a very encouraging view of the profession. +We may be glad that his experience is so cheering, and we may +hope that all others, who deserve it, shall be as handsomely +rewarded; but I do not think we need be at all glad to have this +question, so important to the public and ourselves, debated +solely on the ground of money. The salary in any business +under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the first, +question. That you should continue to exist is a matter for +your own consideration; but that your business should be first +honest, and second useful, are points in which honour and +morality are concerned. If the writer to whom I refer +succeeds in persuading a number of young persons to adopt this +way of life with an eye set singly on the livelihood, we must +expect them in their works to follow profit only, and we must +expect in consequence, if he will pardon me the epithets, a +slovenly, base, untrue, and empty literature. Of that +writer himself I am not speaking: he is diligent, clean, and +pleasing; we all owe him periods of entertainment, and he has +achieved an amiable popularity which he has adequately +deserved. But the truth is, he does not, or did not when he +first embraced it, regard his profession from this purely +mercenary side. He went into it, I shall venture to say, if +not with any noble design, at least in the ardour of a first +love; and he enjoyed its practice long before he paused to +calculate the wage. The other day an author was +complimented on a piece of work, good in itself and exceptionally +good for him, and replied, in terms unworthy of a commercial +traveller that as the book was not briskly selling he did not +give a copper farthing for its merit. It must not be +supposed that the person to whom this answer was addressed +received it as a profession of faith; he knew, on the other hand, +that it was only a whiff of irritation; just as we know, when a +respectable writer talks of literature as a way of life, like +shoemaking, but not so useful, that he is only debating one +aspect of a question, and is still clearly conscious of a dozen +others more important in themselves and more central to the +matter in hand. But while those who treat literature in +this penny-wise and virtue-foolish spirit are themselves truly in +possession of a better light, it does not follow that the +treatment is decent or improving, whether for themselves or +others. To treat all subjects in the highest, the most +honourable, and the pluckiest spirit, consistent with the fact, +is the first duty of a writer. If he be well paid, as I am +glad to hear he is, this duty becomes the more urgent, the +neglect of it the more disgraceful. And perhaps there is no +subject on which a man should speak so gravely as that industry, +whatever it may be, which is the occupation or delight of his +life; which is his tool to earn or serve with; and which, if it +be unworthy, stamps himself as a mere incubus of dumb and greedy +bowels on the shoulders of labouring humanity. On that +subject alone even to force the note might lean to virtue’s +side. It is to be hoped that a numerous and enterprising +generation of writers will follow and surpass the present one; +but it would be better if the stream were stayed, and the roll of +our old, honest English books were closed, than that esurient +book-makers should continue and debase a brave tradition, and +lower, in their own eyes, a famous race. Better that our +serene temples were deserted than filled with trafficking and +juggling priests.</p> +<p>There are two just reasons for the choice of any way of life: +the first is inbred taste in the chooser; the second some high +utility in the industry selected. Literature, like any +other art, is singularly interesting to the artist; and, in a +degree peculiar to itself among the arts, it is useful to +mankind. These are the sufficient justifications for any +young man or woman who adopts it as the business of his +life. I shall not say much about the wages. A writer +can live by his writing. If not so luxuriously as by other +trades, then less luxuriously. The nature of the work he +does all day will more affect his happiness than the quality of +his dinner at night. Whatever be your calling, and however +much it brings you in the year, you could still, you know, get +more by cheating. We all suffer ourselves to be too much +concerned about a little poverty; but such considerations should +not move us in the choice of that which is to be the business and +justification of so great a portion of our lives; and like the +missionary, the patriot, or the philosopher, we should all choose +that poor and brave career in which we can do the most and best +for mankind. Now Nature, faithfully followed, proves +herself a careful mother. A lad, for some liking to the +jingle of words, betakes himself to letters for his life; +by-and-by, when he learns more gravity, he finds that he has +chosen better than he knew; that if he earns little, he is +earning it amply; that if he receives a small wage, he is in a +position to do considerable services; that it is in his power, in +some small measure, to protect the oppressed and to defend the +truth. So kindly is the world arranged, such great profit +may arise from a small degree of human reliance on oneself, and +such, in particular, is the happy star of this trade of writing, +that it should combine pleasure and profit to both parties, and +be at once agreeable, like fiddling, and useful, like good +preaching.</p> +<p>This is to speak of literature at its highest; and with the +four great elders who are still spared to our respect and +admiration, with Carlyle, Ruskin, Browning, and Tennyson before +us, it would be cowardly to consider it at first in any lesser +aspect. But while we cannot follow these athletes, while we +may none of us, perhaps, be very vigorous, very original, or very +wise, I still contend that, in the humblest sort of literary +work, we have it in our power either to do great harm or great +good. We may seek merely to please; we may seek, having no +higher gift, merely to gratify the idle nine days’ +curiosity of our contemporaries; or we may essay, however feebly, +to instruct. In each of these we shall have to deal with +that remarkable art of words which, because it is the dialect of +life, comes home so easily and powerfully to the minds of men; +and since that is so, we contribute, in each of these branches, +to build up the sum of sentiments and appreciations which goes by +the name of Public Opinion or Public Feeling. The total of +a nation’s reading, in these days of daily papers, greatly +modifies the total of the nation’s speech; and the speech +and reading, taken together, form the efficient educational +medium of youth. A good man or woman may keep a youth some +little while in clearer air; but the contemporary atmosphere is +all-powerful in the end on the average of mediocre +characters. The copious Corinthian baseness of the American +reporter or the Parisian <i>chroniquear</i>, both so lightly +readable, must exercise an incalculable influence for ill; they +touch upon all subjects, and on all with the same ungenerous +hand; they begin the consideration of all, in young and +unprepared minds, in an unworthy spirit; on all, they supply some +pungency for dull people to quote. The mere body of this +ugly matter overwhelms the rare utterances of good men; the +sneering, the selfish, and the cowardly are scattered in broad +sheets on every table, while the antidote, in small volumes, lies +unread upon the shelf. I have spoken of the American and +the French, not because they are so much baser, but so much more +readable, than the English; their evil is done more effectively, +in America for the masses, in French for the few that care to +read; but with us as with them, the duties of literature are +daily neglected, truth daily perverted and suppressed, and grave +subjects daily degraded in the treatment. The journalist is +not reckoned an important officer; yet judge of the good he might +do, the harm he does; judge of it by one instance only: that when +we find two journals on the reverse sides of politics each, on +the same day, openly garbling a piece of news for the interest of +its own party, we smile at the discovery (no discovery now!) as +over a good joke and pardonable stratagem. Lying so open is +scarce lying, it is true; but one of the things that we profess +to teach our young is a respect for truth; and I cannot think +this piece of education will be crowned with any great success, +so long as some of us practise and the rest openly approve of +public falsehood.</p> +<p>There are two duties incumbent upon any man who enters on the +business of writing: truth to the fact and a good spirit in the +treatment. In every department of literature, though so low +as hardly to deserve the name, truth to the fact is of importance +to the education and comfort of mankind, and so hard to preserve, +that the faithful trying to do so will lend some dignity to the +man who tries it. Our judgments are based upon two things: +first, upon the original preferences of our soul; but, second, +upon the mass of testimony to the nature of God, man, and the +universe which reaches us, in divers manners, from without. +For the most part these divers manners are reducible to one, all +that we learn of past times and much that we learn of our own +reaching us through the medium of books or papers, and even he +who cannot read learning from the same source at second-hand and +by the report of him who can. Thus the sum of the +contemporary knowledge or ignorance of good and evil is, in large +measure, the handiwork of those who write. Those who write +have to see that each man’s knowledge is, as near as they +can make it, answerable to the facts of life; that he shall not +suppose himself an angel or a monster; nor take this world for a +hell; nor be suffered to imagine that all rights are concentred +in his own caste or country, or all veracities in his own +parochial creed. Each man should learn what is within him, +that he may strive to mend; he must be taught what is without +him, that he may be kind to others. It can never be wrong +to tell him the truth; for, in his disputable state, weaving as +he goes his theory of life, steering himself, cheering or +reproving others, all facts are of the first importance to his +conduct; and even if a fact shall discourage or corrupt him, it +is still best that he should know it; for it is in this world as +it is, and not in a world made easy by educational suppressions, +that he must win his way to shame or glory. In one word, it +must always be foul to tell what is false; and it can never be +safe to suppress what is true. The very fact that you omit +may be the fact which somebody was wanting, for one man’s +meat is another man’s poison, and I have known a person who +was cheered by the perusal of <i>Candide</i>. Every fact is +a part of that great puzzle we must set together; and none that +comes directly in a writer’s path but has some nice +relations, unperceivable by him, to the totality and bearing of +the subject under hand. Yet there are certain classes of +fact eternally more necessary than others, and it is with these +that literature must first bestir itself. They are not hard +to distinguish, nature once more easily leading us; for the +necessary, because the efficacious, facts are those which are +most interesting to the natural mind of man. Those which +are coloured, picturesque, human, and rooted in morality, and +those, on the other hand, which are clear, indisputable, and a +part of science, are alone vital in importance, seizing by their +interest, or useful to communicate. So far as the writer +merely narrates, he should principally tell of these. He +should tell of the kind and wholesome and beautiful elements of +our life; he should tell unsparingly of the evil and sorrow of +the present, to move us with instances: he should tell of wise +and good people in the past, to excite us by example; and of +these he should tell soberly and truthfully, not glossing faults, +that we may neither grow discouraged with ourselves nor exacting +to our neighbours. So the body of contemporary literature, +ephemeral and feeble in itself, touches in the minds of men the +springs of thought and kindness, and supports them (for those who +will go at all are easily supported) on their way to what is true +and right. And if, in any degree, it does so now, how much +more might it do so if the writers chose! There is not a +life in all the records of the past but, properly studied, might +lend a hint and a help to some contemporary. There is not a +juncture in to-day’s affairs but some useful word may yet +be said of it. Even the reporter has an office, and, with +clear eyes and honest language, may unveil injustices and point +the way to progress. And for a last word: in all narration +there is only one way to be clever, and that is to be +exact. To be vivid is a secondary quality which must +presuppose the first; for vividly to convey a wrong impression is +only to make failure conspicuous.</p> +<p>But a fact may be viewed on many sides; it may be chronicled +with rage, tears, laughter, indifference, or admiration, and by +each of these the story will be transformed to something +else. The newspapers that told of the return of our +representatives from Berlin, even if they had not differed as to +the facts, would have sufficiently differed by their spirits; so +that the one description would have been a second ovation, and +the other a prolonged insult. The subject makes but a +trifling part of any piece of literature, and the view of the +writer is itself a fact more important because less disputable +than the others. Now this spirit in which a subject is +regarded, important in all kinds of literary work, becomes +all-important in works of fiction, meditation, or rhapsody; for +there it not only colours but itself chooses the facts; not only +modifies but shapes the work. And hence, over the far +larger proportion of the field of literature, the health or +disease of the writer’s mind or momentary humour forms not +only the leading feature of his work, but is, at bottom, the only +thing he can communicate to others. In all works of art, +widely speaking, it is first of all the author’s attitude +that is narrated, though in the attitude there be implied a whole +experience and a theory of life. An author who has begged +the question and reposes in some narrow faith cannot, if he +would, express the whole or even many of the sides of this +various existence; for, his own life being maim, some of them are +not admitted in his theory, and were only dimly and unwillingly +recognised in his experience. Hence the smallness, the +triteness, and the inhumanity in works of merely sectarian +religion; and hence we find equal although unsimilar limitation +in works inspired by the spirit of the flesh or the despicable +taste for high society. So that the first duty of any man +who is to write is intellectual. Designedly or not, he has +so far set himself up for a leader of the minds of men; and he +must see that his own mind is kept supple, charitable, and +bright. Everything but prejudice should find a voice +through him; he should see the good in all things; where he has +even a fear that he does not wholly understand, there he should +be wholly silent; and he should recognise from the first that he +has only one tool in his workshop, and that tool is sympathy. <a +name="citation64"></a><a href="#footnote64" +class="citation">[64]</a></p> +<p>The second duty, far harder to define, is moral. There +are a thousand different humours in the mind, and about each of +them, when it is uppermost, some literature tends to be +deposited. Is this to be allowed? Not certainly in +every case, and yet perhaps in more than rigourists would +fancy. It were to be desired that all literary work, and +chiefly works of art, issued from sound, human, healthy, and +potent impulses, whether grave or laughing, humorous, romantic, +or religious.</p> +<p>Yet it cannot be denied that some valuable books are partially +insane; some, mostly religious, partially inhuman; and very many +tainted with morbidity and impotence. We do not loathe a +masterpiece although we gird against its blemishes. We are +not, above all, to look for faults, but merits. There is no +book perfect, even in design; but there are many that will +delight, improve, or encourage the reader. On the one hand, +the Hebrew psalms are the only religious poetry on earth; yet +they contain sallies that savour rankly of the man of +blood. On the other hand, Alfred de Musset had a poisoned +and a contorted nature; I am only quoting that generous and +frivolous giant, old Dumas, when I accuse him of a bad heart; +yet, when the impulse under which he wrote was purely creative, +he could give us works like <i>Carmosine</i> or <i>Fantasio</i>, +in which the last note of the romantic comedy seems to have been +found again to touch and please us. When Flaubert wrote +<i>Madame Bovary</i>, I believe he thought chiefly of a somewhat +morbid realism; and behold! the book turned in his hands into a +masterpiece of appalling morality. But the truth is, when +books are conceived under a great stress, with a soul of ninefold +power, nine times heated and electrified by effort, the +conditions of our being are seized with such an ample grasp, +that, even should the main design be trivial or base, some truth +and beauty cannot fail to be expressed. Out of the strong +comes forth sweetness; but an ill thing poorly done is an ill +thing top and bottom. And so this can be no encouragement +to knock-kneed, feeble-wristed scribes, who must take their +business conscientiously or be ashamed to practise it.</p> +<p>Man is imperfect; yet, in his literature, he must express +himself and his own views and preferences; for to do anything +else is to do a far more perilous thing than to risk being +immoral: it is to be sure of being untrue. To ape a +sentiment, even a good one, is to travesty a sentiment; that will +not be helpful. To conceal a sentiment, if you are sure you +hold it, is to take a liberty with truth. There is probably +no point of view possible to a sane man but contains some truth +and, in the true connection, might be profitable to the +race. I am not afraid of the truth, if any one could tell +it me, but I am afraid of parts of it impertinently +uttered. There is a time to dance and a time to mourn; to +be harsh as well as to be sentimental; to be ascetic as well as +to glorify the appetites; and if a man were to combine all these +extremes into his work, each in its place and proportion, that +work would be the world’s masterpiece of morality as well +as of art. Partiality is immorality; for any book is wrong +that gives a misleading picture of the world and life. The +trouble is that the weakling must be partial; the work of one +proving dank and depressing; of another, cheap and vulgar; of a +third, epileptically sensual; of a fourth, sourly ascetic. +In literature as in conduct, you can never hope to do exactly +right. All you can do is to make as sure as possible; and +for that there is but one rule. Nothing should be done in a +hurry that can be done slowly. It is no use to write a book +and put it by for nine or even ninety years; for in the writing +you will have partly convinced yourself; the delay must precede +any beginning; and if you meditate a work of art, you should +first long roll the subject under the tongue to make sure you +like the flavour, before you brew a volume that shall taste of it +from end to end; or if you propose to enter on the field of +controversy, you should first have thought upon the question +under all conditions, in health as well as in sickness, in sorrow +as well as in joy. It is this nearness of examination +necessary for any true and kind writing, that makes the practice +of the art a prolonged and noble education for the writer.</p> +<p>There is plenty to do, plenty to say, or to say over again, in +the meantime. Any literary work which conveys faithful +facts or pleasing impressions is a service to the public. +It is even a service to be thankfully proud of having +rendered. The slightest novels are a blessing to those in +distress, not chloroform itself a greater. Our fine old +sea-captain’s life was justified when Carlyle soothed his +mind with <i>The King’s Own</i> or <i>Newton +Forster</i>. To please is to serve; and so far from its +being difficult to instruct while you amuse, it is difficult to +do the one thoroughly without the other. Some part of the +writer or his life will crop out in even a vapid book; and to +read a novel that was conceived with any force is to multiply +experience and to exercise the sympathies.</p> +<p>Every article, every piece of verse, every essay, every +<i>entre-filet</i>, is destined to pass, however swiftly, through +the minds of some portion of the public, and to colour, however +transiently, their thoughts. When any subject falls to be +discussed, some scribbler on a paper has the invaluable +opportunity of beginning its discussion in a dignified and human +spirit; and if there were enough who did so in our public press, +neither the public nor the Parliament would find it in their +minds to drop to meaner thoughts. The writer has the chance +to stumble, by the way, on something pleasing, something +interesting, something encouraging, were it only to a single +reader. He will be unfortunate, indeed, if he suit no +one. He has the chance, besides, to stumble on something +that a dull person shall be able to comprehend; and for a dull +person to have read anything and, for that once, comprehended it, +makes a marking epoch in his education.</p> +<p>Here, then, is work worth doing and worth trying to do +well. And so, if I were minded to welcome any great +accession to our trade, it should not be from any reason of a +higher wage, but because it was a trade which was useful in a +very great and in a very high degree; which every honest +tradesman could make more serviceable to mankind in his single +strength; which was difficult to do well and possible to do +better every year; which called for scrupulous thought on the +part of all who practised it, and hence became a perpetual +education to their nobler natures; and which, pay it as you +please, in the large majority of the best cases will still be +underpaid. For surely, at this time of day in the +nineteenth century, there is nothing that an honest man should +fear more timorously than getting and spending more than he +deserves.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>BOOKS +WHICH HAVE INFLUENCED ME <a name="citation75a"></a><a +href="#footnote75a" class="citation">[75a]</a></h2> +<p>The Editor <a name="citation75b"></a><a href="#footnote75b" +class="citation">[75b]</a> has somewhat insidiously laid a trap +for his correspondents, the question put appearing at first so +innocent, truly cutting so deep. It is not, indeed, until +after some reconnaissance and review that the writer awakes to +find himself engaged upon something in the nature of +autobiography, or, perhaps worse, upon a chapter in the life of +that little, beautiful brother whom we once all had, and whom we +have all lost and mourned, the man we ought to have been, the man +we hoped to be. But when word has been passed (even to an +editor), it should, if possible, be kept; and if sometimes I am +wise and say too little, and sometimes weak and say too much, the +blame must lie at the door of the person who entrapped me.</p> +<p>The most influential books, and the truest in their influence, +are works of fiction. They do not pin the reader to a +dogma, which he must afterwards discover to be inexact; they do +not teach him a lesson, which he must afterwards unlearn. +They repeat, they rearrange, they clarify the lessons of life; +they disengage us from ourselves, they constrain us to the +acquaintance of others; and they show us the web of experience, +not as we can see it for ourselves, but with a singular +change—that monstrous, consuming <i>ego</i> of ours being, +for the nonce, struck out. To be so, they must be +reasonably true to the human comedy; and any work that is so +serves the turn of instruction. But the course of our +education is answered best by those poems and romances where we +breathe a magnanimous atmosphere of thought and meet generous and +pious characters. Shakespeare has served me best. Few +living friends have had upon me an influence so strong for good +as Hamlet or Rosalind. The last character, already well +beloved in the reading, I had the good fortune to see, I must +think, in an impressionable hour, played by Mrs. Scott +Siddons. Nothing has ever more moved, more delighted, more +refreshed me; nor has the influence quite passed away. +Kent’s brief speech over the dying Lear had a great effect +upon my mind, and was the burthen of my reflections for long, so +profoundly, so touchingly generous did it appear in sense, so +overpowering in expression. Perhaps my dearest and best +friend outside of Shakespeare is D’Artagnan—the +elderly D’Artagnan of the <i>Vicomte de +Bragelonne</i>. I know not a more human soul, nor, in his +way, a finer; I shall be very sorry for the man who is so much of +a pedant in morals that he cannot learn from the Captain of +Musketeers. Lastly, I must name the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i>, a book that breathes of every beautiful and +valuable emotion.</p> +<p>But of works of art little can be said; their influence is +profound and silent, like the influence of nature; they mould by +contact; we drink them up like water, and are bettered, yet know +not how. It is in books more specifically didactic that we +can follow out the effect, and distinguish and weigh and +compare. A book which has been very influential upon me +fell early into my hands, and so may stand first, though I think +its influence was only sensible later on, and perhaps still keeps +growing, for it is a book not easily outlived: the <i>Essais</i> +of Montaigne. That temperate and genial picture of life is +a great gift to place in the hands of persons of to-day; they +will find in these smiling pages a magazine of heroism and +wisdom, all of an antique strain; they will have their +‘linen decencies’ and excited orthodoxies fluttered, +and will (if they have any gift of reading) perceive that these +have not been fluttered without some excuse and ground of reason; +and (again if they have any gift of reading) they will end by +seeing that this old gentleman was in a dozen ways a finer +fellow, and held in a dozen ways a nobler view of life, than they +or their contemporaries.</p> +<p>The next book, in order of time, to influence me, was the New +Testament, and in particular the Gospel according to St. +Matthew. I believe it would startle and move any one if +they could make a certain effort of imagination and read it +freshly like a book, not droningly and dully like a portion of +the Bible. Any one would then be able to see in it those +truths which we are all courteously supposed to know and all +modestly refrain from applying. But upon this subject it is +perhaps better to be silent.</p> +<p>I come next to Whitman’s <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, a book +of singular service, a book which tumbled the world upside down +for me, blew into space a thousand cobwebs of genteel and ethical +illusion, and, having thus shaken my tabernacle of lies, set me +back again upon a strong foundation of all the original and manly +virtues. But it is, once more, only a book for those who +have the gift of reading. I will be very frank—I +believe it is so with all good books except, perhaps, +fiction. The average man lives, and must live, so wholly in +convention, that gunpowder charges of the truth are more apt to +discompose than to invigorate his creed. Either he cries +out upon blasphemy and indecency, and crouches the closer round +that little idol of part-truths and part-conveniences which is +the contemporary deity, or he is convinced by what is new, +forgets what is old, and becomes truly blasphemous and indecent +himself. New truth is only useful to supplement the old; +rough truth is only wanted to expand, not to destroy, our civil +and often elegant conventions. He who cannot judge had +better stick to fiction and the daily papers. There he will +get little harm, and, in the first at least, some good.</p> +<p>Close upon the back of my discovery of Whitman, I came under +the influence of Herbert Spencer. No more persuasive rabbi +exists, and few better. How much of his vast structure will +bear the touch of time, how much is clay and how much brass, it +were too curious to inquire. But his words, if dry, are +always manly and honest; there dwells in his pages a spirit of +highly abstract joy, plucked naked like an algebraic symbol but +still joyful; and the reader will find there a <i>caput +mortuum</i> of piety, with little indeed of its loveliness, but +with most of its essentials; and these two qualities make him a +wholesome, as his intellectual vigour makes him a bracing, +writer. I should be much of a hound if I lost my gratitude +to Herbert Spencer.</p> +<p><i>Goethe’s Life</i>, by Lewes, had a great importance +for me when it first fell into my hands—a strange instance +of the partiality of man’s good and man’s evil. +I know no one whom I less admire than Goethe; he seems a very +epitome of the sins of genius, breaking open the doors of private +life, and wantonly wounding friends, in that crowning offence of +<i>Werther</i>, and in his own character a mere pen-and-ink +Napoleon, conscious of the rights and duties of superior talents +as a Spanish inquisitor was conscious of the rights and duties of +his office. And yet in his fine devotion to his art, in his +honest and serviceable friendship for Schiller, what lessons are +contained! Biography, usually so false to its office, does +here for once perform for us some of the work of fiction, +reminding us, that is, of the truly mingled tissue of man’s +nature, and how huge faults and shining virtues cohabit and +persevere in the same character. History serves us well to +this effect, but in the originals, not in the pages of the +popular epitomiser, who is bound, by the very nature of his task, +to make us feel the difference of epochs instead of the essential +identity of man, and even in the originals only to those who can +recognise their own human virtues and defects in strange forms, +often inverted and under strange names, often interchanged. +Martial is a poet of no good repute, and it gives a man new +thoughts to read his works dispassionately, and find in this +unseemly jester’s serious passages the image of a kind, +wise, and self-respecting gentleman. It is customary, I +suppose, in reading Martial, to leave out these pleasant verses; +I never heard of them, at least, until I found them for myself; +and this partiality is one among a thousand things that help to +build up our distorted and hysterical conception of the great +Roman Empire.</p> +<p>This brings us by a natural transition to a very noble +book—the <i>Meditations</i> of Marcus Aurelius. The +dispassionate gravity, the noble forgetfulness of self, the +tenderness of others, that are there expressed and were practised +on so great a scale in the life of its writer, make this book a +book quite by itself. No one can read it and not be +moved. Yet it scarcely or rarely appeals to the +feelings—those very mobile, those not very trusty parts of +man. Its address lies further back: its lesson comes more +deeply home; when you have read, you carry away with you a memory +of the man himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, +looked into brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another +bond on you thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of +virtue.</p> +<p>Wordsworth should perhaps come next. Every one has been +influenced by Wordsworth, and it is hard to tell precisely +how. A certain innocence, a rugged austerity of joy, a +sight of the stars, ‘the silence that is in the lonely +hills,’ something of the cold thrill of dawn, cling to his +work and give it a particular address to what is best in +us. I do not know that you learn a lesson; you need +not—Mill did not—agree with any one of his beliefs; +and yet the spell is cast. Such are the best teachers; a +dogma learned is only a new error—the old one was perhaps +as good; but a spirit communicated is a perpetual +possession. These best teachers climb beyond teaching to +the plane of art; it is themselves, and what is best in +themselves, that they communicate.</p> +<p>I should never forgive myself if I forgot <i>The +Egoist</i>. It is art, if you like, but it belongs purely +to didactic art, and from all the novels I have read (and I have +read thousands) stands in a place by itself. Here is a +Nathan for the modern David; here is a book to send the blood +into men’s faces. Satire, the angry picture of human +faults, is not great art; we can all be angry with our neighbour; +what we want is to be shown, not his defects, of which we are too +conscious, but his merits, to which we are too blind. And +<i>The Egoist</i> is a satire; so much must be allowed; but it is +a satire of a singular quality, which tells you nothing of that +obvious mote, which is engaged from first to last with that +invisible beam. It is yourself that is hunted down; these +are your own faults that are dragged into the day and numbered, +with lingering relish, with cruel cunning and precision. A +young friend of Mr. Meredith’s (as I have the story) came +to him in an agony. ‘This is too bad of you,’ +he cried. ‘Willoughby is me!’ ‘No, +my dear fellow,’ said the author; ‘he is all of +us.’</p> +<p>I have read <i>The Egoist</i> five or six times myself, and I +mean to read it again; for I am like the young friend of the +anecdote—I think Willoughby an unmanly but a very +serviceable exposure of myself.</p> +<p>I suppose, when I am done, I shall find that I have forgotten +much that was most influential, as I see already I have forgotten +Thoreau, and Hazlitt, whose paper ‘On the Spirit of +Obligations’ was a turning-point in my life, and Penn, +whose little book of aphorisms had a brief but strong effect on +me, and Mitford’s <i>Tales of Old Japan</i>, wherein I +learned for the first time the proper attitude of any rational +man to his country’s laws—a secret found, and kept, +in the Asiatic islands. That I should commemorate all is +more than I can hope or the Editor could ask. It will be +more to the point, after having said so much upon improving +books, to say a word or two about the improvable reader. +The gift of reading, as I have called it, is not very common, nor +very generally understood. It consists, first of all, in a +vast intellectual endowment—a free grace, I find I must +call it—by which a man rises to understand that he is not +punctually right, nor those from whom he differs absolutely +wrong. He may hold dogmas; he may hold them passionately; +and he may know that others hold them but coldly, or hold them +differently, or hold them not at all. Well, if he has the +gift of reading, these others will be full of meat for him. +They will see the other side of propositions and the other side +of virtues. He need not change his dogma for that, but he +may change his reading of that dogma, and he must supplement and +correct his deductions from it. A human truth, which is +always very much a lie, hides as much of life as it +displays. It is men who hold another truth, or, as it seems +to us, perhaps, a dangerous lie, who can extend our restricted +field of knowledge, and rouse our drowsy consciences. +Something that seems quite new, or that seems insolently false or +very dangerous, is the test of a reader. If he tries to see +what it means, what truth excuses it, he has the gift, and let +him read. If he is merely hurt, or offended, or exclaims +upon his author’s folly, he had better take to the daily +papers; he will never be a reader.</p> +<p>And here, with the aptest illustrative force, after I have +laid down my part-truth, I must step in with its opposite. +For, after all, we are vessels of a very limited content. +Not all men can read all books; it is only in a chosen few that +any man will find his appointed food; and the fittest lessons are +the most palatable, and make themselves welcome to the +mind. A writer learns this early, and it is his chief +support; he goes on unafraid, laying down the law; and he is sure +at heart that most of what he says is demonstrably false, and +much of a mingled strain, and some hurtful, and very little good +for service; but he is sure besides that when his words fall into +the hands of any genuine reader, they will be weighed and +winnowed, and only that which suits will be assimilated; and when +they fall into the hands of one who cannot intelligently read, +they come there quite silent and inarticulate, falling upon deaf +ears, and his secret is kept as if he had not written.</p> +<h2><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>A NOTE +ON REALISM <a name="citation93"></a><a href="#footnote93" +class="citation">[93]</a></h2> +<p>Style is the invariable mark of any master; and for the +student who does not aspire so high as to be numbered with the +giants, it is still the one quality in which he may improve +himself at will. Passion, wisdom, creative force, the power +of mystery or colour, are allotted in the hour of birth, and can +be neither learned nor simulated. But the just and +dexterous use of what qualities we have, the proportion of one +part to another and to the whole, the elision of the useless, the +accentuation of the important, and the preservation of a uniform +character from end to end—these, which taken together +constitute technical perfection, are to some degree within the +reach of industry and intellectual courage. What to put in +and what to leave out; whether some particular fact be +organically necessary or purely ornamental; whether, if it be +purely ornamental, it may not weaken or obscure the general +design; and finally, whether, if we decide to use it, we should +do so grossly and notably, or in some conventional disguise: are +questions of plastic style continually rearising. And the +sphinx that patrols the highways of executive art has no more +unanswerable riddle to propound.</p> +<p>In literature (from which I must draw my instances) the great +change of the past century has been effected by the admission of +detail. It was inaugurated by the romantic Scott; and at +length, by the semi-romantic Balzac and his more or less wholly +unromantic followers, bound like a duty on the novelist. +For some time it signified and expressed a more ample +contemplation of the conditions of man’s life; but it has +recently (at least in France) fallen into a merely technical and +decorative stage, which it is, perhaps, still too harsh to call +survival. With a movement of alarm, the wiser or more timid +begin to fall a little back from these extremities; they begin to +aspire after a more naked, narrative articulation; after the +succinct, the dignified, and the poetic; and as a means to this, +after a general lightening of this baggage of detail. After +Scott we beheld the starveling story—once, in the hands of +Voltaire, as abstract as a parable—begin to be pampered +upon facts. The introduction of these details developed a +particular ability of hand; and that ability, childishly +indulged, has led to the works that now amaze us on a railway +journey. A man of the unquestionable force of M. Zola +spends himself on technical successes. To afford a popular +flavour and attract the mob, he adds a steady current of what I +may be allowed to call the rancid. That is exciting to the +moralist; but what more particularly interests the artist is this +tendency of the extreme of detail, when followed as a principle, +to degenerate into mere <i>feux-de-joie</i> of literary +tricking. The other day even M. Daudet was to be heard +babbling of audible colours and visible sounds.</p> +<p>This odd suicide of one branch of the realists may serve to +remind us of the fact which underlies a very dusty conflict of +the critics. All representative art, which can be said to +live, is both realistic and ideal; and the realism about which we +quarrel is a matter purely of externals. It is no especial +cultus of nature and veracity, but a mere whim of veering +fashion, that has made us turn our back upon the larger, more +various, and more romantic art of yore. A photographic +exactitude in dialogue is now the exclusive fashion; but even in +the ablest hands it tells us no more—I think it even tells +us less—than Molière, wielding his artificial +medium, has told to us and to all time of Alceste or Orgon, +Dorine or Chrysale. The historical novel is +forgotten. Yet truth to the conditions of man’s +nature and the conditions of man’s life, the truth of +literary art, is free of the ages. It may be told us in a +carpet comedy, in a novel of adventure, or a fairy tale. +The scene may be pitched in London, on the sea-coast of Bohemia, +or away on the mountains of Beulah. And by an odd and +luminous accident, if there is any page of literature calculated +to awake the envy of M. Zola, it must be that <i>Troilus and +Cressida</i> which Shakespeare, in a spasm of unmanly anger with +the world, grafted on the heroic story of the siege of Troy.</p> +<p>This question of realism, let it then be clearly understood, +regards not in the least degree the fundamental truth, but only +the technical method, of a work of art. Be as ideal or as +abstract as you please, you will be none the less veracious; but +if you be weak, you run the risk of being tedious and +inexpressive; and if you be very strong and honest, you may +chance upon a masterpiece.</p> +<p>A work of art is first cloudily conceived in the mind; during +the period of gestation it stands more clearly forward from these +swaddling mists, puts on expressive lineaments, and becomes at +length that most faultless, but also, alas! that incommunicable +product of the human mind, a perfected design. On the +approach to execution all is changed. The artist must now +step down, don his working clothes, and become the artisan. +He now resolutely commits his airy conception, his delicate +Ariel, to the touch of matter; he must decide, almost in a +breath, the scale, the style, the spirit, and the particularity +of execution of his whole design.</p> +<p>The engendering idea of some works is stylistic; a technical +preoccupation stands them instead of some robuster principle of +life. And with these the execution is but play; for the +stylistic problem is resolved beforehand, and all large +originality of treatment wilfully foregone. Such are the +verses, intricately designed, which we have learnt to admire, +with a certain smiling admiration, at the hands of Mr. Lang and +Mr. Dobson; such, too, are those canvases where dexterity or even +breadth of plastic style takes the place of pictorial nobility of +design. So, it may be remarked, it was easier to begin to +write <i>Esmond</i> than <i>Vanity Fair</i>, since, in the first, +the style was dictated by the nature of the plan; and Thackeray, +a man probably of some indolence of mind, enjoyed and got good +profit of this economy of effort. But the case is +exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been +conceived from within outwards, and generously nourished from the +author’s mind, the moment in which he begins to execute is +one of extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of +indifferent energy and an imperfect devotion to their own ideal +make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having formed a +style, adhere to it through life. But those of a higher +order cannot rest content with a process which, as they continue +to employ it, must infallibly degenerate towards the academic and +the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work in which they embark is +the signal for a fresh engagement of the whole forces of their +mind; and the changing views which accompany the growth of their +experience are marked by still more sweeping alterations in the +manner of their art. So that criticism loves to dwell upon +and distinguish the varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, +or a Beethoven.</p> +<p>It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive moment +when execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a less degree, +that the ideal and the real do indeed, like good and evil angels, +contend for the direction of the work. Marble, paint, and +language, the pen, the needle, and the brush, all have their +grossnesses, their ineffable impotences, their hours, if I may so +express myself, of insubordination. It is the work and it +is a great part of the delight of any artist to contend with +these unruly tools, and now by brute energy, now by witty +expedient, to drive and coax them to effect his will. Given +these means, so laughably inadequate, and given the interest, the +intensity, and the multiplicity of the actual sensation whose +effect he is to render with their aid, the artist has one main +and necessary resource which he must, in every case and upon any +theory, employ. He must, that is, suppress much and omit +more. He must omit what is tedious or irrelevant, and +suppress what is tedious and necessary. But such facts as, +in regard to the main design, subserve a variety of purposes, he +will perforce and eagerly retain. And it is the mark of the +very highest order of creative art to be woven exclusively of +such. There, any fact that is registered is contrived a +double or a treble debt to pay, and is at once an ornament in its +place, and a pillar in the main design. Nothing would find +room in such a picture that did not serve, at once, to complete +the composition, to accentuate the scheme of colour, to +distinguish the planes of distance, and to strike the note of the +selected sentiment; nothing would be allowed in such a story that +did not, at the same time, expedite the progress of the fable, +build up the characters, and strike home the moral or the +philosophical design. But this is unattainable. As a +rule, so far from building the fabric of our works exclusively +with these, we are thrown into a rapture if we think we can +muster a dozen or a score of them, to be the plums of our +confection. And hence, in order that the canvas may be +filled or the story proceed from point to point, other details +must be admitted. They must be admitted, alas! upon a +doubtful title; many without marriage robes. Thus any work +of art, as it proceeds towards completion, too often—I had +almost written always—loses in force and poignancy of main +design. Our little air is swamped and dwarfed among hardly +relevant orchestration; our little passionate story drowns in a +deep sea of descriptive eloquence or slipshod talk.</p> +<p>But again, we are rather more tempted to admit those +particulars which we know we can describe; and hence those most +of all which, having been described very often, have grown to be +conventionally treated in the practice of our art. These we +choose, as the mason chooses the acanthus to adorn his capital, +because they come naturally to the accustomed hand. The old +stock incidents and accessories, tricks of workmanship and +schemes of composition (all being admirably good, or they would +long have been forgotten) haunt and tempt our fancy, offer us +ready-made but not perfectly appropriate solutions for any +problem that arises, and wean us from the study of nature and the +uncompromising practice of art. To struggle, to face +nature, to find fresh solutions, and give expression to facts +which have not yet been adequately or not yet elegantly +expressed, is to run a little upon the danger of extreme +self-love. Difficulty sets a high price upon achievement; +and the artist may easily fall into the error of the French +naturalists, and consider any fact as welcome to admission if it +be the ground of brilliant handiwork; or, again, into the error +of the modern landscape-painter, who is apt to think that +difficulty overcome and science well displayed can take the place +of what is, after all, the one excuse and breath of +art—charm. A little further, and he will regard charm +in the light of an unworthy sacrifice to prettiness, and the +omission of a tedious passage as an infidelity to art.</p> +<p>We have now the matter of this difference before us. The +idealist, his eye singly fixed upon the greater outlines, loves +rather to fill up the interval with detail of the conventional +order, briefly touched, soberly suppressed in tone, courting +neglect. But the realist, with a fine intemperance, will +not suffer the presence of anything so dead as a convention; he +shall have all fiery, all hot-pressed from nature, all +charactered and notable, seizing the eye. The style that +befits either of these extremes, once chosen, brings with it its +necessary disabilities and dangers. The immediate danger of +the realist is to sacrifice the beauty and significance of the +whole to local dexterity, or, in the insane pursuit of +completion, to immolate his readers under facts; but he comes in +the last resort, and as his energy declines, to discard all +design, abjure all choice, and, with scientific thoroughness, +steadily to communicate matter which is not worth learning. +The danger of the idealist is, of course, to become merely null +and lose all grip of fact, particularity, or passion.</p> +<p>We talk of bad and good. Everything, indeed, is good +which is conceived with honesty and executed with communicative +ardour. But though on neither side is dogmatism fitting, +and though in every case the artist must decide for himself, and +decide afresh and yet afresh for each succeeding work and new +creation; yet one thing may be generally said, that we of the +last quarter of the nineteenth century, breathing as we do the +intellectual atmosphere of our age, are more apt to err upon the +side of realism than to sin in quest of the ideal. Upon +that theory it may be well to watch and correct our own +decisions, always holding back the hand from the least appearance +of irrelevant dexterity, and resolutely fixed to begin no work +that is not philosophical, passionate, dignified, happily +mirthful, or, at the last and least, romantic in design.</p> +<h2><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>MY +FIRST BOOK: ‘TREASURE ISLAND’ <a +name="citation111"></a><a href="#footnote111" +class="citation">[111]</a></h2> +<p>It was far indeed from being my first book, for I am not a +novelist alone. But I am well aware that my paymaster, the +Great Public, regards what else I have written with indifference, +if not aversion; if it call upon me at all, it calls on me in the +familiar and indelible character; and when I am asked to talk of +my first book, no question in the world but what is meant is my +first novel.</p> +<p>Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a +novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with +various manias: from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a +plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was +able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers. +Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of +‘Rathillet,’ ‘The Pentland Rising,’ <a +name="citation112"></a><a href="#footnote112" +class="citation">[112]</a> ‘The King’s Pardon’ +(otherwise ‘Park Whitehead’), ‘Edward +Daven,’ ‘A Country Dance,’ and ‘A +Vendetta in the West’; and it is consolatory to remember +that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received again +into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated +efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they were +desisted from; and even so they cover a long vista of +years. ‘Rathillet’ was attempted before +fifteen, ‘The Vendetta’ at twenty-nine, and the +succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was +thirty-one. By that time, I had written little books and +little essays and short stories; and had got patted on the back +and paid for them—though not enough to live upon. I +had quite a reputation, I was the successful man; I passed my +days in toil, the futility of which would sometimes make my cheek +to burn—that I should spend a man’s energy upon this +business, and yet could not earn a livelihood: and still there +shone ahead of me an unattained ideal: although I had attempted +the thing with vigour not less than ten or twelve times, I had +not yet written a novel. All—all my pretty +ones—had gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably +like a schoolboy’s watch. I might be compared to a +cricketer of many years’ standing who should never have +made a run. Anybody can write a short story—a bad +one, I mean—who has industry and paper and time enough; but +not every one may hope to write even a bad novel. It is the +length that kills.</p> +<p>The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, +spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes +haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has +certain rights; instinct—the instinct of +self-preservation—forbids that any man (cheered and +supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should +endure the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period +to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope +to feed upon. The beginner must have a slant of wind, a +lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those hours when +the words come and the phrases balance of +themselves—<i>even to begin</i>. And having begun, +what a dread looking forward is that until the book shall be +accomplished! For so long a time, the slant is to continue +unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you must +keep at command the same quality of style: for so long a time +your puppets are to be always vital, always consistent, always +vigorous! I remember I used to look, in those days, upon +every three-volume novel with a sort of veneration, as a +feat—not possibly of literature—but at least of +physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax.</p> +<p>In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother at +Kinnaird, above Pitlochry. Then I walked on the red moors +and by the side of the golden burn; the rude, pure air of our +mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire us, and my wife and I +projected a joint volume of logic stories, for which she wrote +‘The Shadow on the Bed,’ and I turned out +‘Thrawn Janet,’ and a first draft of ‘The Merry +Men.’ I love my native air, but it does not love me; +and the end of this delightful period was a cold, a fly-blister, +and a migration by Strathairdle and Glenshee to the Castleton of +Braemar.</p> +<p>There it blew a good deal and rained in a proportion; my +native air was more unkind than man’s ingratitude, and I +must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in +a house lugubriously known as the Late Miss McGregor’s +Cottage. And now admire the finger of predestination. +There was a schoolboy in the Late Miss McGregor’s Cottage, +home from the holidays, and much in want of ‘something +craggy to break his mind upon.’ He had no thought of +literature; it was the art of Raphael that received his fleeting +suffrages; and with the aid of pen and ink and a shilling box of +water colours, he had soon turned one of the rooms into a picture +gallery. My more immediate duty towards the gallery was to +be showman; but I would sometimes unbend a little, join the +artist (so to speak) at the easel, and pass the afternoon with +him in a generous emulation, making coloured drawings. On +one of these occasions, I made the map of an island; it was +elaborately and (I thought) beautifully coloured; the shape of it +took my fancy beyond expression; it contained harbours that +pleased me like sonnets; and with the unconsciousness of the +predestined, I ticketed my performance ‘Treasure +Island.’ I am told there are people who do not care +for maps, and find it hard to believe. The names, the +shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the +prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill +and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the +ferries, perhaps the <i>Standing Stone</i> or the <i>Druidic +Circle</i> on the heath; here is an inexhaustible fund of +interest for any man with eyes to see or twopence-worth of +imagination to understand with! No child but must remember +laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal +forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies.</p> +<p>Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of +‘Treasure Island,’ the future character of the book +began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods; and their +brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected +quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting +treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. +The next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was writing +out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and the +thing gone no further! But there seemed elements of success +about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys; no +need of psychology or fine writing; and I had a boy at hand to be +a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was unable to +handle a brig (which the <i>Hispaniola</i> should have been), but +I thought I could make shift to sail her as a schooner without +public shame. And then I had an idea for John Silver from +which I promised myself funds of entertainment; to take an +admired friend of mine (whom the reader very likely knows and +admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer +qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with +nothing but his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his +magnificent geniality, and to try to express these in terms of +the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such psychical surgery is, +I think, a common way of ‘making character’; perhaps +it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint +figure that spoke a hundred words with us yesterday by the +wayside; but do we know him? Our friend, with his infinite +variety and flexibility, we know—but can we put him +in? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and imaginary +qualities, possibly all wrong; from the second, knife in hand, we +must cut away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature, +but the trunk and the few branches that remain we may at least be +fairly sure of.</p> +<p>On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, +and the rain drumming on the window, I began <i>The Sea Cook</i>, +for that was the original title. I have begun (and +finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to have +sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is not to +be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. I +am now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once +belonged to Robinson Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is +conveyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are +trifles and details; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of +skeletons or make a corner in talking birds. The stockade, +I am told, is from <i>Masterman Ready</i>. It may be, I +care not a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the +poet’s saying: departing, they had left behind them +Footprints on the sands of time, Footprints which perhaps +another—and I was the other! It is my debt to +Washington Irving that exercises my conscience, and justly so, +for I believe plagiarism was rarely carried farther. I +chanced to pick up the <i>Tales of a Traveller</i> some years ago +with a view to an anthology of prose narrative, and the book flew +up and struck me: Billy Bones, his chest, the company in the +parlour, the whole inner spirit, and a good deal of the material +detail of my first chapters—all were there, all were the +property of Washington Irving. But I had no guess of it +then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed the +spring-tides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration; nor yet day by +day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning’s work to the +family. It seemed to me original as sin; it seemed to +belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy, I +found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at +once with all the romance and childishness of his original +nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he +put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside +inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the +era of steam. He never finished one of these romances; the +lucky man did not require to! But in <i>Treasure Island</i> +he recognised something kindred to his own imagination; it was +<i>his</i> kind of picturesque; and he not only heard with +delight the daily chapter, but set himself acting to +collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones’s +chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a +day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of +its contents, which I exactly followed; and the name of +‘Flint’s old ship’—the +<i>Walrus</i>—was given at his particular request. +And now who should come dropping in, <i>ex machinâ</i>, but +Dr. Japp, like the disguised prince who is to bring down the +curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act; for he carried +in his pocket, not a horn or a talisman, but a +publisher—had, in fact, been charged by my old friend, Mr. +Henderson, to unearth new writers for <i>Young Folks</i>. +Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the +extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the mutilated members +of <i>The Sea Cook</i>; at the same time, we would by no means +stop our readings; and accordingly the tale was begun again at +the beginning, and solemnly re-delivered for the benefit of Dr. +Japp. From that moment on, I have thought highly of his +critical faculty; for when he left us, he carried away the +manuscript in his portmanteau.</p> +<p>Here, then, was everything to keep me up, sympathy, help, and +now a positive engagement. I had chosen besides a very easy +style. Compare it with the almost contemporary ‘Merry +Men’, one reader may prefer the one style, one the +other—’tis an affair of character, perhaps of mood; +but no expert can fail to see that the one is much more +difficult, and the other much easier to maintain. It seems +as though a full-grown experienced man of letters might engage to +turn out <i>Treasure Island</i> at so many pages a day, and keep +his pipe alight. But alas! this was not my case. +Fifteen days I stuck to it, and turned out fifteen chapters; and +then, in the early paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously +lost hold. My mouth was empty; there was not one word of +<i>Treasure Island</i> in my bosom; and here were the proofs of +the beginning already waiting me at the ‘Hand and +Spear’! Then I corrected them, living for the most +part alone, walking on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn +mornings, a good deal pleased with what I had done, and more +appalled than I can depict to you in words at what remained for +me to do. I was thirty-one; I was the head of a family; I +had lost my health; I had never yet paid my way, never yet made +£200 a year; my father had quite recently bought back and +cancelled a book that was judged a failure: was this to be +another and last fiasco? I was indeed very close on +despair; but I shut my mouth hard, and during the journey to +Davos, where I was to pass the winter, had the resolution to +think of other things and bury myself in the novels of M. de +Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one +morning to the unfinished tale; and behold! it flowed from me +like small talk; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and +again at a rate of a chapter a day, I finished <i>Treasure +Island</i>. It had to be transcribed almost exactly; my +wife was ill; the schoolboy remained alone of the faithful; and +John Addington Symonds (to whom I timidly mentioned what I was +engaged on) looked on me askance. He was at that time very +eager I should write on the characters of Theophrastus: so far +out may be the judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to +be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for sympathy on a +boy’s story. He was large-minded; ‘a full +man,’ if there was one; but the very name of my enterprise +would suggest to him only capitulations of sincerity and +solecisms of style. Well! he was not far wrong.</p> +<p><i>Treasure Island</i>—it was Mr. Henderson who deleted +the first title, <i>The Sea Cook</i>—appeared duly in the +story paper, where it figured in the ignoble midst, without +woodcuts, and attracted not the least attention. I did not +care. I liked the tale myself, for much the same reason as +my father liked the beginning: it was my kind of +picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver, also; +and to this day rather admire that smooth and formidable +adventurer. What was infinitely more exhilarating, I had +passed a landmark; I had finished a tale, and written ‘The +End’ upon my manuscript, as I had not done since ‘The +Pentland Rising,’ when I was a boy of sixteen not yet at +college. In truth it was so by a set of lucky accidents; +had not Dr. Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from +me with singular case, it must have been laid aside like its +predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the +fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better +so. I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have +given much pleasure, and it brought (or, was the means of +bringing) fire and food and wine to a deserving family in which I +took an interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own.</p> +<p>But the adventures of <i>Treasure Island</i> are not yet quite +at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map +was the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called +an islet ‘Skeleton Island,’ not knowing what I meant, +seeking only for the immediate picturesque, and it was to justify +this name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole +Flint’s pointer. And in the same way, it was because +I had made two harbours that the <i>Hispaniola</i> was sent on +her wanderings with Israel Hands. The time came when it was +decided to republish, and I sent in my manuscript, and the map +along with it, to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they +were corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and +asked; was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. +It is one thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one +corner of it at a venture, and write up a story to the +measurements. It is quite another to have to examine a +whole book, make an inventory of all the allusions contained in +it, and with a pair of compasses, painfully design a map to suit +the data. I did it; and the map was drawn again in my +father’s office, with embellishments of blowing whales and +sailing ships, and my father himself brought into service a knack +he had of various writing, and elaborately <i>forged</i> the +signature of Captain Flint, and the sailing directions of Billy +Bones. But somehow it was never <i>Treasure Island</i> to +me.</p> +<p>I have said the map was the most of the plot. I might +almost say it was the whole. A few reminiscences of Poe, +Defoe, and Washington Irving, a copy of Johnson’s +<i>Buccaneers</i>, the name of the Dead Man’s Chest from +Kingsley’s <i>At Last</i>, some recollections of canoeing +on the high seas, and the map itself, with its infinite, eloquent +suggestion, made up the whole of my materials. It is, +perhaps, not often that a map figures so largely in a tale, yet +it is always important. The author must know his +countryside, whether real or imaginary, like his hand; the +distances, the points of the compass, the place of the +sun’s rising, the behaviour of the moon, should all be +beyond cavil. And how troublesome the moon is! I have +come to grief over the moon in <i>Prince Otto</i>, and so soon as +that was pointed out to me, adopted a precaution which I +recommend to other men—I never write now without an +almanack. With an almanack, and the map of the country, and +the plan of every house, either actually plotted on paper or +already and immediately apprehended in the mind, a man may hope +to avoid some of the grossest possible blunders. With the +map before him, he will scarce allow the sun to set in the east, +as it does in <i>The Antiquary</i>. With the almanack at +hand, he will scarce allow two horsemen, journeying on the most +urgent affair, to employ six days, from three of the Monday +morning till late in the Saturday night, upon a journey of, say, +ninety or a hundred miles, and before the week is out, and still +on the same nags, to cover fifty in one day, as may be read at +length in the inimitable novel of <i>Rob Roy</i>. And it is +certainly well, though far from necessary, to avoid such +‘croppers.’ But it is my contention—my +superstition, if you like—that who is faithful to his map, +and consults it, and draws from it his inspiration, daily and +hourly, gains positive support, and not mere negative immunity +from accident. The tale has a root there; it grows in that +soil; it has a spine of its own behind the words. Better if +the country be real, and he has walked every foot of it and knows +every milestone. But even with imaginary places, he will do +well in the beginning to provide a map; as he studies it, +relations will appear that he had not thought upon; he will +discover obvious, though unsuspected, short-cuts and footprints +for his messengers; and even when a map is not all the plot, as +it was in <i>Treasure Island</i>, it will be found to be a mine +of suggestion.</p> +<h2><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>THE +GENESIS OF ‘THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE’</h2> +<p>I was walking one night in the verandah of a small house in +which I lived, outside the hamlet of Saranac. It was +winter; the night was very dark; the air extraordinary clear and +cold, and sweet with the purity of forests. From a good way +below, the river was to be heard contending with ice and +boulders: a few lights appeared, scattered unevenly among the +darkness, but so far away as not to lessen the sense of +isolation. For the making of a story here were fine +conditions. I was besides moved with the spirit of +emulation, for I had just finished my third or fourth perusal of +<i>The Phantom Ship</i>. ‘Come,’ said I to my +engine, ‘let us make a tale, a story of many years and +countries, of the sea and the land, savagery and civilisation; a +story that shall have the same large features, and may be treated +in the same summary elliptic method as the book you have been +reading and admiring.’ I was here brought up with a +reflection exceedingly just in itself, but which, as the sequel +shows, I failed to profit by. I saw that Marryat, not less +than Homer, Milton, and Virgil, profited by the choice of a +familiar and legendary subject; so that he prepared his readers +on the very title-page; and this set me cudgelling my brains, if +by any chance I could hit upon some similar belief to be the +centre-piece of my own meditated fiction. In the course of +this vain search there cropped up in my memory a singular case of +a buried and resuscitated fakir, which I had been often told by +an uncle of mine, then lately dead, Inspector-General John +Balfour.</p> +<p>On such a fine frosty night, with no wind and the thermometer +below zero, the brain works with much vivacity; and the next +moment I had seen the circumstance transplanted from India and +the tropics to the Adirondack wilderness and the stringent cold +of the Canadian border. Here then, almost before I had +begun my story, I had two countries, two of the ends of the earth +involved: and thus though the notion of the resuscitated man +failed entirely on the score of general acceptation, or even (as +I have since found) acceptability, it fitted at once with my +design of a tale of many lands; and this decided me to consider +further of its possibilities. The man who should thus be +buried was the first question: a good man, whose return to life +would be hailed by the reader and the other characters with +gladness? This trenched upon the Christian picture, and was +dismissed. If the idea, then, was to be of any use at all +for me, I had to create a kind of evil genius to his friends and +family, take him through many disappearances, and make this final +restoration from the pit of death, in the icy American +wilderness, the last and the grimmest of the series. I need +not tell my brothers of the craft that I was now in the most +interesting moment of an author’s life; the hours that +followed that night upon the balcony, and the following nights +and days, whether walking abroad or lying wakeful in my bed, were +hours of unadulterated joy. My mother, who was then living +with me alone, perhaps had less enjoyment; for, in the absence of +my wife, who is my usual helper in these times of parturition, I +must spur her up at all seasons to hear me relate and try to +clarify my unformed fancies.</p> +<p>And while I was groping for the fable and the character +required, behold I found them lying ready and nine years old in +my memory. Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease +porridge in the pot, nine years old. Was there ever a more +complete justification of the rule of Horace? Here, +thinking of quite other things, I had stumbled on the solution, +or perhaps I should rather say (in stagewright phrase) the +Curtain or final Tableau of a story conceived long before on the +moors between Pitlochry and Strathardle, conceived in Highland +rain, in the blend of the smell of heather and bog-plants, and +with a mind full of the Athole correspondence and the memories of +the dumlicide Justice. So long ago, so far away it was, +that I had first evoked the faces and the mutual tragic situation +of the men of Durrisdeer.</p> +<p>My story was now world-wide enough: Scotland, India, and +America being all obligatory scenes. But of these India was +strange to me except in books; I had never known any living +Indian save a Parsee, a member of my club in London, equally +civilised, and (to all seeing) equally accidental with +myself. It was plain, thus far, that I should have to get +into India and out of it again upon a foot of fairy lightness; +and I believe this first suggested to me the idea of the +Chevalier Burke for a narrator. It was at first intended +that he should be Scottish, and I was then filled with fears that +he might prove only the degraded shadow of my own Alan +Breck. Presently, however, it began to occur to me it would +be like my Master to curry favour with the Prince’s +Irishmen; and that an Irish refugee would have a particular +reason to find himself in India with his countryman, the +unfortunate Lally. Irish, therefore, I decided he should +be, and then, all of a sudden, I was aware of a tall shadow +across my path, the shadow of Barry Lyndon. No man (in Lord +Foppington’s phrase) of a nice morality could go very deep +with my Master: in the original idea of this story conceived in +Scotland, this companion had been besides intended to be worse +than the bad elder son with whom (as it was then meant) he was to +visit Scotland; if I took an Irishman, and a very bad Irishman, +in the midst of the eighteenth century, how was I to evade Barry +Lyndon? The wretch besieged me, offering his services; he +gave me excellent references; he proved that he was highly fitted +for the work I had to do; he, or my own evil heart, suggested it +was easy to disguise his ancient livery wit a little lace and a +few frogs and buttons, so that Thackeray himself should hardly +recognise him. And then of a sudden there came to me +memories of a young Irishman, with whom I was once intimate, and +had spent long nights walking and talking with, upon a very +desolate coast in a bleak autumn: I recalled him as a youth of an +extraordinary moral simplicity—almost vacancy; plastic to +any influence, the creature of his admirations: and putting such +a youth in fancy into the career of a soldier of fortune, it +occurred to me that he would serve my turn as well as Mr. Lyndon, +and in place of entering into competition with the Master, would +afford a slight though a distinct relief. I know not if I +have done him well, though his moral dissertations always highly +entertained me: but I own I have been surprised to find that he +reminded some critics of Barry Lyndon after all. . . .</p> +<h2><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>PREFACE TO ‘THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE’ <a +name="citation145"></a><a href="#footnote145" +class="citation">[145]</a></h2> +<p>Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following +pages revisits now and again the city of which he exults to be a +native; and there are few things more strange, more painful, or +more salutary, than such revisitations. Outside, in foreign +spots, he comes by surprise and awakens more attention than he +had expected; in his own city, the relation is reversed, and he +stands amazed to be so little recollected. Elsewhere he is +refreshed to see attractive faces, to remark possible friends; +there he scouts the long streets, with a pang at heart, for the +faces and friends that are no more. Elsewhere he is +delighted with the presence of what is new, there tormented by +the absence of what is old. Elsewhere he is content to be +his present self; there he is smitten with an equal regret for +what he once was and for what he once hoped to be.</p> +<p>He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station, +on his last visit; he was feeling it still as he alighted at the +door of his friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom he was +to stay. A hearty welcome, a face not altogether changed, a +few words that sounded of old days, a laugh provoked and shared, +a glimpse in passing of the snowy cloth and bright decanters and +the Piranesis on the dining-room wall, brought him to his +bed-room with a somewhat lightened cheer, and when he and Mr. +Thomson sat down a few minutes later, cheek by jowl, and pledged +the past in a preliminary bumper, he was already almost consoled, +he had already almost forgiven himself his two unpardonable +errors, that he should ever have left his native city, or ever +returned to it.</p> +<p>‘I have something quite in your way,’ said Mr. +Thomson. ‘I wished to do honour to your arrival; +because, my dear fellow, it is my own youth that comes back along +with you; in a very tattered and withered state, to be sure, +but—well!—all that’s left of it.’</p> +<p>‘A great deal better than nothing,’ said the +editor. ‘But what is this which is quite in my +way?’</p> +<p>‘I was coming to that,’ said Mr. Thomson: +‘Fate has put it in my power to honour your arrival with +something really original by way of dessert. A +mystery.’</p> +<p>‘A mystery?’ I repeated.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said his friend, ‘a mystery. It +may prove to be nothing, and it may prove to be a great +deal. But in the meanwhile it is truly mysterious, no eye +having looked on it for near a hundred years; it is highly +genteel, for it treats of a titled family; and it ought to be +melodramatic, for (according to the superscription) it is +concerned with death.’</p> +<p>‘I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more +promising annunciation,’ the other remarked. +‘But what is It?’</p> +<p>‘You remember my predecessor’s, old Peter +M‘Brair’s business?’</p> +<p>‘I remember him acutely; he could not look at me without +a pang of reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without +betraying it. He was to me a man of a great historical +interest, but the interest was not returned.’</p> +<p>‘Ah well, we go beyond him,’ said Mr. +Thomson. ‘I daresay old Peter knew as little about +this as I do. You see, I succeeded to a prodigious +accumulation of old law-papers and old tin boxes, some of them of +Peter’s hoarding, some of his father’s, John, first +of the dynasty, a great man in his day. Among other +collections were all the papers of the Durrisdeers.’</p> +<p>‘The Durrisdeers!’ cried I. ‘My dear +fellow, these may be of the greatest interest. One of them +was out in the ’45; one had some strange passages with the +devil—you will find a note of it in Law’s +<i>Memorials</i>, I think; and there was an unexplained tragedy, +I know not what, much later, about a hundred years +ago—‘</p> +<p>‘More than a hundred years ago,’ said Mr. +Thomson. ‘In 1783.’</p> +<p>‘How do you know that? I mean some +death.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, the lamentable deaths of my lord Durrisdeer and +his brother, the Master of Ballantrae (attainted in the +troubles),’ said Mr. Thomson with something the tone of a +man quoting. ‘Is that it?’</p> +<p>‘To say truth,’ said I, ‘I have only seen +some dim reference to the things in memoirs; and heard some +traditions dimmer still, through my uncle (whom I think you +knew). My uncle lived when he was a boy in the +neighbourhood of St. Bride’s; he has often told me of the +avenue closed up and grown over with grass, the great gates never +opened, the last lord and his old maid sister who lived in the +back parts of the house, a quiet, plain, poor, hum-drum couple it +would seem—but pathetic too, as the last of that stirring +and brave house—and, to the country folk, faintly terrible +from some deformed traditions.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Mr. Thomson. Henry Graeme Durie, +the last lord, died in 1820; his sister, the Honourable Miss +Katherine Durie, in ’27; so much I know; and by what I have +been going over the last few days, they were what you say, +decent, quiet people and not rich. To say truth, it was a +letter of my lord’s that put me on the search for the +packet we are going to open this evening. Some papers could +not be found; and he wrote to Jack M‘Brair suggesting they +might be among those sealed up by a Mr. Mackellar. +M‘Brair answered, that the papers in question were all in +Mackellar’s own hand, all (as the writer understood) of a +purely narrative character; and besides, said he, “I am +bound not to open them before the year 1889.” You may +fancy if these words struck me: I instituted a hunt through all +the M‘Brair repositories; and at last hit upon that packet +which (if you have had enough wine) I propose to show you at +once.’</p> +<p>In the smoking-room, to which my host now led me, was a +packet, fastened with many seals and enclosed in a single sheet +of strong paper thus endorsed:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Papers relating to the lives and lamentable deaths +of the late Lord Durisdeer, and his elder brother James, commonly +called Master of Ballantrae, attainted in the troubles: entrusted +into the hands of John M‘Brair in the Lawnmarket of +Edinburgh, W.S.; this 20th day of September Anno Domini 1789; by +him to be kept secret until the revolution of one hundred years +complete, or until the 20th day of September 1889: the same +compiled and written by me,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Ephraim +Mackellar</span>,<br /> +<i>For near forty years Land Steward on the</i><br /> +<i>estates of His Lordship</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As Mr. Thomson is a married man, I will not say what hour had +struck when we laid down the last of the following pages; but I +will give a few words of what ensued.</p> +<p>‘Here,’ said Mr. Thomson, ‘is a novel ready +to your hand: all you have to do is to work up the scenery, +develop the characters, and improve the style.’</p> +<p>‘My dear fellow,’ said I, ‘they are just the +three things that I would rather die than set my hand to. +It shall be published as it stands.’</p> +<p>‘But it’s so bald,’ objected Mr. +Thomson.</p> +<p>‘I believe there is nothing so noble as baldness,’ +replied I, ‘and I am sure there is nothing so +interesting. I would have all literature bald, and all +authors (if you like) but one.’</p> +<p>‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Thomson, ‘we shall +see.’</p> +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3" +class="footnote">[3]</a> First published in the +Contemporary Review, April 1885</p> +<p><a name="footnote21"></a><a href="#citation21" +class="footnote">[21]</a> Milton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote24"></a><a href="#citation24" +class="footnote">[24]</a> Milton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote33"></a><a href="#citation33" +class="footnote">[33]</a> Milton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote34"></a><a href="#citation34" +class="footnote">[34]</a> As PVF will continue to haunt us +through our English examples, take, by way of comparison, this +Latin verse, of which it forms a chief adornment, and do not hold +me answerable for the all too Roman freedom of the sense: +‘Hanc volo, quæ facilis, quæ palliolata +vagatur.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote35"></a><a href="#citation35" +class="footnote">[35]</a> Coleridge.</p> +<p><a name="footnote36"></a><a href="#citation36" +class="footnote">[36]</a> Antony and Cleopatra.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37a"></a><a href="#citation37a" +class="footnote">[37a]</a> Cymbeline.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37b"></a><a href="#citation37b" +class="footnote">[37b]</a> The V is in +‘of.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote38"></a><a href="#citation38" +class="footnote">[38]</a> Troilus and Cressida.</p> +<p><a name="footnote47a"></a><a href="#citation47a" +class="footnote">[47a]</a> First published in the +<i>Fortnightly Review</i>, April 1881.</p> +<p><a name="footnote47b"></a><a href="#citation47b" +class="footnote">[47b]</a> Mr. James Payn.</p> +<p><a name="footnote64"></a><a href="#citation64" +class="footnote">[64]</a> A footnote, at least, is due to +the admirable example set before all young writers in the width +of literary sympathy displayed by Mr. Swinburne. He runs +forth to welcome merit, whether in Dickens or Trollope, whether +in Villon, Milton, or Pope. This is, in criticism, the +attitude we should all seek to preserve; not only in that, but in +every branch of literary work.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75a"></a><a href="#citation75a" +class="footnote">[75a]</a> First published in the +<i>British Weekly</i>, May 13, 1887.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75b"></a><a href="#citation75b" +class="footnote">[75b]</a> Of the <i>British +Weekly</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote93"></a><a href="#citation93" +class="footnote">[93]</a> First published in the +<i>Magazine of Art</i> in 1883.</p> +<p><a name="footnote111"></a><a href="#citation111" +class="footnote">[111]</a> First published in the +<i>Idler</i>, August 1894.</p> +<p><a name="footnote112"></a><a href="#citation112" +class="footnote">[112]</a> <i>Ne pas confondre</i>. +Not the slim green pamphlet with the imprint of Andrew Elliot, +for which (as I see with amazement from the book-lists) the +gentlemen of England are willing to pay fancy prices; but its +predecessor, a bulky historical romance without a spark of merit, +and now deleted from the world.</p> +<p><a name="footnote145"></a><a href="#citation145" +class="footnote">[145]</a> 1889.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS IN THE ART OF WRITING***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 492-h.htm or 492-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/9/492 + + + +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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