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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..db3c6e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61313 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61313) diff --git a/old/61313-8.txt b/old/61313-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 357f061..0000000 --- a/old/61313-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6791 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Questions at Issue, by Edmund Gosse - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Questions at Issue - - -Author: Edmund Gosse - - - -Release Date: February 3, 2020 [eBook #61313] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/questionsatissue00gossuoft - - - - - -QUESTIONS AT ISSUE - - - * * * * * * - -_Other Works by Mr. EDMUND GOSSE_ - - -_IN VERSE_ - - _On Viol and Flute. New edition. 1890_ - - _Firdausi in Exile, and other Poems. Second edition. 1887_ - - -_IN PROSE_ - - _Northern Studies. 1879. Popular edition. 1890_ - - _Life of Gray. 1882. Revised edition. 1889_ - - _Seventeenth Century Studies. 1883. Second edition. 1885_ - - _Life of Congreve. 1888_ - - _A History of Eighteenth Century Literature. - 1889. Second edition. 1891_ - - _Life of Philip Henry Gosse, F.R.S. 1890_ - - _Gossip in a Library. 1891. Second edition. 1892_ - - _The Secret of Narcisse. A Romance. 1892_ - - * * * * * * - - -QUESTIONS AT ISSUE - -by - -EDMUND GOSSE - - -[Illustration: Logo] - - - - - - -London -William Heinemann -1893 - -[All rights reserved] - - - - -_TO_ - -_JOSEPH HENRY SHORTHOUSE_ - -This Volume is Dedicated - -_BY_ - -_HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND_ - -_THE AUTHOR_ - - - - -Preface - - -To the essays which are here collected I have given a name which at -once, I hope, describes them accurately and distinguishes them from -criticism of a more positive order. When a writer speaks to us of the -works of the dead masters, of the literary life of the past, we demand -from him the authoritative attitude. That Homer is a great poet, and -that the verse of Milton is exquisite, are not Questions at Issue. In -dealing with such subjects the critic must persuade himself that he -is capable of forming an opinion, and must then give us his opinion -definitely. But in the continent of literary criticism, where all else -is imperial, there is a province which is still republican, and that is -the analysis of contemporary literature, the frank examination of the -literary life of to-day. - -In speaking of what is proceeding around us no one can be trusted to be -authoritative. The wisest, clearest, and most experienced of critics -have notoriously been wrong about the phenomena of their own day. -Ben Jonson selected the moment when _Hamlet_ and _Othello_ had just -been performed to talk of raising "the despised head of poetry again, -and stripping her of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times -have adulterated her form." Neither Hazlitt nor Sainte Beuve could be -trusted to give as valuable a judgment on the work of a man younger -than themselves as they could of any past production, be it what it -might. To map the ground around his feet is a task that the most -skilful geographer is not certain to carry out with success. - -The insecurity of contemporary criticism is no reason, however, why -it should not be seriously and sincerely attempted. On the contrary, -the critic who has been accustomed to follow paths where the laws -and criteria of literature are paramount, may be glad to slip away -sometimes to a freer country, where the art he tries to practise is -more instinctive, more emotional, and more controversial. In the -schools of antiquity, when the set discourse was over, the lecturer -mingled with his audience under the portico of the Museum, and then, I -suppose, it was not any longer of the ancients that they talked, but of -the poet of last night, and of the rhetorician of to-morrow. - -The critic may enjoy the sense of having abandoned the lecturing desk -or the tribune, and of mingling in easy conversation with men who are -not bound to preserve any decorum in listening to his opinions. In -the criticism of the floating literature of the day an opportunity is -offered for sensibility, for the personal note, even for a certain -indulgence in levity or irony. The questions of our own age are not yet -settled by tradition, nor hedged about with logical deductions; they -are still open to discussion; they are still Questions at Issue. Such -are all the aspects of the literary life which I endeavour to discuss -in this volume of essays. - -There can, nevertheless, be no reason why, although the dress and -attitude be different, the critic should not be as true to his radical -conceptions of right and wrong in literature, when he discusses the -shifts and movements about him, as when he "bears in memory what has -tamed great nations." The attention of a literary man of character may -be diverted to a hundred dissimilar branches of his subject, but in -dealing with them all he should be the servant of the same ideas, the -defender of the same principles, the protector of the same interests. -The battle rages hither and thither, but none of the issues of it -are immaterial to him, and his attitude towards what he regards as -the enemies of his cause should never radically alter. His functions -should rather become more active and more militant when he feels that -his temporary position deprives him of accidental authority; and even -when he admits that the questions he discusses are matters of open -controversy, he should, in bringing his ideas to bear upon them, be -peculiarly careful to obey the orders of fundamental principles. -All this is quite compatible, I hope, with the sauntering step, the -conversational tone, the absence of all pedagogic assertion, which seem -to me indispensable in the treatment of contemporary themes. - -Of the essays here reprinted, nearly half are practically new to -English readers, having been written for an American review, and having -been quoted only in fragments on this side of the Atlantic. At the -close of the volume I have added a Lucianic sketch, which, when it -appeared anonymously in the _Fortnightly Review_, enjoyed the singular -and embarrassing distinction of being attributed, in succession, to -four amusing writers, each of whom is deservedly a greater favourite -of the public than I am. I have seen this little extravaganza ticketed -with such eminent names that I almost hesitate to have to claim it at -last as my own. I hope there was none but very innocent fooling in it, -and that not a word in it can give anybody pain. I think it was not -an unfair representation of what literature in England, from a social -point of view, consisted two years ago. Already death has been busy -with my ideal Academy, and no dreamer of 1893 could summon together -quite so admirable a company as was still citable in 1891. - -LONDON, _April 1893_. - - - - -Contents - - PAGE -THE TYRANNY OF THE NOVEL 1 - -THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY ON LITERATURE 33 - -HAS AMERICA PRODUCED A POET? 69 - -WHAT IS A GREAT POET? 91 - -MAKING A NAME IN LITERATURE 113 - -THE LIMITS OF REALISM IN FICTION 135 - -IS VERSE IN DANGER? 155 - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER 175 - -SHELLEY IN 1892 199 - -SYMBOLISM AND M. STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ 217 - -TWO PASTELS:-- - I. MR. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AS A POET 237 - II. MR. RUDYARD KIPLING'S SHORT STORIES 255 - -AN ELECTION AT THE ENGLISH ACADEMY 295 - -APPENDICES 323 - - -_The following Essays originally appeared in 'The Contemporary -Review,' 'The Fortnightly Review,' 'The National Review,' 'The New -Review,' 'The Forum,' 'The Century Magazine,' 'Longman's Magazine,' and -'The Academy.'_ - - - - -THE TYRANNY OF THE NOVEL - - - - -The Tyranny of the Novel - - -A Parisian Hebraist has been attracting a moment's attention to his -paradoxical and learned self by announcing that strong-hearted and -strong-brained nations do not produce novels. This gentleman's soul -goes back, no doubt in longing and despair, to the heart of Babylon and -the brain of Gath. But if he looks for a modern nation that does not -cultivate the novel, he must, I am afraid, go far afield. Finland and -Roumania are certainly tainted; Bohemia lies in the bond of naturalism. -Probably Montenegro is the one European nation which this criterion -would leave strong in heart and brain. The amusing absurdity of this -whim of a pedant may serve to remind us how universal is now the -reign of prose fiction. In Scandinavia the drama may demand an equal -prominence, but no more. In all other countries the novel takes the -largest place, claims and obtains the widest popular attention, is the -admitted tyrant of the whole family of literature. - -This is so universally acknowledged now-a-days that we scarcely stop -to ask ourselves whether it is a heaven-appointed condition of things, -existing from the earliest times, or whether it is an innovation. -As a matter of fact, the predominance of the novel is a very recent -affair. Most other classes of literature are as old as the art of -verbal expression: lyrical and narrative poetry, drama, history, -philosophy--all these have flourished since the sunrise of the world's -intelligence. But the novel is a creation of the late afternoon of -civilisation. In the true sense, though not in the pedantic one, the -novel began in France with _La Princesse de Clèves_, and in England -with _Pamela_--that is to say, in 1677 and in 1740 respectively. -Compared with the dates of the beginning of philosophy and of poetry, -these are as yesterday and the day before yesterday. Once started, -however, the sapling of prose fiction grew and spread mightily. It took -but a few generations to overshadow all the ancient oaks and cedars -around it, and with its monstrous foliage to dominate the forest. - -It would not be uninteresting, if we had space to do so here, to -mark in detail the progress of this astonishing growth. It would -be found that, in England at least, it has not been by any means -regularly sustained. The original magnificent outburst of the English -novel lasted for exactly a quarter of a century, and closed with the -publication of _Humphrey Clinker_. During this period of excessive -fertility in a field hitherto unworked, the novel produced one -masterpiece after another, positively pushing itself to the front and -securing the best attention of the public at a moment when such men -as Gray, Butler, Hume, and Warburton were putting forth contributions -to the old and long-established sections of literature. Nay: such was -the force of the new kind of writing that the gravity of Johnson and -the grace of Goldsmith were seduced into participating in its facile -triumphs. - -But, at the very moment when the novel seemed about to sweep everything -before it, the wave subsided and almost disappeared. For nearly forty -years, only one novel of the very highest class was produced in -England; and it might well seem as though prose fiction, after its -brief victory, had exhausted its resources, and had sunken for ever -into obscurity. During the close of the eighteenth century and the -first decade of the nineteenth, no novel, except _Evelina_, could -pretend to disturb the laurels of Burke, of Gibbon, of Cowper, of -Crabbe. The publication of _Caleb Williams_ is a poor event to set -against that of the _Lyrical Ballads_; even _Thalaba the Destroyer_ -seemed a more impressive phenomenon than the _Monk_. But the second -great burgeoning of the novel was at hand. Like the tender ash, it -delayed to clothe itself when all the woods of romanticism were green. -But in 1811 came _Sense and Sensibility_, in 1814 _Waverley_; and the -novel was once more at the head of the literary movement of the time. - -It cannot be said to have stayed there very long. Miss Austen's brief -and brilliant career closed in 1817. Sir Walter Scott continued to be -not far below his best until about ten years later. But a period of two -decades included not only the work of these two great novelists, but -the best books also of Galt, of Mary Ferrier, of Maturin, of Lockhart, -of Banim. It saw the publication of _Hajji Baba_, of _Frankenstein_, -of _Anastatius_. Then, for the second time, prose fiction ceased for -a while to hold a position of high predominance. But Bulwer Lytton -was already at hand; and five or six years of comparative obscurity -prepared the way for Dickens, Lever, and Lover. Since the memorable -year 1837 the novel has reigned in English literature; and its tyranny -was never more irresistible than it is to-day. The Victorian has been -peculiarly the age of the triumph of fiction. - -In the history of France something of the same fluctuation might be -perceived, although the production of novels of a certain literary -pretension has been a feature of French much longer and more steadily -than of English life. As Mr. Saintsbury has pointed out, "it is -particularly noteworthy that every one of the eight names which have -been set at the head" of the nineteenth-century literature of France -"is the name of a novelist." Since the days of Flaubert--for the last -thirty years, that is to say--the novel has assumed a still higher -literary function than it held even in the hands of George Sand and -Balzac. It has cast aside the pretence of merely amusing, and has -affected the airs of guide, philosopher, and friend. M. Zola, justified -to some extent by the amazing vogue of his own writings, and the vast -area covered by their prestige, has said that the various classes of -literary production are being merged in the novel, and are ultimately -to disappear within it: - - - _Apollo, Pan, and Love,_ - _And even Olympian Jove_ - _Grow faint, for killing Truth hath glared on them;_ - _Our hills, and seas, and streams,_ - _Dispeopled of their dreams,_ - - -become the mere primary material for an endless series of naturalistic -stories. And even to-day, when the young David of symbolism rises to -smite the Goliath Zola, the smooth stones he takes out of his scrip are -works of fiction by Maurice Barrès and Edouard Rod. The schools pass -and nicknames alter; but the novel rules in France as it does elsewhere. - -We have but to look around us at this very moment to see how complete -the tyranny of the novel is. If one hundred educated and grown -men--not, of course, themselves the authors of other books--were to -be asked which are the three most notable works published in London -during the season of 1892, would not ninety-and-nine be constrained to -answer, with a parrot uniformity, _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, _David -Grieve_, _The Little Minister_? These are the books which have been -most widely discussed, most largely bought, most vehemently praised, -most venomously attacked. These are the books in which the "trade" -has taken most interest, the vitality of which is most obvious and -indubitable. It may be said that the conditions of the winter of 1892 -were exceptional--that no books of the first class in other branches -were produced. This may be true; and yet Mr. Jebb issued a volume of -his Sophocles, Mr. William Morris a collection of the lyric poems of -years, Mr. Froude his _Divorce of Catherine of Aragon_, and Mr. Tyndall -his _New Fragments_. If the poets in chorus had blown their silver -trumpets and the philosophers their bold bassoons, the result would -have been the same: they would have won some respect and a little -notice for their performances; but the novelists would have carried -away the money and the real human curiosity. Who shall say that Mr. -Freeman was not a better historian than Robertson was? yet did he make -£4,500 by his _History of Sicily_? I wish I could believe it. To-day -Mr. Swinburne may publish a new epic, Mr. Gardiner discover to us the -head of Charles I. on the scaffold, Mr. Herbert Spencer explore a fresh -province of sociology, or Mr. Pater analyse devils in the accents -of an angel--none of these important occurrences will successfully -compete, for more than a few moments, among educated people, with the -publication of what is called, in publishers' advertisements, "the -new popular and original novel of the hour." We are accustomed to -this state of things, and we bow to it. But we may, perhaps, remind -ourselves that it is a comparatively recent condition. It was not so in -1730, nor in 1800, nor even in 1835. - -Momentary aberrations of fashion must not deceive us as to the general -tendency of taste. Mr. Hall Caine would have us believe that the public -has suddenly gone crazy for stage-plays. "Novels of great strength and -originality," says the author of _The Scapegoat_, "occasionally appear -without creating more than a flutter of interest, and, meanwhile, -plays of one-tenth their power and novelty are making something like -a profound impression." What plays are these? Not the Ollendorfian -attitudinisings of M. Maeterlinck, surely! The fact is that two years -ago it would have been impossible for any one to pen that sentence of -Mr. Caine's, and it is now possible merely because a passion for the -literary drama has been flogged into existence by certain able critics. -With a limited class, the same class which appreciates poetry, the -literary drama may find a welcome; but to suppose that it competes, or -can, in this country, even pretend to compete, with the novel is a -delusion, and Mr. Caine may safely abandon his locusts and wild honey. - -That we see around us a great interest in the drama is, of course, a -commonplace. But how much of that is literary? When the delights of -the eye are removed from the sum of pleasure, what is left? Our public -is interested in the actors and their art, in the scenery and the -furniture, in the notion of large sums of money expended, lost, or won. -When all these incidental interests are extracted from the curiosity -excited by a play, not very much is left for the purely literary -portion of it--not nearly so much, at all events, as is awakened by -a great novel. After all that has been said about the publication of -plays, I expect that the sale of dramatic contemporary literature -remains small and uncertain. Mr. Pinero is read; but one swallow does -not make a summer. Where are the dramatic works of Mr. Sydney Grundy, -which ought--if Mr. Caine be correct--to be seen on every book-shelf -beside the stories of Mr. Hawley Smart? - -If, however, I venture to emphasise the fact of the tyranny of the -novel in our current literature, it is without a murmur that I do so. -Like the harmless bard in _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_, I "write no -satire," and, what is more, I mean none. It appears to me natural and -rational that this particular form of writing should attract more -readers than any other. It is so broad and flexible, includes so vast -a variety of appeals to the emotions, makes so few painful demands -upon an overstrained attention, that it obviously lays itself out to -please the greatest number. For the appreciation of a fine poem, of -a learned critical treatise, of a contribution to exact knowledge, -peculiar aptitudes are required: the novel is within everybody's range. -Experience, moreover, proves that the gentle stimulus of reading about -the cares, passions, and adventures of imaginary personages, and their -relations to one another--a mild and irresponsible mirroring of real -life on a surface undisturbed by responsibility, or memory, or personal -feeling of any kind--is the most restful, the most refreshing, of all -excitements which literature produces. - -It is commonly said, in all countries, that women are the chief readers -of novels. It may well be that they are the most numerous, and that -they read more exhaustively than men, and with less selection. They -have, as a rule, more time. The general notion seems to be that girls -of from sixteen to twenty form the main audience of the novelist. But -I am inclined to think that the real audience consists of young married -women, sitting at home in the first year of their marriage. They find -themselves without any constraint upon their reading: they choose what -they will, and they read incessantly. The advent of the first-born -baby is awaited in silent drawing-rooms, where through long hours the -novelists supply the sole distraction. These young matrons form a much -better audience than those timorous circles of flaxen-haired girls, -watched by an Argus-eyed mamma, which the English novelist seems to -consider himself doomed to cater for. I cannot believe that it is -anything but a fallacy that young girls do read. They are far too busy -with parties and shopping, chatting and walking, the eternal music and -the eternal tennis. Middle-aged people in the country, who are cut -off from much society, and elderly ladies, whose activities are past, -and who like to resume the illusions of youth, are far more assiduous -novel-readers than girls. - -But, if we take these and all other married and unmarried women into -consideration, there is still apparently an exaggeration in saying -that it is they who make the novelist's reputation. Men read novels -a great deal more than is supposed, and it is probably from men that -the first-class novel receives its _imprimatur_. Men have made Mr. -Thomas Hardy, who owes nothing to the fair sex; if women read him now, -it is because the men have told them that they must. Occasionally we -see a very original writer who decidedly owes his fame to the plaudits -of the ladies. M. Paul Bourget is the most illustrious example that -occurs to the memory. But such instances are rare, and it is usually to -the approval of male readers that eminent novelists owe that prestige -which ultimately makes them the favourites of the women. Not all men -are pressed by the excessive agitations of business life which are -habitually attributed to their sex. Even those who are most busy -find time to read, and we were lately informed that among the most -constant and assiduous students of new novels were Lord Tennyson and -Mr. Gladstone. Every story-teller, I think, ought to write as though he -believed himself addressing such conspicuous veterans. - -As I say, I do not revolt against the supremacy of the novel. I -acknowledge too heavy a debt of gratitude to my great contemporaries -to assume any but a thankful attitude towards them. In my dull and -weary hours each has come like the angel Israfel, and has invited me -to listen to the beating of his heart, be it lyre or guitar, a solemn -instrument or a gay one. I should be instantly bankrupt if I sought -to repay to Mr. Meredith or Mr. Besant, Mr. Hardy or Mr. Norris, Mr. -Stevenson or Mr. Kipling--to name no others--one-tenth part of the -pleasure which, in varied quantity and quality, the stories of each -have given me. I admit (for which I shall be torn in pieces) that the -ladies please me less, with some exceptions; but that is because, since -the days of the divine Mrs. Gaskell, they have been so apt to be either -too serious or not serious enough. I suppose that the composition of -_The Daisy Chain_ and of _Donovan_ serves some excellent purpose; -doubtless these books are useful to great growing girls. But it is not -to such stories as these that I owe any gratitude, and it is not to -their authors that I address the presumptuous remarks which follow. - -A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: Having secured -the practical monopoly of literature, having concentrated public -attention on their wares, what do the novelists propose to do next? To -what use will they put the unprecedented opportunity thrown in their -way? It is quite plain that to a certain extent the material out of -which the English novel has been constructed is in danger of becoming -exhausted. Why do the American novelists inveigh against plots? Not, -we may be sure, through any inherent tenderness of conscience, as -they would have us believe; but because their eminently sane and -somewhat timid natures revolt against the effort of inventing what is -extravagant. But all the obvious plots, all the stories which are not -in some degree extravagant, seem to have been told already, and for a -writer with the temperament of Mr. Howells there is nothing left but -the careful portraiture of a small portion of the limitless field of -ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, this also may -amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of work it seems -as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed thus for -centuries, acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little while -suffices to show that in this direction also the material is promptly -exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought for at -all hazards, and where can they be found? - -The novelists hope many things from that happy system of nature which -supplies them, year by year, with fresh generations of the ingenuous -young. The procession of adolescence moves on and on, and the front -rank of it, for a month or a year, is duped by the novelist's report -of that astonishing phenomenon, the passion of love. In a certain -sense, we might expect to be tired of love-stories as soon as, and -not before, we grow tired of the ever-recurring March mystery of -primroses and daffodils. Each generation takes its tale of love under -the hawthorn-tree as something quite new, peculiar to itself, not to be -comprehended by its elders; and the novelist pipes as he will to this -idyllic audience, sure of pleasing, if he adapt himself never so little -to their habits and the idiosyncrasies of their time. - -That theory would work well enough if the novelist held the chair of -Erotics at the University of Life, and might blamelessly repeat the -same (or very slightly modified) lectures to none but the students -of each successive year. But, unfortunately, we who long ago took -our degree, who took it, perhaps, when the Professor was himself in -pinafores, also continue to attend his classes. We are hardly to be -put off with the old, old commonplaces about hearts and darts. Yet our -adult acquiescence is necessary for the support of the Professor. How -is he to freshen up his oft-repeated course of lectures to suit our -jaded appetites? - -It would be curious to calculate how many tales of love must have been -told since the vogue of the modern story began. Three hundred novels a -year is, I believe, the average product of the English press. In each -of these there has been at least one pair of lovers, and generally -there have been several pairs. It would be a good question to set -in a mathematical examination: What is the probable number of young -persons who have conducted one another to the altar in English fiction -during the last hundred years? It is almost terrible to think of this -multitude of fictitious love-makings: - - - _For the lovers of years meet and gather;_ - _The sound of them all grows like thunder:_ - _O into what bosom, I wonder,_ - _Is poured the whole passion of years!_ - - -One would be very sorry to have the three hundred of one year poured -into one's own mature bosom. But how curious is the absolute unanimity -of it all! Thousands and thousands of books, every one of them, without -exception, turning upon the attraction of Edwin to Angelina, exactly -as though no other subject on earth interested a single human being! -The novels in which love has not formed a central feature are so few -that I suspect that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. -At this moment, I can but recall a single famous novel in which love -has no place. This is, of course, _L'Abbé Tigrane_, that delightful -story in which all the interest revolves around the intrigues of two -priestly factions in a provincial cathedral. But, although M. Ferdinand -Fabre achieved so great a success in this book, and produced an -acknowledged masterpiece, he never ventured to repeat the experiment. -Eros revels in the pages of all his other stories. - -This would be the opportunity to fight the battle of the novelists -against Mrs. Grundy. But I am not inclined to waste ink on that -conceded cause. After the reception of books like _Tess of the -D'Urbervilles_ and even _David Grieve_, it is plain that the English -novelist, who cares and dares, may say almost anything he or she likes -without calling flame out of heaven upon his head. There has been a -great reform in this respect since the days when our family friend Mr. -Punch hazarded his very existence by referring, in grimmest irony, -to the sufferings of "the gay." We do not want to claim the right, -which the French have so recklessly abused, of describing at will, and -secure against all censure, the brutal, the abnormal and the horrible. -No doubt a silly prudishness yet exists. There are still clergymen's -wives who write up indignantly from The Vicarage, Little Pedlington. I -have just received an epistle from such an one, telling me that certain -poor productions I am editing "make young hearts acquainted with vice, -and put hell-fire in their hearts." "Woe unto you in your evil work," -says this lady, doubtless a most sincere and conscientious creature, -but a little behind the times. Of her and her race individually, I wish -to say nothing but what is kind; but I confess I am glad to know that -the unreflecting spirit they represent is passing away. It is passing -away so rapidly that there is really no need to hearten the novelists -against it. I am weary to death of the gentleman who is always telling -us what a splendid novel he would write, if the publishers would only -allow him to be naughty. Let him be bold and naughty, and we will see. -If he is so poor-spirited as to be afraid to say what he feels he -ought to say because of this kind of criticism, his exposition of the -verities is not likely to be of very high value. - -But I should like to ask our friends the leading novelists whether -they do not see their way to enlarging a little the sphere of their -labours. What is the use of this tyranny which they wield, if it -does not enable them to treat life broadly and to treat it whole? -The varieties of amatory intrigue form a fascinating subject, which -is not even yet exhausted. But, surely, all life is not love-making. -Even the youngest have to deal with other interests, although this may -be the dominant one; while, as we advance in years, Venus ceases to -be even the ruling divinity. Why should there not be novels written -for middle-aged persons? Has the struggle for existence a charm only -in its reproductive aspects? If every one of us regards his or her -life seriously, with an absolute and unflinching frankness, it will -be admitted that love, extended so as to include all its forms--its -sympathetic, its imaginative, its repressed, as well as its fulfilled -and acknowledged, forms--takes a place far more restricted than the -formulæ of the novelist would lead the inhabitant of some other planet -to conjecture. - -Unless the novelists do contrive to enlarge their borders, and take -in more of life, that misfortune awaits them which befell their -ancestors just before the death of Scott. About the year 1830 there -was a sudden crash of the novel. The public found itself abandoned -to Lady Blessington and Mr. Plumer Ward, and it abruptly closed its -account with the novelists. The large prices which had been, for twenty -years past, paid for novels were no longer offered. The book-clubs -throughout the kingdom collapsed, or else excluded novels. When fiction -re-appeared, after this singular epoch of eclipse, it had learned its -lesson, and the new writers were men who put into their work their best -observation and ripest experience. - -It does not appear that in the thirties any one understood what was -happening. The stuff produced by the novelists was so ridiculous -and ignoble that "the nonsinse of that divil of a Bullwig" seemed -absolutely unrivalled in its comparative sublimity, although these were -the days of _Ernest Maltravers_. It never occurred to the authors when -the public suddenly declined to read their books (it read "Bullwig's," -in the lack of anything else) that the fault was theirs. The same -excuses were made that are made now,--"necessary to write down to a -wide audience;" "obliged to supply the kind of article demanded;" -"women the only readers to be catered for;" "mammas so solicitous for -the purity of what is laid before their daughters." And the crash came. - -The crash will come again, if the novelists do not take care. -The same silly piping of the loves of the drawing-room, the same -obsequious attitude towards a supposititious public clamouring for -the commonplace, inspire the majority of the novel-writers of to-day. -Happily, we have, what our fathers in 1835 had not, half a dozen -careful and vigorous men of letters who write, not what the foolish -publishers ask for, but what they themselves choose to give. The -future rests with these few recognised masters of fiction, and with -their successors, the vigorous younger men who are preparing to take -their place. What are these novelists going to do? They were set down -to farm the one hundred acres of an estate called Life, and because -one corner of it--the two or three acres hedged about, and called the -kitchen-garden of Love--offered peculiar attractions, and was very easy -to cultivate, they have neglected the other ninety-seven acres. The -result is that by over-pressing their garden, and forcing crop after -crop out of it, it is well-nigh exhausted, and will soon refuse to -respond to the incessant hoe and spade; while, all the time, the rest -of the estate, rich and almost virgin soil, is left to cover itself -with the weeds of newspaper police-reports. - -It is supposed that to describe one of the positive employments of -life,--a business or a profession, for example,--would alienate the -tender reader, and check that circulation about which novelists talk -as nervously as if they were delicate invalids. But what evidence is -there to show that an attention to real things does frighten away the -novel reader? The experiments which have been made in this country to -widen the field of fiction in one direction, that of religious and -moral speculation, have not proved unfortunate. What was the source -of the great popular success of _John Inglesant_ and then of _Robert -Elsmere_, if not the intense delight of readers in being admitted, -in a story, to a wider analysis of the interior workings of the mind -than is compatible with the mere record of the billing and cooing of -the callow young? We are afraid of words and titles. We are afraid of -the word "psychology," and, indeed, we have seen follies committed in -its name. But the success of the books I have just mentioned was due -to their psychology, to their analysis of the effect of associations -and sentiments on a growing mind. To make such studies of the soul -even partially interesting, a great deal of knowledge, intuition, -and workmanlike care must be expended. The novelist must himself be -acquainted with something of the general life of man. - -But the interior life of the soul is, after all, a very much less -interesting study to an ordinarily healthy person than the exterior. -It is surprising how little our recent novelists have taken this into -consideration. One reason, I cannot doubt, is that they write too -early and they write too fast. Fielding began with _Joseph Andrews_, -when he was thirty-five; seven years later he published _Tom Jones_; -during the remainder of his life, which closed when he was forty-seven, -he composed one more novel. The consequence is that into these three -books he was able to pour the ripe knowledge of an all-accomplished -student of human nature. But our successful novelist of to-day begins -when he is two- or three-and-twenty. He "catches on," as they say, and -he becomes a laborious professional writer. He toils at his novels as -if he were the manager of a bank or the captain of an ocean steamer. -In one narrow groove he slides up and down, up and down, growing -infinitely skilful at his task of making bricks out of straw. He -finishes the last page of "The Writhing Victim" in the morning, lunches -at his club, has a nap; and, after dinner, writes the first page of -"The Swart Sombrero." He cannot describe a trade or a profession, for -he knows none but his own. He has no time to look at life, and he goes -on weaving fancies out of the ever-dwindling stores of his childish and -boyish memories. As these grow exhausted, his works get more and more -shadowy, till at last even the long-suffering public that once loved -his merits, and then grew tolerant of his tricks, can endure him no -longer. - -The one living novelist who has striven to give a large, competent, -and profound view of the movement of life is M. Zola. When we have -said the worst of the _Rougon-Macquart_ series, when we have admitted -the obvious faults of these books--their romantic fallacies on the one -hand, their cold brutalities on the other--it must be admitted that -they present the results of a most laudable attempt to cultivate the -estate outside the kitchen-garden. Hardly one of the main interests of -the modern man has been neglected by M. Zola, and there is no doubt -at all that to the future student of nineteenth-century manners his -books will have an interest outweighing that of all other contemporary -novels. An astonishing series of panoramas he has unrolled before us. -Here is _Le Ventre de Paris_, describing the whole system by which a -vast modern city is daily supplied with food; here is _Au Bonheur des -Dames_, the romance of a shop, which is pushed upwards and outwards by -the energy of a single ambitious tradesman, until it swamps all its -neighbours, and governs the trade of a district; here is _L'Argent_, -in which, with infinite pains and on a colossal scale, the passions -which move in _la haute finance_ are analysed, and a great battle -of the money-world chronicled; here, above all, is _Germinal_, that -unapproachable picture of the agony and stress of life in a great -mining community, with a description of the processes so minute and so -technical that this novel is quoted by experts as the best existing -record of conditions which are already obsolete. - -In these books of M. Zola's, as everyone knows, successive members -of a certain family stand out against a background of human masses -in incessant movement. The peculiar characteristic of this novelist -is that he enables us to see why these masses are moved, and in what -direction. Other writers vaguely tell us that the hero "proceeded to -his daily occupation," if, indeed, they deign to allow that he had an -occupation. M. Zola tells us what that occupation was, and describes -the nature of it carefully and minutely. More than this: he shows us -how it affected the hero's character, how it brought him into contact -with others, in what way it represented his share of the universal -struggle for existence. So far from the employment being a thing -to be slurred over or dimly alluded to, M. Zola loves to make that -the very hero of his piece, a blind and vast commercial monster, a -huge all-embracing machine, in whose progress the human persons are -hurried helplessly along, in whose iron wheels their passions and -their hopes are crushed. He is enabled to do this by the exceptional -character of his genius, which is realistic to excess in its power of -retaining and repeating details, and romantic, also to an extreme, -in its power of massing these details on a huge scale, in vast and -harmoniously-balanced compositions. - -I would not be misunderstood, even by the most hasty reader, -to recommend an imitation of M. Zola. What suits his -peculiarly-constituted genius might ill accord with the characteristics -of another. Nor do I mean to say that we are entirely without something -analogous in the writings of the more intelligent of our later -novelists. The study of the Dorsetshire dairy-farms in Mr. Hardy's -superb _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ is of the highest value, and more -thorough and intelligible than what we enjoyed in _The Woodlanders_, -the details of the apple-culture in the same county. To turn to a -totally different school: Mr. Hall Caine's _Scapegoat_ is a very -interesting experiment in fresh fields of thought and experience, more -happily conceived, if I may be permitted to say so, than fortunately -executed, though even in execution far above the ruck of popular -novels. A new Cornish story, called _Inconsequent Lives_, by that very -promising young story-teller, Mr. Pearce, seemed, when it opened, -to be about to give us just the vivid information we want about the -Newlyn pilchard-fishery; but the novelist grew timid, and forebore to -fill in his sketch. The experiments of Mr. George Gissing and of Mr. -George Moore deserve sympathetic acknowledgment. These are instances -in which, occasionally, or fantastically, or imperfectly, the real -facts of life have been dwelt upon in recent fiction. But when we have -mentioned or thought of a few exceptions, to what inanities do we not -presently descend! - -If we could suddenly arrive from another planet, and read a cluster -of novels from Mudie's, without any previous knowledge of the class, -we should be astonished at the conventionality, the narrowness, the -monotony. All I ask for is a larger study of life. Have the stress -and turmoil of a successful political career no charm? Why, if novels -of the shop and the counting-house be considered sordid, can our -novelists not describe the life of a sailor, of a gamekeeper, of a -railway-porter, of a civil engineer? What capital central figures -for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the foreman of a -colliery, the master of a fishing smack, or a speculator on the Stock -Exchange! It will be suggested that persons engaged in one or other -of these professions are commonly introduced into current fiction, -and that I am proposing as a novelty what is amply done already. My -reply is that our novelists may indeed present to us a personage who -is called a stoker or a groom, a secretary of state or a pin-maker, -but that, practically, they merely write these denominations clearly -on the breasts of lay-figures. For all the enlightenment we get into -the habits of action and habits of thought entailed by the occupation -of each, the fisherman might be the groom and the pin-maker the -stock-broker. It is more than this that I ask for. I want to see -the man in his life. I am tired of the novelist's portrait of a -gentleman, with gloves and hat, leaning against a pillar, upon a -vague landscape background. I want the gentleman as he appears in a -snap-shot photograph, with his every-day expression on his face, and -the localities in which he spends his days accurately visible around -him. I cannot think that the commercial and professional aspects of -life are unworthy of the careful attention of the novelist, or that he -would fail to be rewarded by a larger and more interested audience for -his courage in dealing closely with them. At all events, if it is too -late to ask our accepted tyrants of the novel to enlarge their borders, -may we not, at all events, entreat their heirs-apparent to do so? - -_1892_ - - - - -THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY ON LITERATURE - - - - -The Influence of Democracy on Literature - - -It is not desirable to bring the element of party politics into the -world of books. But it is difficult to discuss the influence of -democracy on literature without borrowing from the Radicals one of the -wisest and truest of their watchwords. It is of no use, as they remind -us, to be afraid of the people. We have this huge mass of individuals -around us, each item in the coagulation struggling to retain and to -exercise its liberty; and, while we are perfectly free to like or -dislike the condition of things which has produced this phenomenon, -to be alarmed, to utter shrieks of fright at it, is to resign all -pretension to be listened to. We may believe that the whole concern is -going to the dogs, or we may be amusing ourselves by printing Cook's -tickets for a monster excursion to Boothia Felix or other provinces of -Utopia; to be frightened at it, or to think that we can do any good -by scolding it or binding it with chains of tow, is simply silly. It -moves, and it carries the Superior Person with it and in it, like a -mote of dust. - -In considering, therefore, the influence of democracy on literature, -it seems worse than useless to exhort or persuade. All that can in any -degree be interesting must be to study, without prejudice, the signs of -the times, to compare notes about the weather, and cheerfully tap the -intellectual barometer. This form of inquiry is rarely attempted in a -perfectly open spirit, partly, no doubt, because it is unquestionably -one which it is difficult to carry through. It is wonderfully easy to -proclaim the advent of a literary Ragnarok, to say that poetry is dead, -the novel sunken into its dotage, all good writing obsolete, and the -reign of darkness begun. There are writers who do this, and who round -off their periods by attributing the whole condition to the democratic -spirit, like the sailor in that delightful old piece played at the -Strand Theatre, who used to sum up the misfortunes of a lifetime with -the recurrent refrain, "It's all on account of Eliza." - -The "uncreating words" of these pessimists are dispiriting for the -moment, but they mean nothing. Those of the optimist do not mean much -either. A little more effort is required to produce his rose-coloured -picture, but we are not really persuaded that because the brown marries -the blonde all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Nor -is much gained by prophecy. We have been listening to a gentleman, -himself a biographer and an historian, who predicts, with babe-like -_naïveté_, that all literary persons will presently be sent by the -democracy to split wood and draw water, except, perhaps, "the historian -or biographer." In this universal splitting of wood, some heads, which -now think themselves mighty clever, may come to be rather disastrously -cracked. It was not Camille Desmoulins whom Fate selected to enter into -his own Promised Land of emancipated literature. - -We gain little by a comparison of our modern situation with that of the -ancient commonwealths. The parallel between the state of literature in -our world and that in Athens or Florence is purely academic. Whatever -the form of government, literature has always been aristocratic, or at -least oligarchic. It has been encouraged or else tolerated; even when -it has been independent, its self-congratulations on its independence -have shown how temporary that liberty was, and how imminent the -relapse into bondage. The peculiar protection given to the arts by -enlightened commonwealths surrounded by barbaric tyrannies was often of -a most valuable character, but it resembled nothing which can recur in -the modern world. The stimulus it gave to the creative temperament was -due in great measure to its exclusiveness, to the fact that the world -was shut out, and the appeal for sympathy made within a restricted -circle. The Republic was a family of highly trained intelligences, -barred and bolted against the vast and stupid world outside. Never can -this condition be re-established. The essence of democracy is that it -knows no narrower bonds than those of the globe, and its success is -marked by the destruction of those very ramparts which protected and -inspirited the old intellectual free States. - -The purest and most elevated form of literature, the rarest and, at -its best, the most valuable, is poetry. If it could be shown that the -influence of the popular advance in power has been favourable to the -growth of great verse, then all the rest might be taken for granted. -Unfortunately, there are many circumstances which interfere with our -vision, and make it exceedingly difficult to give an opinion on this -point. Victor Hugo never questioned that the poetical element was -needed, but he had occasional qualms about its being properly demanded. - - - _Peuples! écoutez, le poète,_ - _Écoutez le rêveur sacré;_ - _Dans votre nuit, sans lui complète,_ - _Lui seul a le front éclairé!_ - - -he shouted, but the very energy of the exclamation suggests a doubt -in his own mind as to its complete acceptability. In this country, -the democracy has certainly crowded around one poet. It has always -appeared to me to be one of the most singular, as it is one of the most -encouraging features of our recent literary history, that Tennyson -should have held the extraordinary place in the affections of our -people which has now been his for nearly half a century. That it -should be so delicate and so Æolian a music, so little affected by -contemporary passion, so disdainful of adventitious aids to popularity, -which above all others has attracted the universal ear, and held it -without producing weariness or satiety; this, I confess, appears to me -very marvellous. Some of the Laureate's best-loved lyrics have been -before the public for more than sixty years. Cowley is one of the few -English poets who have been, during their lifetime, praised as much as -Tennyson has been, yet where in 1720 was the fame of Cowley? Where in -the France of to-day are the _Méditations_ and _Harmonies_ of Lamartine? - -If, then, we might take Tennyson as an example of the result of the -action of democracy upon literature, we might indeed congratulate -ourselves. But a moment's reflection shows that to do so is to put -the cart before the horse. The wide appreciation of such delicate -and penetrating poetry is, indeed, an example of the influence of -literature on democracy, but hardly of democracy on literature. We -may examine the series of Tennyson's volumes with care, and scarcely -discover a copy of verses in which he can be detected as directly -urged to expression by the popular taste. This prime favourite of the -educated masses never courted the public, nor strove to serve it. He -wrote to please himself, to win the applause of the "little clan," -and each round of salvos from the world outside seemed to startle him -in his obstinate retirement. If it grew easier and easier for him to -consent to please the masses, it was because he familiarised them more -and more with his peculiar accent. He led literary taste, he did not -dream of following it. - -What is true of Tennyson is true of most of our recent poets. There is -one exception, however, and that a very curious one. The single English -poet of high rank whose works seem to me to be distinctly affected by -the democratic spirit, nay, to be the direct outcome of the influence -of democracy, is Robert Browning. It has scarcely been sufficiently -noted by those who criticise the style of that great writer that the -entire tone of his writings introduces something hitherto unobserved -in British poetry. That something is the repudiation of the recognised -oligarchic attitude of the poet in his address to the public. It is not -that he writes or does not write of the poor. It is a curious mistake -to expect the democratic spirit to be always on its knees adoring the -proletariat. To the true democracy all are veritably of equal interest, -and even a belted earl may be a man and a brother. In his poems Robert -Browning spoke as though he felt himself to be walking through a world -of equals, all interesting to him, all worthy of study. This is the -secret of his abrupt familiar appeal, his "Dare I trust the same to -you?" "Look out, see the gipsy!" "You would fain be kinglier, say, -than I am?" the incessant confidential aside to a cloud of unnamed -witnesses, the conversational tone, things all of which were before his -time unknown in serious verse. Browning is hail-fellow-well-met with -all the world, from queen to peasant, and half of what is called his -dramatic faculty is merely the result of his genius for making friends -with every species of mankind. - -With this exception, however, the principal poetical writers of our -time seem to be unaffected by the pressure of the masses around them. -They select their themes, remain true to the principles of composition -which they prefer, concern themselves with the execution of their -verses, and regard the opinion of the millions as little or even less -than their great forerunners did that of emperor or prince-bishop. -Being born with quick intelligences into an age burdened by social -difficulties, these latter occasionally interest them very acutely, and -they write about them, not, I think, pressed into that service by the -democratic spirit, but yielding to the attraction of what is moving -and picturesque. A wit has lately said of the most popular, the most -democratic of living French poets, M. François Coppée, that his blazon -is "des rimes riches sur la blouse prolétaire." But the central fact to -a critic about M. Coppée's verse is, not the accident that he writes -about poor people, but the essential point that his rhymes are richer -and his verse more faultless than those of any of his contemporaries. -We may depend upon it that democracy has had no effect on his prosody, -and the rest is a mere matter of selection. - -The fact seems to be that the more closely we examine the highest -examples of the noblest class of literature the more we become -persuaded that democracy has scarcely had any effect upon them at all. -It has not interfered with the poets, least of all has it dictated to -them. It has listened to them with respect; it has even contemplated -their eccentricities with admiration; it had tried, with its millions -of untrained feet, to walk in step with them. And when we turn from -poetry to the best science, the best history, the best fiction, we find -the same phenomenon. Democracy has been stirred to its depths by the -writings of Darwin; but who can trace in those writings the smallest -concession to the judgment or desire of the masses? Darwin became -convinced of certain theories. To the vast mass of the public these -theories were incredible, unpalatable, impious. With immense patience, -without emphasis of any kind, he proceeded to substantiate his views, -to enlarge his exposition; and gradually the cold body of democratic -opposition melted around that fervent atom of heat, and, in response -to its unbroken radiation, became warm itself. All that can be said -is that the new democratic condition is a better conductor than the -old oligarchical one was. Darwin produces his effect more steadily and -rapidly than Galileo or Spinoza, but not more surely, with exactly as -little aid from without. - -As far, then, as the summits of literature are concerned--the great -masters of style, the great discoverers, the great intellectual -illuminators--it may be said that the influence of democracy upon -them is almost _nil_. It affords them a wider hearing, and therefore -a prompter recognition. It gives them more readers, and therefore -a more direct arrival at that degree of material comfort necessary -for the proper conduct of their investigations, or the full polish -of their periods. It may spoil them with its flatteries, or diminish -their merit by seducing them to over-production; but this is a question -between themselves and their own souls. A syndicate of newspapers, -or the editor of a magazine may tempt a writer of to-day, as Villon -was tempted with the wine-shop, or Coleridge with laudanum; but that -is not the fault of the democracy. Nor, if a writer of real power is -neglected, are people more or less to blame in 1892 than they were for -letting Otway starve two hundred years ago. Some people, beloved of -the gods, cannot be explained to mankind by king or caucus. - -So far, therefore, as our present experience goes, we may relinquish -the common fear that the summits of literature will be submerged -by democracy. When the new spirit first began to be studied, many -whose judgment on other points was sound enough were confident that -the instinctive programme of the democratic spirit was to prevent -intellectual capacity of every kind from developing, for fear of the -ascendency which it would exercise. This is communism, and means -democracy pushed to an impossible extremity, to a point from which it -must rebound. No doubt, there is always a chance that a disturbance of -the masses may for a moment wash over and destroy some phase of real -intellectual distinction, just as it may sweep away, also for a moment, -other personal conditions. But it looks as though the individuality -would always reassert itself. The crowd that smashed the porcelain -in the White House to celebrate the election of President Andrew -Jackson had to buy more to take its place. The White House did not -continue, even under Jackson, to subsist without porcelain. In the same -way, edicts may be passed by communal councils forbidding citizens -to worship the idols which the booksellers set up, and even that -consummation may be reached, to which a prophet of our own day looks -forward, when we shall all be forced by the police to walk hand in hand -with "the craziest sot in the village" as our friend and equal; none -the less will human nature, at the earliest opportunity, throw off the -bondage, and openly prefer Darwin and Tennyson to that engaging rustic. -Indeed, all the signs of the times go to suggest that the completer the -democracy becomes, the vaster the gap will be in popular honour between -the great men of letters and "the craziest sot in the village." It is -quite possible that the tyranny of extreme intellectual popularity may -prove as tiresome as other and older tyrannies were. But that's another -story, as the new catchword tells us. - -Literature, however, as a profession or a calling, is not confined to -the writings of the five or six men who, in each generation, represent -what is most brilliant and most independent. From the leaders, in -their indisputable greatness, the intellectual hierarchy descends to -the lowest and broadest class of workers who in any measure hang on -to the skirts of literature, and eke out a living by writing. It is -in the middle ranks of this vast pyramid that we should look to see -most distinctly the signs of the influence of democracy. We shall not -find them in the broad and featureless residuum any more than in the -strongly individualised summits. But we ought to discover them in the -writers who have talent enough to keep them aloft, yet not enough to -make them indifferent to outer support. Here, where all is lost or -gained by a successful appeal to the crowd as it hastens by, we might -expect to see very distinctly the effects of democracy, and here, -perhaps, if we look closely, we may see them. - -It appears to me that even here it is not so easy as one would -imagine that it would be to pin distinct charges to the sleeve of -the much-abused democracy. Let us take the bad points first. The -enlargement of the possible circle of an author's readers may awaken -in the breast of a man who has gained a little success, the desire -to arrive at a greater one in another field, for which he is really -not so well equipped. An author may have a positive talent for church -history, and turning from it, through cupidity, to fiction, may, by -addressing a vastly extended public, make a little more money by his -bad stories than he was able to make by his good hagiology, and so act -to the detriment of literature. Again, an author who has made a hit -with a certain theme, or a certain treatment of that theme, may be held -nailed down to it by the public long after he has exhausted it and -it has exhausted him. Again, the complaisance of the public, and the -loyal eagerness with which it cries "Give, give," to a writer that has -pleased it, may induce that writer to go on talking long after he has -anything to say, and so conduce to the watering of the milk of wit. -Or--and this is more subtle and by no means so easy to observe--the -pressure of commonplace opinion, constantly checking a writer when he -shelves away towards either edge of the trodden path of mediocrity, may -keep him from ever adding to the splendid originalities of literature. -This shows itself in the disease which we may call Mudieitis, the -inflammation produced by the fear that what you are inspired to say, -and know you ought to say, will be unpalatable to the circulating -libraries, that "the wife of a country incumbent," that terror before -which Messrs. Smith fall prone upon their faces, may write up to -headquarters and expostulate. In all these cases, without doubt, we -have instances of the direct influence of democracy upon literature, -and that of a deleterious kind. Not one of them, however, can produce -a bad effect upon any but persons of weak or faulty character, and -these would probably err in some other direction, even at the court of -a grand duke. - -On the other hand, the benefits of democratic surroundings are felt in -these middle walks of literature. The appeal to a very wide audience -has the effect of giving a writer whose work is sound but not of -universal interest, an opportunity of collecting, piecemeal, individual -readers enough to support him. The average sanity of a democracy, and -the habit it encourages of immediate, full, and candid discussion, -preserves the writer whose snare is eccentricity from going too far in -his folly. The celebrated eccentrics of past literature, the Lycophrons -and the Gongoras, the Donnes and the Gombrevilles, were the spokesmen -of small and pedantic circles, disdainful of the human herd, "sets" -whose members rejoiced in the conceits and extravagance of their -respective favourites, and encouraged these talented personages to make -mountebanks of themselves. These leaders were in most cases excessively -clever, and we find their work, or a little of it, very entertaining -as we cross the history of _belles-lettres_. But it is impossible -not to see that, for instance, each of the mysterious writers I -have mentioned would, in a democratic age, and healthily confronted -with public criticism, have been able to make a much wholesomer and -broader use of his cleverness. The democratic spirit, moreover, may be -supposed to encourage directness of utterance, simplicity, vividness, -and lucidity. I say it may be supposed to do so, because I cannot -perceive that with all our liberty the nineteenth century has proceeded -any farther in this direction than the hide-bound eighteenth century -was able to do. On the whole, indeed, I find it very difficult to -discover that democracy, as such, is affecting the quality of such good -literature as we possess in any very general or obvious way. It may be -that we are still under the oligarchic tradition, and that a social -revolution, introducing a sudden breach in our habits, and perhaps -paralysing the profession of letters for a few years, would be followed -by a new literature of a decidedly democratic class. We are speaking of -what we actually see, and not of vague visions which may seem to flit -across the spectral mirror of the future. - -But when we pass from the quality of the best literature to the -quantity of it, then it is impossible to preserve so indifferent or -so optimistic an attitude. The democratic habit does not, if I am -correct, make much difference in the way in which good authors write, -but it very much affects the amount of circulation which their writings -obtain. The literature of which I have hitherto spoken is that of which -analysis can take cognisance, the writing which possesses a measure, -at least, of distinction, of accomplishment, that which, in every -class, belongs to the tradition of good work. It is very easy to draw -a rough line, not too high, above which all may fairly be treated as -literature in _posse_ if not in _esse_. In former ages, almost all -that was published, certainly all that attracted public attention and -secured readers, was of this sort. The baldest and most grotesque -Elizabethan drama, the sickliest romance that lay with Bibles and with -_billets-doux_ on Belinda's toilet-table, the most effete didactic -poem of the Hayley and Seward age, had this quality of belonging to -the literary camp. It was a miserable object, no doubt, and wholly -without value, but it wore the king's uniform. If it could have been -better written, it would have been well written. But, as a result -of democracy, what is still looked upon as the field of literature -has been invaded by camp-followers of every kind, so active and so -numerous, that they threaten to oust the soldiery themselves; persons -in every variety of costume, from court-clothes to rags, but agreeing -only in this, that they are not dressed as soldiers of literature. - -These amateurs and specialists, these writers of books that are not -books, and essays that are not essays, are peculiarly the product of a -democratic age. A love for the distinguished parts of literature, and -even a conception that such parts exist, is not common among men, and -it is not obvious that democracy has led to its encouragement. Hitherto -the tradition of style has commonly been respected; no very open voice -having been as yet raised against it. But with the vast majority of -persons it remains nothing but a mystery, and one which they secretly -regard with suspicion. The enlargement of the circle of readers merely -means an increase of persons who, without an ear, are admitted to -the concert of literature. At present they listen to the traditional -sonatas and mazurkas with bored respect, but they are really longing -for music-hall ditties on the concertina. To this ever-increasing -congregation of the unmusical comes the technical amateur, with his dry -facts and exact knowledge; the flippant amateur, with his comic "bits" -and laughable miscellanies; the didactic and religious amateur, anxious -to mend our manners and save our souls. These people, whose power -must not be slighted, and whose value, perhaps, can only relatively be -denied, have something definite, something serviceable to give in the -form of a paper or a magazine or a book. What wonder that they should -form dangerous rivals to the writer who is assiduous about the way in -which a thing is said, and careful to produce a solid and harmonious -effect by characteristic language? - -It was mainly during the close of the seventeenth and the beginning of -the eighteenth century that this body of technical, professional, and -non-literary writing began to develop. We owe it, without doubt, to the -spread of exact knowledge and the emancipation of speculative thought. -It was from the law first, then from divinity, then from science, and -last from philosophy that the studied graces were excluded--a sacrifice -on the altar of positive expression. If a writer on precise themes -were to adopt to-day the balanced elegance of Evelyn or Shaftesbury's -stately and harmonious periods, he would either be read for his style -and his sentiment or not at all. People would go for their information -elsewhere. No doubt, in a certain sense, this change is due to the -democracy; it is due to the quickening and rarefying of public life, -to the creation of rapid needs, to a breaking down of barriers. But so -long as the books and papers which deal with professional matters do -not utterly absorb the field, so long as they leave time and space for -pure literature, there is no reason why they should positively injure -the latter, though they must form a constant danger to it. At times of -public ferment, when great constitutional or social problems occupy -universal attention, there can be no doubt that the danger ripens into -real injury. When newspapers are full of current events in political -and social life, the graver kind of books are slackly bought, and a -"the higher criticism" disappears from the Reviews. - -We can imagine a state of things in which such a crowding out should -become chronic, when the nervous system of the public should crave such -incessant shocks of actuality, that no time should be left for thought -or sentiment. We might arrive at the condition in which Wordsworth -pictured the France of ninety years ago: - - - _Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!_ - _No single volume paramount, no code,_ - _No master spirit, no determined road;_ - _But equally a want of books and men!_ - - -When we feel inclined to forebode such a shocking lapse into -barbarism, it may help us if we reflect how soon France, in spite of, -or by the aid of, democracy, threw off the burden of emptiness. A -recollection of the intellectual destitution of that country at the -beginning of the century and of the passionate avidity with which, on -the return of political tranquillity, France threw herself back on -literary and artistic avocations, should strengthen the nerves of those -pessimists who, at the slightest approach to a similar condition in -modern England, declare that our intellectual prestige is sunken, never -to revive. There is a great elasticity in the tastes of the average -man, and when they have been pushed violently in one direction they -do not remain fixed there, but swing with equal force to the opposite -side. The æsthetic part of mankind may be obscured, it cannot be -obliterated. - -The present moment appears to me to be a particularly unhappy one for -indulging in gloomy diatribes against the democracy. Books, although -they constitute the most durable part of literature, are not, in -this day, by any means its sole channel. Periodical literature has -certainly been becoming more and more democratic; and if the editors -of our newspapers gauge in any degree the taste of their readers, -that taste must be becoming more and more inclined to the formal and -distinctive parts of writing. A few years ago, the London newspapers -were singularly indifferent to the claims of books and of the men who -wrote them. An occasional stately column of the _Times_ represented -almost all the notice which a daily paper would take of a volume. The -provincial press was still worse provided; it afforded no light at all -for such of its clients as were groping their way in the darkness of -the book-market. - -All this is now changed. One or two of the evening newspapers of -London deserve great commendation for having dared to treat literary -subjects, in distinction from mere reviews of books, as of immediate -public interest. Their example has at length quickened some of the -morning papers, and has spread into the provinces to such a signal -degree that several of the great newspapers of the North of England -are now served with literary matter of a quality and a fulness not -to be matched in a single London daily twenty years ago. When an -eminent man of letters dies, the comments which the London and country -press make upon his career and the nature of his work are often quite -astonishing in their fulness; space being dedicated to these notices -such as, but a few years ago, would have been grudged to a politician -or to a prize-fighter. The newspapers are the most democratic of all -vehicles of thought, and the prominence of literary discussion in their -columns does not look as though the democracy was anxious to be thought -indifferent or hostile to literature. - -In all this bustle and reverberation, however, it may be said that -there is not much place for those who desire, like Jean Chapelain, -to live in innocence, with Apollo and with their books. There can be -no question, that the tendency of modern life is not favourable to -sequestered literary scholarship. At the same time, it is a singular -fact that, even in the present day, when a Thomas Love Peacock or an -Edward FitzGerald hides himself in a careful seclusion, like some rare -aquatic bird in a backwater, his work slowly becomes manifest, and -receives due recognition and honour. Such authors do not enjoy great -sales, even when they become famous, but, in spite of their opposition -to the temper of their time, in spite of all obstacles imposed by their -own peculiarities of temperament, they receive, in the long run, a fair -measure of success. They have their hour, sooner or later. More than -that no author of their type could have under any form of political -government, or at any period of history. They should not, and, in -fairness it must be said they rarely do, complain. They know that "Dieu -paie," as Alphonse Karr said, "mais il ne paie pas tous les samedis." - -It is the writers who want to be paid every Saturday upon whom -democracy produces the worst effect. It is not the neglect of the -public, it is the facility with which the money can be wheedled out -of the pockets of the public on trifling occasions that constitutes -a danger to literature. There is an enormous quantity of almost -unmitigated shoddy now produced and sold, and the peril is that -authors who are capable of doing better things will be seduced into -adding to this wretched product for the sake of the money. We are -highly solicitous nowadays, and it is most proper that we should be, -about adequate payment for the literary worker. But as long as that -payment is in no sort of degree proportioned to the merit of the -article he produces, the question of its scale of payment must remain -one rather for his solicitor than for the critics. The importance of -our own Society of Authors, for instance, lies, it appears to me, -in its constituting a sort of firm of solicitors acting solely for -literary clients. But the moment we go further than this, we get into -difficulties. The money standard tends to become the standard of merit. -At a recent public meeting, while one of the most distinguished of -living technical writers was speaking for the literary profession, -one of those purveyors of tenth-rate fiction, who supply stories, as -they might supply vegetables, to a regular market, was heard to say -with scorn, "Call _him_ an author?" "Why, yes!" her neighbour replied, -"don't you know he has written so and so, and so and so?" "Well," said -the other, "I should like to know what his sales are before I allowed -he was an author." - -It would be highly inopportune to call for a return of the _bonâ fide_ -sales of those of our leading authors who are not novelists. It is to -be hoped that no such indulgence to the idlest curiosity will ever be -conceded. But if such a thing were done, it would probably reveal some -startling statistics. It would be found that many of those whose names -are only next to the highest in public esteem do not receive more than -the barest pittance from their writings, even from those which are -most commonly in the mouths of their contemporaries. To mention only -two writers, but these of singular eminence and prominence, it was -not until the later years of their lives that either Robert Browning -or Matthew Arnold began to be sure of even a very moderate pecuniary -return on their books. The curious point was that both of them achieved -fame of a wide and brilliant nature long before their books began to -"move," as publishers call it. It is not easy to think of an example -of this curious fact more surprising than this, that _Friendship's -Garland_ during many years did not pass out of one moderate edition. -This book, published when Arnold was filling the mouths of men with his -paradoxical utterances, lighted up all through with such wit and charm -of style as can hardly, of its kind, be paralleled in recent prose; a -masterpiece, not dealing with remote or abstruse questions, but with -burning matters of the day--this entertaining and admirably modern -volume enjoyed a sale which would mean deplorable failure in the case -of a female novelist of a perfectly subterranean order. This case could -be paralleled, no doubt, by a dozen others, equally striking. I have -just taken up a volume of humour, the production of a "funny man" of -the moment, and I see on its title-page the statement that it is in -its one hundred and nineteenth edition. Of this book, 119,000 copies -have been bought during a space of time equal to that in which Matthew -Arnold sold probably about 119 copies of _Friendship's Garland_. In the -face of these facts it is not possible to say that, though it may buy -well, the democracy buys wisely. - -It is this which makes me fear that, as I have said, the democratic -spirit is influencing disadvantageously the quantity rather than the -quality of good literature. It seems to be starving its best men, and -helping its coarsest Jeshuruns to wax fat. The good authors write as -they would have written under any circumstances, valuing their work for -its own sake, and enjoying that state of happiness of which Mr. William -Morris has been speaking, "the happiness only possible to artists and -thieves." But while they produce in this happy mood, the democracy, -which honours their names and displays an inexplicable curiosity about -their persons, is gradually exterminating them by borrowing their books -instead of buying them, and so reducing them to a level just below the -possibility of living by pure literature. The result is, as any list of -the most illustrious living authors (not novelists) will suggest, that -scarcely a single man or woman of them has lived by the production of -books. An amiable poet of the older school, whose name is everywhere -mentioned with honour, used to say that he published books instead -of keeping a carriage, as his fortune would not permit him to afford -both of those luxuries. When we think of the prizes which literature -occasionally offered to serious work in the eighteenth century, it -seems as though there had been a very distinct retrogression in this -respect. - -The novel, in short, tends more and more to become the only -professional branch of literature; and this is unfortunate, because the -novel is the branch which shelters the worst work. In other sections -of pure letters, if work is not in any way good, it is cast forth and -no more heard of. But a novel may be utterly silly, be condemned by -every canon of taste, be ignored by the press, and yet may enjoy a -mysterious success, pass through tens of editions, and start its author -on a career which may lead to opulence. It would be interesting to know -what it is that attracts the masses to books of this kind. How do they -hear of them in the first instance? Why does one vapid and lady-like -novel speed on its way, while eleven others, apparently just like unto -it, sink and disappear? How is the public appetite for this insipidity -to be reconciled with the partiality of the same readers for stories -by writers of real excellence? Why do those who have once pleased the -public continue to please it, whatever lapses into carelessness and -levity they permit themselves? I have put these questions over and -over again to those whose business it is to observe and take advantage -of the fluctuations of the book-market, but they give no intelligible -reply. If the Sphinx had asked Oedipus to explain the position of "Edna -Lyall," he would have had to throw himself from the rock. - -If the novelists, bad or good, showed in their work the influence of -democracy, they would reward study. But it is difficult to perceive -that they do. The good ones, from Mr. George Meredith downwards, write -to please themselves, in their own manner, just as do the poets, the -critics, and the historians, leaving it to the crowd to take their -books or let them lie. The commonplace ones write blindly, following -the dictates of their ignorance and their inexperience, waiting for the -chance that the capricious public may select a favourite from their -ranks. Almost the only direct influence which the democracy, as at -present constituted in England, seems to bring to bear on novels, is -the narrowing of the sphere of incident and emotion within which they -may disport themselves. It would be too complicated and dangerous a -question to ask here, at the end of an essay, whether that restriction -is a good thing or a bad. The undeniable fact is that whenever an -English novelist has risen to protest against it, the weight of the -democracy has been exercised to crush him. He has been voted "not -quite nice," a phrase of hideous import, as fatal to a modern writer -as the inverted thumb of a Roman matron was to a gladiator. But all -we want now is a very young man strong enough, sincere enough, and -popular enough to insist on being listened to when he speaks of real -things--and perhaps we have found him. - -One great novelist our race has however produced, who seems not only to -write under the influence of democracy, but to be absolutely inspired -by the democratic spirit. This is Mr. W. D. Howells, and it is only -by admitting this isolation of his, I think, that we can arrive at -any just comprehension of his place in contemporary literature. It is -the secret of his extreme popularity in America, except in a certain -Europeanised clique; it is the secret of the instinctive dislike of -him, amounting to a blind hereditary prejudice, which is so widely -felt in this country. Mr. Howells is the most exotic, perhaps the only -truly exotic writer of great distinction whom America has produced. -Emerson, and the school of Emerson in its widest sense, being too -self-consciously in revolt against the English oligarchy, out of which -they sprang, to be truly distinguished from it. But England, with -its aristocratic traditions and codes, does not seem to weigh with -Mr. Howells. His books suggest no rebellion against, nor subjection -to, what simply does not exist for him or for his readers. He is -superficially irritated at European pretensions, but essentially, and -when he becomes absorbed in his work as a creative artist, he ignores -everything but that vast level of middle-class of American society out -of which he sprang, which he faithfully represents, and which adores -him. To English readers, the novels of Mr. Howells must always be -something of a puzzle, even if they partly like them, and as a rule -they hate them. But to the average educated American who has not been -to Europe, these novels appear the most deeply experienced and ripely -sympathetic product of modern literature. - -When we review the whole field of which some slight outline has here -been attempted, we see much that may cheer and encourage us, and -something, too, that may cause grave apprehension. The alertness and -receptivity of the enormous crowd which a writer may now hope to -address is a pleasant feature. The hammering away at an idea without -inducing it to enter anybody's ears is now a thing of the past. What -was whispered in London yesterday afternoon was known in New York -this morning, and we have the comments of America upon it with our -five o'clock tea to-day. But this is not an unmixed benefit, for if -an impression is now quickly made, it is as quickly lost, and there -is little profit in seeing people receive an idea which they will -immediately forget. Moreover, for those who write what the millions -read, there is something disturbing and unwholesome in this public -roar that is ever rising in their ears. They ensconce themselves in -their study, they draw the curtains, light the lamp, and plunge into -their books, but from the darkness outside comes that distracting and -agitating cry of the public that demands their presence. This is a new -temptation, and indicates a serious danger. But the popular writers -will get used to it, and when they realise how little it really means -it may cease to disturb them. In the meantime, let no man needlessly -dishearten his brethren in this world of disillusions, by losing faith -in the ultimate survival and continuance of literature. - -_1891._ - - - - -HAS AMERICA PRODUCED A POET? - - - - -Has America Produced a Poet? - - -For the audacious query which stands at the head of this essay, it is -not I, but an American editor, who must bear the blame, if blame there -be. It would never have occurred to me to tie such a firebrand to the -tail of any of my little foxes. He gave it to me, just as Mr. Pepys -gave _Gaze not on Swans_ to ingenious Mr. Birkenshaw, to make the best -I could of a bad argument. On the face of it the question is absurd. -There lies on my table a manual of American poetry by Mr. Stedman, -in which the meed of immortality is awarded to about one hundred of -Columbia's sons and daughters. No one who has a right to express an -opinion is likely to deny that the learning, fidelity, and catholic -taste which are displayed in this book are probably at this time of -day shared, in the same degree, with its author, by no other living -Anglo-Saxon writer. Why, then, should not Mr. Stedman's admirable -volume be taken as a complete and satisfactory answer to our editor's -query? Simply because everything is relative, and because it may be -amusing to apply to the subject of Mr. Stedman's criticism a standard -more cosmopolitan and much less indulgent than his. Mr. Stedman has -mapped out the heavens with a telescope; what can an observer detect -with the naked eye? - -There is an obvious, and yet a very stringent, sense in which no good -critic could for a moment question that America has produced poets. -A poet is a maker, a man or woman who expresses some mood of vital -passion in a new manner and with adequate art. Turning to the accepted -ranks of English literature, Tickell is a poet on the score of his one -great elegy on Addison, and Wolfe, a century later, by his _Burial -of Sir John Moore_. Those poems were wholly new and impassioned, and -time has no effect upon the fame of their writers. So long as English -poetry continues to be studied a little closely, Tickell and Wolfe -will be visible as diminutive fixed stars in our poetical firmament. -But in a rapid and superficial glance, Wolfe and Tickell disappear. -Let the glance be more and more rapid, and only a few planets of the -first magnitude are seen. In the age before Elizabeth, Chaucer alone -remains; of the Elizabethan galaxy, so glittering and rich, we see at -length only Spenser and Shakespeare; then come successive splendours of -Milton, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns; then a cluster again of Wordsworth, -Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats. Last of all, still too low on the -horizon to be definitely measured, Tennyson and Browning. Fifteen names -in all, a sum which might be reduced to ten, perhaps, but never to -fewer than ten, nor expanded, on the same scale, beyond eighteen or -twenty at the outside. These fifteen are the great English poets, the -selected glory and pride of five centuries, the consummation of the -noblest dynasty of verse which the world has ever seen. What I take to -be the problem is, Has America hitherto produced a poet equal to the -least of these, raised as high above any possible vacillation of the -tide of fashion? What an invidious question! - -In the first place, I will have nothing to do with the living. They -do not enter into our discussion. There was never a time, in my -opinion, when America possessed among her citizens so various and so -accomplished singers, gifted in so many provinces of song, as in 1888. -But the time has not arrived, and long may it delay, when we shall be -called upon to discuss the ultimate _status_ of the now living poets of -America. From the most aged of them we have not yet, we hope, received -"sad autumn's last chrysanthemum." Those who have departed will alone -be glanced at in these few words. Death is the great solution of -critical continuity, and the bard whom we knew so well, and who died -last night, is nearer already to Chaucer than to us. I shall endeavour -to state quite candidly what my own poor opinion is with regard to the -claim of any dead American to be classed with those fourteen or fifteen -English inheritors of unassailed renown. - -One word more in starting. If we admit into our criticism any -patriotic or political prejudice, we may as well cease to wrangle on -the threshold of our discussion. I cannot think that American current -criticism is quite free from this taint of prejudice. In this, if I -am right, Americans sin no more nor less than the rest of us English, -and French; but in America, I confess, the error seems to me to be -occasionally more serious than in Europe. In England we are not -guiltless of permitting the most puerile disputes to embitter our -literary arena, and because a certain historian is a home-ruler or a -certain novelist a Tory, each is anathema to the literary tribunal on -the other side. Such judgments are as pitiable as they are ludicrous; -but when I have watched a polite American smile to encounter such -vagaries of taste in our clubs or drawing-rooms, I have sometimes -wondered how the error which prefers the non-political books of a -Gladstonian to those of a Unionist, on political grounds alone, differs -from that which thinks an American writer must have the advantage, or -some advantage, over an English writer. Each prejudice is natural and -amiable, but neither the one nor the other is exempt from the charge of -puerility. Patriotism is a meaningless term in literary criticism. To -prefer what has been written in our own city, or state, or country, for -that reason alone, is simply to drop the balance and to relinquish all -claims to form a judgment. The true and reasonable lover of literature -refuses to be constrained by any meaner or homelier bond than that of -good writing. His brain and his taste persist in being independent of -his heart, like those of the German soldier who fought through the -campaign before Paris, and who was shot at last with an Alfred de -Musset, thumbed and scored, in his pocket. - -One instance of the patriotic fallacy has so often annoyed me that I -will take this opportunity of denouncing it. A commonplace of American -criticism is to compare Keats with a certain Joseph Rodman Drake. -They both died at twenty-five and they both wrote verse. The parallel -ends there. Keats was one of the great writers of the world. Drake -was a gentle imitative bard of the fourth or fifth order, whose gifts -culminated in a piece of pretty fancy called _The Culprit Fay_. Every -principle of proportion is outraged in a conjunction of the names of -Drake and Keats. To compare them is like comparing a graceful shrub -in your garden with the tallest pine that fronts the tempest on the -forehead of Rhodopé. - -When the element of prejudice is entirely withdrawn, we have next -to bear in mind the fluctuations of taste in respect to popular -favourites, and the uncertainty that what has pleased us may ever -contrive to please the world again. I have been reminded of the -insecurity of contemporary judgments, and of the process of natural -selection which goes on imperceptibly in criticism, by referring to a -compendium of literature published thirty years ago, and remarkable in -its own time for knowledge, acumen, and candour. In these volumes the -late Robert Carruthers, an excellent scholar in his day and generation, -gives a certain space to the department of American poetry. It is -amusing to think how differently a man of Carruthers's stamp would -cover the same ground to-day. He gives great prominence to Halleck -and Bryant, he treats Longfellow and Poe not inadequately, he spares -brief commendation to Willis and Holmes, and a bare mention to Dana -and Emerson (as a poet). He alludes to no one else; and apart from his -omissions, which are significant enough, nothing can be more curious -than his giving equal _status_ respectively to Halleck and Bryant, -to Willis and Holmes, to Dana and Emerson. Thirty years have passed, -and each of these pairs contains one who has been taken and one who -has been left. Bryant, Holmes, and Emerson exist, and were never more -prominent than to-day; but where are Halleck, Willis, and Dana? Under -the microscope of Mr. Stedman, these latter three together occupy but -half of one page out of four hundred, nor is there the slightest chance -that these writers will ever recover the prominence which they held, -and seemed to hold so securely, little more than a generation ago. The -moral is too obvious to need appending to this suggestive little story. - -It is not in America only that a figure which is not really a great -one gets accidentally raised on a pedestal from which it presently has -to be ignominiously withdrawn. But in America, where the interest in -intellectual problems is so keen, and where the dull wholesome bondage -of tradition is unknown, these sudden exaltations are particularly -frequent. When I was in Baltimore (and I have no happier memories of -travel than my recollections of Baltimore) the only crumple in my -rose-leaf was the difficulty of preserving a correct attitude toward -the local deity. When you enter the gates of Johns Hopkins, the -question that is asked is, "What think you of Lanier"? The writer of -the _Marshes of Glynn_ had passed away before I visited Baltimore, -but I heard so much about him that I feel as though I had seen him. -The delicately-moulded ivory features, the profuse and silken beard, -the wonderful eyes waxing and waning during the feverish action -of lecturing, surely I have witnessed the fascination which these -exercised? Baltimore would not have been Baltimore, would have been -untrue to its graceful, generous, and hospitable instincts, if it -had not welcomed with enthusiasm this beautiful, pathetic Southern -stranger. But I am amazed to find that this pardonable idolatry is -still on the increase, although I think it must surely have found its -climax in a little book which my friend, President Gilman, has been -kind enough to send me this year. In this volume I read that Shelley -and Keats, "before disconsolate," now possess a mate; that "God's -touch set the starry splendour of genius upon Lanier's soul"; and that -all sorts of persons, in all sorts of language, exalt him as one of -the greatest poets that ever lived. I notice, however, with a certain -sly pleasure, that on the occasion of this burst of Lanierolatry a -letter was received from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "of too private a -character to read." No wonder, for Dr. Holmes is the dupe of no local -enthusiasm, and very well indeed distinguishes between good verse and -bad. - -From Baltimore drunk with loyalty and pity I appeal to Baltimore sober. -What are really the characteristics of this amazing and unparalleled -poetry of Lanier? Reading it again, and with every possible inclination -to be pleased, I find a painful effort, a strain and rage, the most -prominent qualities in everything he wrote. Never simple, never easy, -never in one single lyric natural and spontaneous for more than one -stanza, always forcing the note, always concealing his barrenness and -tameness by grotesque violence of image and preposterous storm of -sound, Lanier appears to me to be as conclusively not a poet of genius -as any ambitious man who ever lived, laboured, and failed. I will judge -him by nothing less than those poems which his warmest admirers point -to as his masterpieces; I take _Corn_, _Sunrise_, and _The Marshes of -Glynn_. I persist in thinking that these are elaborate and learned -experiments by an exceedingly clever man, and one who had read so -much and felt so much that he could simulate poetical expression with -extraordinary skill. But of the real thing, of the genuine traditional -article, not a trace. - - - _I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green_ - _Dying to silent hints of kisses keen_ - _As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen._ - - -This exemplifies the sort of English, the sort of imagination, the sort -of style which are to make Keats and Shelley--who have found Bryant and -Landor, Rossetti and Emerson, unworthy of their company--comfortable -with a mate at last. If these vapid and eccentric lines were -exceptional, if they were even supported by a minority of sane and -original verse, if Lanier were ever simple or genuine, I would seize -on those exceptions and gladly forget the rest; but I find him on -all occasions substituting vague, cloudy rhetoric for passion, and -tortured fancy for imagination, always striving, against the grain, to -say something prophetic and unparalleled, always grinding away with -infinite labour and the sweat of his brow to get that expressed which a -real poet murmurs, almost unconsciously, between a sigh and a whisper. - - - _Wheresoe'er I turn my view,_ - _All is strange, yet nothing new;_ - _Endless labour all along,_ - _Endless labour to be wrong._ - - -Lanier must have been a charming man, and one who exercised a great -fascination over those who knew him. But no reasonable critic can turn -from what has been written about Lanier to what Lanier actually wrote, -and still assert that he was the Great American Poet. - -It is not likely to be seriously contended that there were in 1888 -more than four of the deceased poets of America who need to have their -claims discussed in connection with the highest honours in the art. -These are Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Poe. There is one other name -which, it may seem to some of my readers, ought to be added to this -list. But originality was so entirely lacking in the composition of -that versatile and mellifluous talent to which I allude, that I will -not even mention here the fifth name. I ask permission rapidly to -inquire whether Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson and Poe are worthy of a -rank beside the greatest English twelve. - -In the first place, what are we to say of Longfellow? I am very far -from being one of those who reject the accomplished and delicate work -of this highly-trained artist. If I may say so, no chapter of Mr. -Stedman's book seems to me to surpass in skill that in which he deals -with the works of Longfellow, and steers with infinite tact through -the difficulties of the subject. In the face of those impatient -youngsters who dare to speak of Longfellow and of Tupper in a breath, -I assert that the former was, within his limitations, as true a poet -as ever breathed. His skill in narrative was second only to that of -Prior and of Lafontaine. His sonnets, the best of them, are among the -most pleasing objective sonnets in the language. Although his early, -and comparatively poor, work was exaggeratedly praised, his head was -not turned, but, like a conscientious artist, he rose to better and -better things, even at the risk of sacrificing his popularity. It -is a pleasure to say this at the present day, when Longfellow's fame -has unduly declined; but it is needless, of course, to dwell on the -reverse of the medal, and disprove what nobody now advances, that he -was a great or original poet. Originality and greatness were just the -qualities he lacked. I have pointed out elsewhere that Longfellow -was singularly under Swedish influences, and that his real place is -in Swedish literature, chronologically between Tegnér and Runeberg. -Doubtless he seemed at first to his own people more original than he -was, through his habit of reproducing an exotic tone very exactly. - -Bryant appears to me to be a poet of a less attractive but somewhat -higher class than Longfellow. His versification is mannered, and -his expressions are directly formed on European models, but his -sense of style was so consistent that his careful work came to be -recognisable. His poetry is a hybrid of two English stocks, closely -related; he belongs partly to the Wordsworth of _Tintern Abbey_, -partly to the Coleridge of _Mont Blanc_. The imaginative formula is -Wordsworth's, the verse is the verse of Coleridge, and having in very -early youth produced this dignified and novel flower, Bryant did -not try to blossom into anything different, but went on cultivating -the Coleridge-Wordsworth hybrid down to the days of Rossetti and of -Villanelles. But Wordsworth and Coleridge had not stayed at the _Mont -Blanc_ and _Tintern Abbey_ point. They went on advancing, developing, -altering, and declining to the end of their days. The consequence is -that the specimens of the Bryant variety do not strike us as remarkably -like the general work of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. As I have said, -although he borrowed definitely and almost boldly, in the first -instance, the very persistence of Bryant's style, the fact that he -was influenced once by a very exquisite and noble kind of poetry, and -then never any more, through a long life, by any other verse, combined -with his splendid command of those restricted harmonies the secret of -which he had conquered, made Bryant a very interesting and valuable -poet. But in discussing his comparative position, it appears to me to -be impossible to avoid seeing that his want of positive novelty--the -derived character of his sentiment, his verse, and his description--is -absolutely fatal to his claim to a place in the foremost rank. He -is exquisitely polished, full of noble suavity and music, but his -irreparable fault is to be secondary, to remind us always of his -masters first, and only on reflection of himself. In this he contrasts -to a disadvantage with one who is somewhat akin to him in temperament, -Walter Savage Landor. We may admit that Byrant is more refined, more -uniformly exquisite than Landor, but the latter has a flavour of his -own, something quite original and Landorian, which makes him continue -to live, while Byrant's reputation slowly fades away, like the stately -crystal gables of an iceberg in summer. The "Water-Fowl" pursues its -steady flight through the anthologies, but Bryant is not with the great -masters of poetry. - -We ascend, I think, into a sphere where neither Bryant nor Longfellow, -with all their art, have power to wing their way, when we read such -verses as - - - _Musketaquit, a goblin strong,_ - _Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;_ - _They lose their grief who hear his song,_ - _And where he winds is the day of day._ - - _So forth and brighter fares my stream;_ - _Who drinks it shall not thirst again;_ - _No darkness stains its equal gleam,_ - _And ages drop in it like rain._ - - -If Emerson had been frequently sustained at the heights he was -capable of reaching, he would unquestionably have been one of the -sovereign poets of the world. At its very best his phrase is so new -and so magical, includes in its easy felicity such a wealth of fresh -suggestion and flashes with such a multitude of side-lights, that we -cannot suppose that it will ever be superseded or will lose its charm. -He seems to me like a very daring but purblind diver, who flings -himself headlong into the ocean, and comes up bearing, as a rule, -nothing but sand and common shells, yet who every now and then rises -grasping some wonderful and unique treasure. In his prose, of course, -Emerson was far more a master of the medium than in poetry. He never -became an easy versifier; there seems to have been always a difficulty -to him, although an irresistible attraction, in the conduct of a piece -of work confined within rhyme and rhythm. He starts with a burst of -inspiration; the wind drops and his sails flap the mast before he is -out of port; a fresh puff of breeze carries him round the corner; for -another page, the lyrical _afflatus_ wholly gone, he labours with the -oar of logic; when suddenly the wind springs up again, and he dances -into a harbour. We are so pleased to find the voyage successfully -accomplished that we do not trouble to inquire whether or no this -particular port was the goal he had before him at starting. I think -there is hardly one of Emerson's octosyllabic poems of which this will -not be found to be more or less an accurate allegorical description. -This is not quite the manner of Milton or Shelley, although it may -possess its incidental advantages. - -It cannot be in candour denied that we obtain a very strange impression -by turning from what has been written about Emerson to his own poetry. -All his biographers and critics unite, and it is very sagacious of -them to do so, in giving us little anthologies of his best lines and -stanzas, just as writers on _Hudibras_ extract miscellanies of the -fragmentary wit of Butler. Judged by a chain of these selected jewels, -Emerson gives us the impression of high imagination and great poetical -splendour. But the volume of his verse, left to produce its own effect, -does not fail to weaken this effect. I have before me at this moment -his first collected _Poems_, published, as he said, at "the solstice -of the stars of his intellectual firmament." It holds the brilliant -fragments that we know so well, but it holds them as a mass of dull -quartz may sparkle with gold dust. It has odes about Contocook and -Agischook and the Over-God, long nebulous addresses to no one knows -whom, about no one knows what; for pages upon pages it wanders away -into mere cacophonous eccentricity. It is Emerson's misfortune as a -poet that his technical shortcomings are for ever being more severely -reproved by his own taste and censorship than we should dare to -reprove them. To the author of _The World-Soul_, in shocking verses, -we silently commend his own postulate in exquisite prose, that "Poetry -requires that splendour of expression which carries with it the proof -of great thoughts." Emerson, as a verse-writer, is so fragmentary and -uncertain that we cannot place him among the great poets; and yet his -best lines and stanzas seem as good as theirs. Perhaps we ought to -consider him, in relation to Wordsworth and Shelley, as an asteroid -among the planets. - -It is understood that Edgar Allen Poe is still unforgiven in New -England. "Those singularly valueless verses of Poe," was the now -celebrated _dictum_ of a Boston prophet. It is true that, if "that most -beguiling of all little divinities, Miss Walters of the _Transcript_," -is to be implicitly believed, Edgar Poe was very rude and naughty at -the Boston Lyceum in the spring of 1845. But surely bygones should be -bygones, and Massachusetts might now pardon the _Al Aaraaf_ incident. -It is not difficult to understand that there were many sides on which -Poe was likely to be long distasteful to Boston, Cambridge, and -Concord. The intellectual weight of the man, though unduly minimised -in New England, was inconsiderable by the side of that of Emerson. But -in poetry, as one has to be always insisting, the battle is not to the -strong; and apart from all faults, weaknesses, and shortcomings of Poe, -we feel more and more clearly, or we ought to feel, the perennial charm -of his verses. The posy of his still fresh and fragrant poems is larger -than that of any other deceased American writer, although Emerson may -have one or two single blossoms to show which are more brilliant than -any of his. If the range of the Baltimore poet had been wider, if Poe -had not harped so persistently on his one theme of remorseful passion -for the irrecoverable dead, if he had employed his extraordinary, -his unparalleled gifts of melodious invention, with equal skill, in -illustrating a variety of human themes, he must have been with the -greatest poets. For in Poe, in pieces like _The Haunted Palace_, _The -Conqueror Worm_, _The City in the Sea_, and _For Annie_, we find two -qualities which are as rare as they are invaluable, a new and haunting -music, which constrains the hearer to follow and imitate, and a command -of evolution in lyrical work so absolute that the poet is able to do -what hardly any other lyrist has dared to attempt, namely, as in _To -One in Paradise_, to take a normal stanzaic form, and play with it as a -great pianist plays with an air. - -So far as the first of these attributes is concerned, Poe has proved -himself to be the Piper of Hamelin to all later English poets. From -Tennyson to Austin Dobson there is hardly one whose verse-music does -not show traces of Poe's influence. To impress the stamp of one's -personality on a succeeding generation of artists, to be an almost -(although not wholly) flawless technical artist one's self, to charm -within a narrow circle to a degree that shows no sign, after forty -years, of lessening, is this to prove a claim to rank with the Great -Poets? No, perhaps not quite; but at all events it is surely to have -deserved great honour from the country of one's birthright. - -_1889._ - - - - -WHAT IS A GREAT POET? - - - - -What is a Great Poet? - - -The answer to the question, "Has America produced a Poet?" which -was published in the _Forum_, called forth a surprising amount of -attention from the press in England as well as in America. It was quite -impossible, and I did not expect, that such an expression of personal -opinion would pass without being challenged. In America, particularly, -it could not but disturb some traditions and wound some prejudices. But -in the present instance, as always before, it has been my particular -fortune to find that where criticism--by which I mean, not censure, but -analysis--is candid and sincere, it meets in America with sincere and -candid readers. In parenthesis, I may add, that when literary criticism -of this kind is ill received in America, the fault usually lies with -that unhappy system of newspaper reverberation by which "scraps" or -"items," removed from their context and slightly altered at each fresh -removal, go the round of the press, and are presently commented upon -by journalists who have never seen what the critic originally wrote. -In reading some of the principal articles which my essay called forth, -I find one point dwelt upon, in various ways, in almost all of them. I -find a fresh query started as to the standard which we are to take as a -measurement for imaginative writers; and it seems to me that it may be -interesting to carry our original inquiry a step further back, and to -ask, What is a great poet? - -If we are to limit the number of the most illustrious and commanding -names, as I attempted to do, it is plain that we must also confine -the historical range of our inquiry. Some of my reviewers objected to -my selection being made among English poets only, and several of them -attempted lists which included the poets of Europe or of the world. -Yet, without exception, those critics displayed their national bias by -the large proportion of Anglo-Saxon worthies whom they could not bring -themselves to exclude from their dozen. Shakespeare must be there, -and Milton, Chaucer, Wordsworth, and Shelley; already a third of the -majestic company is English. One reviewer, who had been lately studying -the Anthology, could not persuade himself to omit several of those -dying dolphins of Byzantine song that drew the shallop of Agathias up -into the Golden Horn; and this when the whole tale of bards was not to -exceed fifteen at most. One reviewer went to Iceland for a name, and -another to Persia--charming excursions both of them, but calculated to -exhaust our resources prematurely. The least reflection will remind -us that the complexity and excessive fulness of modern interests have -invaded literature also, and the history of literature; to select from -all time a dozen greatest names is a task of doubtful propriety, and -certainly not to be lightly undertaken. It was all very well, in the -morning of time, for the ancient critics to regulate their body-guards -of Apollo by the numbers of the Muses or the Graces. Nothing could be -pleasanter than that tale of the great lyrical poets of the world which -we find so often repeated in slightly varying form: - -"The mighty voice of Pindar has thundered out of Thebes. The lyre of -Simonides modulates a song of delicate melody. What brilliancy in -Ibycus and Stesichorus! What sweetness in Alcman! From the mouth of -Bacchylides there breathe delicious accents. Persuasion exhales from -the lips of Anacreon. In the Æolian voice of Alcæus we hear once more -the Lesbian swan; and as for Sappho, that ninth great lyric poet, is -not her place, rather, tenth among the Muses?" - -If we are contributing lists of a dozen great poets, here are -three-fourths of the company already summoned; yet splendid as are -these names, and doubtless of irreproachable genius, the roll is, for -modern purposes, awkwardly overweighted. Even if for those whose works -Time has overwhelmed, we substitute the Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, -Theocritus, whom he has spared, the list is still impracticable and -one-sided. Yet who shall say that these were not great poets in every -possible sense of the word? From each of several modern European -nations, from Italy and from France at least, a magnificent list of -twelve could be selected, not one of whom their compatriots could -afford to lose. Nay, even Sweden or Holland would present us with a -list of twelve which should seem indisputably great to a Dutchman or -a Swede. It is not possible to spread the net so wide as to catch -whales from all the ancient and all the modern languages at once. Let -us restrain our ambition and see what criterion we have for measuring -those of our own tongue and race. - -Passing in review, then, the whole five centuries which divide us from -the youth of Chaucer, we would seek to discover what qualities have -raised a limited number of the poetical writers of those successive -ages of English thought to a station permanently and splendidly -exalted. Among the almost innumerable genuine poets of those five -hundred years, are there ten or twelve who are manifestly greater than -the rest, and if so, in what does their greatness consist? - -We are not here occupied with the old threadbare question, "What is -a poet"? but we may reply to it so far as to insist that when we are -speaking and thinking in English the term excludes all writers, however -pathetic and fanciful, who do not employ the metrical form. In many -modern languages the word poet, _dichter_, includes novelists and -all other authors of prose fiction. I once learned this to my cost, -for having published a short summary of the writings of the living -"poets" of a certain continental country, one of the leading (if not -the leading) novelist of that country, exclusively a writer in prose, -indignantly upbraided me for the obviously personal slight I had shown -him in leaving him entirely unmentioned. In English we possess and -should carefully maintain the advantage which accrues from having a -word so distinct in its meaning; and we may recollect that there is no -trick in literary criticism more lax and silly than that of talking -about "prose poetry" (a contradiction in terms), or about such men as -Carlyle, Mr. Ruskin, or Jefferies as "poets." The greatness we are -discussing to-day is a quality wholly confined to those who have made -it their chief duty to speak to us in verse. - -On these lines, perhaps, the main elements of poetical greatness will -be found to be originality in the treatment of themes, perennial -charm, exquisite finish in execution, and distinction of individual -manner. The great poet, in other words, will be seen, through the -perspectives of history, to have been fresher, stronger, more skilful, -and more personal than his unsuccessful or less successful rival. -When the latter begins to recede into obscurity it will be because -prejudices that blinded criticism are being removed, and because the -candidate for immortality is being found to be lacking in one or all of -these peculiar qualities. And here, of course, comes in the disputed -question of the existence of genius. I confess that that controversy -seems to me to rest on a mere metaphysical quibble. Robert McTavish -is a plough-boy, and ends at the plough's tail. Robert Burns is a -plough-boy, and ends by being set up, like Berenice's hair, as a glory -and a portent in the intellectual zenith of all time. Are they the same -to start with? Is it merely a question of taking pains, of a happy -accident--of luck, in short? A fiddlestick's end for such a theory! -Just as well might we say that a young vine that is to produce, in its -season, a bottle of corton, is the same as a similar stick that will -issue in a wretched draught of _vin bleu_. That which, from its very -cotyledons, has distinguished the corton plant from its base brother, -that is genius. - -But even thus the discussion is vain and empty. What we have to deal -with is the work and not the man. So long as we all feel that there -is some quality of charm, vigour, and brightness which exists in Pope -and is absent in Eusden, is discoverable in a tragedy of Shakespeare -and is wanting in a transpontine melodrama, so long, whether we call -this quality by the good old name of genius, or explain it away in the -jargon of some new-fangled sociography, we shall have basis enough for -the conduct of our particular inquiry. - -Perhaps I may now be permitted to recapitulate the list of a dozen -English poets whom I ventured to quote as the manifest immortals of -our British Parnassus. They are Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, -Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, -Keats. It will be noticed that there are thirteen names here, and my -reviewers have not failed to remind me that it is notoriously difficult -to count the stars. The fact is that Gray, the real thirteenth, was an -after-thought; and I will admit that, although Gray is the author of -what is perhaps the most imposing single short poem in the language, -and although he has charm, skill, and distinction to a marvellous -degree, his originality, his force of production, were so rigidly -limited that he may scarcely be admitted to the first rank. When he -published his collected poems Gray confessed himself "but a shrimp of -an author," and conjectured that the book would be mistaken for "the -works of a flea or a pismire." No doubt the explosive force which eggs -a very great writer on to constant expression was lacking in the -case of Gray, and I yield him--a tender babe, and the only one of my -interesting family which I will consent to throw to the wolves. The -rest are inviolable, and I will defend them to the last; but I can only -put a lance in rest here for two of them. - -The absence of a truly catholic taste, and the survival of an exclusive -devotion to the romantic ideals of the early part of the present -century, must, I suppose, be the cause of a tendency, on the part of -some of those who have replied to me, to question the right of Dryden -and Pope to appear on my list of great poets. It appears that Dryden is -very poorly thought of at Crawfordsville, Indiana, and even at busier -centres of American taste he is reported as being not much of a power. -"Dryden is not read in America," says one of my critics, with jaunty -confidence. They say that we in England are sometimes harsh in our -estimates of America; but I confess I do not know the Englishman bold -enough to have charged America with the shocking want of taste which -these children of her own have so lightly volunteered to attribute to -her. Dryden not read in America! It makes one wonder what is read. -Probably Miss Amélie Rives? - -But to be serious, I can conceive nothing more sinister for the future -of English literature than that to any great extent, or among any -influential circle of reading and writing men, the majesty and sinewy -force of the most masculine of all the English poets should be despised -and rejected. Something of a temper less hurried than that of the man -who runs and reads is no doubt required for the appreciation of that -somewhat heavy-footed and sombre giant of tragic and of narrative song, -John Dryden, warring with dunces, marching with sunken head--"a down -look," as Pope described it--through the unappreciative flat places of -our second Charles and James. Prosaic at times he is, slow, fatigued, -unstimulating; but, at his best, how full of the true sublime, how -uplifted by the wind of tragic passion, how stirred to the depths by -the noblest intellectual and moral enthusiasm! For my own part, there -are moments and moods in which nothing satisfies my ear and my brain -as do the great accents of Dryden, while he marches down the page, -with his elephants and his standards and his kettledrums, "in the full -vintage of his flowing honours." - -There must be something effeminate and feeble in the nervous system of -a generation which cannot bear this grandiose music, this virile tramp -of Dryden's soldiers and camp-followers; something singularly dull and -timid in a spirit that rejects this robust intellectual companion. And, -with all his russet suit of homespun, Dryden is imbued to the core with -the truest and richest blood of poetry. His vehemence is positively -Homeric; we would not give _Mac Flecknoe_ in exchange even for the lost -_Margites_. He possesses in a high degree all the qualities which we -have marked as needed for the attribution of greatness. He is original -to that extent that mainly by his efforts the entire stream of English -poetry was diverted for a century and a half into an unfamiliar -channel; he has an executive skill eminently his own, and is able to -amaze us to-day after so many subsequent triumphs of verse-power; he -has distinction such as an emperor might envy; and after all the poets -of the eighteenth century have, as Mr. Lowell says, had their hands in -his pockets, his best lines are as fresh and as magical as ever. - -Pope I will not defend so warmly, and yet Pope also was a great poet. -Two of my American critics, bent on refuting me, have severally availed -themselves of a somewhat unexpected weapon. Each of them reminds me -that Mr. Lang, in some recent number of a magazine, has said that -Pope is not a poet at all. Research might prove that this heresy is -not entirely unparalleled, yet I am unconvinced. I yield to no one in -respect and affection for Mr. Lang, but in criticising that with which -he feels no personal sympathy, he is merely a "young light-hearted -master of the oar" of temperament. When Mr. Lang blesses, the object is -blest; when he curses, he may bless to-morrow. Some day he will find -himself alone in a country-house with a Horace; old chords will be -touched, the mystery of Pope will reveal itself to him, and we shall -have a panegyric that will make Lady Mary writhe in her grave. Let no -transatlantic, or cisatlantic, infidel of letters be profane at the -expense of a classic by way of pleasing Mr. Lang; his next emotion is -likely to be "_un sentiment obscur d'avoir embrassé la Chimère_." - -To justify one's confidence in the great poetic importance of Pope is -somewhat difficult. It needs a fuller commentary and a longer series -of references than can be given here. But let us recollect that the -nature-worship and nature-study of to-day may grow to seem a complete -fallacy, a sheer persistence in affectation, and that then, to readers -of new tastes and passions, Wordsworth and Shelley will be as Pope is -now, that is to say, supported entirely by their individual merits. -At this moment, to the crowd, he is doubtless less attractive than -they are; he is on the shady side, they on the sunny side of fashion. -But the author of the end of the second book of _The Rape of the -Lock_, of the close of _The New Dunciad_, of the Sporus portrait, and -of the _Third Moral Essay_, has qualities of imagination, applied -to human character, and of distinction, applied to a formal and -delicately-elaborated style, which are unsurpassed, even perhaps by -Horace himself. Satirist after satirist has chirped like a wren from -the head of Pope; where are they now? Where is the great, the terrific, -the cloud-compelling Churchill? Meanwhile, in the midst of a generation -persistently turned away from all his ideas and all his models, the -clear voice of Pope still rings from the arena of Queen Anne. - -After all, this is mere assertion, and what am I that I should pretend -to lay down the law? If we seek, on the authority of whomsoever, to -raise an infallible standard of taste, and to arrange the poets in -classes, like schoolboys, then our inquiry is futile indeed, and worse -than futile. But the interest which this controversy has undoubtedly -called forth seems to prove that there is a side on which such -questions as have been started are not unwelcome nor unworthy of -careful study. It is not useless, I fancy, to remind ourselves now and -then of the very high standard which literature has a right to demand -from its more earnest votaries. In the hurry of life, in the glare of -passing interests, we are apt to lose breadth of sympathy, and to make -our own personal and temporary enjoyment of a book the criterion of its -value. I may take up Selden's _Titles of Honour_, turn over a page or -two, and lay it down in favour of the new number of _Punch_. I must not -for this reason pledge myself to placing the comic paper of to-day in a -niche above the best work of a great Elizabethan prose writer. But when -a modern American says that he finds better poetry in Longfellow than -in Chaucer, he is doing, to a less exaggerated degree, precisely this -very thing. He feels his contemporary sympathies and limited experience -soothed and entertained by the facile numbers of _Evangeline_, and he -does not extract an equal amount of amusement and pleasure from _The -Knight's Tale_. - -From one point of view it is very natural that this should be so, and -a critic would be priggish indeed who should gravely reprove such a -preference. The result would be, not to force the reader to Chaucer, -but to drive him away from poetry altogether. The ordinary man reads -what he finds gives him the pure and wholesome stimulus he needs. But -if such a reader, in the pride of his heart, should take upon himself -to dogmatise, and to tell us that Longfellow's poetry is better than -Chaucer's, we should be obliged to remind him that there are several -factors to be taken into account before he can carry us away with him -on the neck of such a theory. He has to consider how long the charm of -Chaucer has endured, and how short a time the world has had to make -up its mind about Longfellow; he has to appreciate the relation of -Chaucer to his own contemporaries, the boldness of his invasion into -realms until his day unconquered, the inevitable influence of time in -fretting, wasting, and blanching the surface of the masterpieces of the -past. To be just, he has to consider the whirligig of literature, and -to ask himself whether, in the year 2289, after successive revolutions -of taste and repetitions of performance, the works of Longfellow are -reasonably likely to possess the positive value which scholars, at all -events, still find in those of Chaucer. Not until all these, and still -more, irregularities of relative position are taken into account, can -the value of the elder and the later poet be lightly laid in opposite -balances. - -There has been no great disposition to produce English candidates for -the places of any of my original dozen. The _Saturday Review_ thinks -that I ought to have included Walter Scott, and the _St. James's -Gazette_ suggests Marlowe. There is much to be said for the claims of -each of these poets, and I am surprised that no one has put in a plea -for Herrick or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Of Marlowe, indeed, we can -to this day write nothing better than Michael Drayton wrote: - - - _Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs,_ - _Had in him those brave translunary things_ - _That our first poets had; his raptures were_ - _All air and fire, which made his verses clear;_ - _For that fine madness still he did retain,_ - _Which rightly should possess a poet's brain._ - - -He had the freshness and splendour of Heosphoros, the bearer of light, -the kindler of morning; as the dawn-star of our drama, he ascended the -heavens, in the auroral flush of youth, to announce the approaching -majesty of Shakespeare. But his early death, and the unexampled -character of the genius who superseded him, have for centuries -obscured the name of Marlowe, which scintillated half-extinguished -in the blaze of _Hamlet_ and _Othello_. His reputation has, however, -increased during the last generation with greater rapidity than that -of any other of our elder poets, and a time may yet come when we shall -have popularly isolated him from Shakespeare to such a degree as to -enforce a recognition of his individual greatness. At the present -moment to give him a place among the twelve might savour of affectation. - -In the case of Scott, I must still be firm in positively excluding -him, although his name is one of the most beloved in literature. The -_Waverley Novels_ form Scott's great claim to our reverence, and, save -for the songs scattered through them, have nothing to say to us here. -Scott's long narrative poems are really Waverley Novels told in easy, -ambling verse, and to a great measure, I must confess, spoiled, I -think, by such telling. For old memory's sake we enjoy them still, - - - _Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change,_ - _And frighten'd as a child might be_ - _At the wild yell and visage strange,_ - _And the dark words of gramarye_; - - -but the stuff is rather threadbare, surely. The best passages are -those in which, with skill not less than that of Milton, Scott marshals -heroic lists of Highland proper names. Scott was a very genuine poet -"within his own limitations," as has been said of another favourite, -whose name I will not here repeat. His lyrics, of very unequal merit, -are occasionally of wondrous beauty. I think it will be found, upon -very careful study of his writings, that he published eight absolutely -perfect lyrical pieces, and about as many more that were very good -indeed. This is much, and to how few can so high a tribute be paid! Yet -this is not quite sufficient claim to a place on the summits of English -song. Scott was essentially a great prose-writer, with a singular -facility in verse. - -If this amiable controversy, started in the first instance at the -request of the Editor of the _Forum_, has led us to examine a little -more closely the basis of our literary convictions, and, above all, if -it has led any of us to turn again to the fountain-heads of English -literature, it has not been without its importance. One danger which -I have long foreseen from the spread of the democratic sentiment, is -that of the traditions of literary taste, the canons of literature, -being reversed with success by a popular vote. Up to the present time, -in all parts of the world, the masses of uneducated or semi-educated -persons, who form the vast majority of readers, though they cannot -and do not appreciate the classics of their race, have been content -to acknowledge their traditional supremacy. Of late there have seemed -to me to be certain signs, especially in America, of a revolt of the -mob against our literary masters. In the less distinguished American -newspapers which reach me, I am sometimes startled by the boldness with -which a great name, like Wordsworth's or Dryden's, will be treated -with indignity. If literature is to be judged by a _plébiscite_ and if -the _plebs_ recognises its power, it will certainly by degrees cease -to support reputations which give it no pleasure and which it cannot -comprehend. The revolution against taste, once begun, will land us in -irreparable chaos. It is, therefore, high time that those who recognise -that there is no help for us in literature outside the ancient laws and -precepts of our profession, should vigorously support the fame of those -fountains of inspiration, the impeccable masters of English. - -_1889._ - - - - -MAKING A NAME IN LITERATURE - - - - -Making a Name in Literature - - -An American editor has asked me to say how a literary reputation is -formed. It is like asking one how wood is turned into gold, or how -real diamonds can be manufactured. If I knew the answer, it is not in -the pages of a review that I should print it. I should bury myself in -a cottage in the woods, exercise my secret arts, and wait for Fame -to turn her trumpet into a hunting-horn, and wake the forest-echoes -with my praises. In one of Mr. Stockton's stories a princess sets all -the wise men of her dominions searching for the lost secret of what -root-beer should be made of. The philosophers fail to discover it, and -the magicians exhaust their arts in vain. Not the slightest light is -thrown on the abstruse problem, until at last an old woman is persuaded -to reveal that it ought to be made of roots. In the same way, the only -quite obvious answer to the query, How should a literary reputation -be formed? is to reply, By thinking nothing at all about reputation, -but by writing earnestly and carefully on the subjects and in the -style most congenial to your habits of mind. But this is too obvious, -and leads to no further result. Besides, I see that the question is -not, how should be, but how is, a literary reputation formed. I will -endeavour, then, to give expression to such observations as I may have -formed on this latter subject. - -A literary reputation, as here intended, is obviously not the eternal -fame of a Shakespeare, which appears likely to last for ever, nor -even that of a Dickens, which must endure till there comes a complete -revolution of taste, but the inferior form of repute which is enjoyed -by some dozens of literary people in each generation, and makes a -centre for the admiration or envy of the more enthusiastic or idler -portion of their contemporaries. There is as much cant in denying the -attractiveness of such temporary glory as there is in exaggerating its -weight and importance. To stimulate the minds of those who surround -him, to captivate their attention and excite their curiosity, is -pleasing to the natural man. We look with suspicion on the author -who protests too loudly that he does not care whether he is admired -or not. We shrewdly surmise that inwardly he cares very much indeed. -This instinctive wish for reputation is one of the great incentives to -literary exertion. - -Fame and money--these are the two chief spurs which drive the author -on. The statement may sound ignoble, and the writers of every -generation persist in avowing that they write only to amuse themselves -and to do good in their generation. The noble lady in _Lothair_ -wished that she might never eat, or if at all, only a little fruit by -moonlight on a bank. She, nevertheless, was always punctual at her -dinner; and the author who protests his utter indifference to money and -reputation is commonly excessively sensitive when an attack is made on -his claims in either direction. Literary reputation is relative, of -course. There may be a village fame which does not burn very brightly -in the country town, and provincial stars that look very pale in a -great city. The circumstances, however, under which all the various -degrees of fame are reached, are, I think, closely analogous, and what -is true of the local celebrity is true, relatively, of a Victor Hugo -or of a Tennyson. The importance of the reputation is shown by the -expanse of the area it covers, not by the curve of its advance. The -circle of a great man's fame is extremely wide, but it only repeats on -a vast scale the phenomena attending on the fame of a small man. - -The three principal ways in which a literary reputation is formed -appear to be these: reviews, private conversation among the leaders -of opinion, and the instinctive attraction which leads the general -public to discover for itself what is calculated to give it pleasure. -I will briefly indicate the manner in which these three seem to act -at the present moment on the formation of notoriety and its attendant -success, in the case of English authors. First of all, it is not -unworthy of note that reputation, or fame, and monetary success, are -not identical, although the latter is frequently the satellite of the -former. One extraordinary example of their occasional remoteness, which -may be mentioned without impertinence on the authority of the author -himself, is the position of Mr. Herbert Spencer. In any list of living -Englishmen eminently distinguished for the originality and importance -of their books, Mr. Spencer cannot fail to be ranked high. Yet, as -every student of his later work knows, he stated in the preface of -one of those bald and inexpensive volumes in which he enshrines his -thought, that up to a comparatively recent date the sale of his books -did not cover the cost of their publication. This was the case of a man -famous, it is not too much to say, in every civilised country in the -globe. - -In pure literature there is probably no second existing instance so -flagrant as this. But, to take only a few of the most illustrious -Englishmen of letters, it is matter of common notoriety that the sale -of the books of, say, Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Leslie Stephen, the Bishop -of Oxford (Dr. Stubbs) and Mr. Lecky, considerable as it may now have -become, for a long time by no means responded to the lofty rank which -each of these authors has taken in the esteem of educated people -throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. The reverse is still more curious and -unaccountable. Why is it that there are writers of no merit at all, -who sell their books in thousands where people of genius sell theirs -in scores, yet without ever making a reputation? At the time when -Tupper was far more popular than Tennyson, and Eliza Cook enjoyed ten -times the commercial success of Browning, even the votaries of these -poetasters did not claim a higher place for them, or even a high place -at all. They bought their books because they liked them, but the buyers -evidently did not imagine that purchase gave their temporary favourites -any rank in the hierarchy of fame. These things are a mystery, but the -distinction between commercial success and fame is one which must be -drawn. We are speaking here of reputation, whether attended by vast -sales or only by barren honour. - -Reviews have no longer the power which they enjoyed seventy years ago, -of making or even of marring the fortunes of a book. When there existed -hundreds of private book clubs throughout the country, each one of -which proceeded to buy a copy of whatever the _Edinburgh_ recommended, -then the reviewer was a great personage in the land. We may see in -Lockhart's _Life of Scott_ that Sir Walter, even at the height of his -success, and when, as Ellis said, he was "the greatest elephant in the -world" except himself, was seriously agitated by Jeffrey's cold review -of _Marmion_, not through irritable peevishness, which was wholly -foreign to Scott's magnanimous nature, but because a slighting review -was enough to cripple a book, and a slashing review to destroy it. -There is nothing of this kind now. No newspaper exists in Great Britain -which is able to sell an edition of a book by praising it. I doubt if -any review, under the most favourable circumstances and coming from the -most influential quarter, causes two hundred copies of a book to be -bought. A signed article by Mr. Gladstone is, of course, an exception; -yet some have doubted of late whether a book may not be found so inept -and so heavy as not to stir even at the summons of that voice. - -The reviews in the professional literary papers are still understood -to be useful in the case of unknown writers. A young author without a -friend, if he has merit, and above all if he has striking originality, -is almost sure to attract the notice of some beneficent reviewer, and -be praised in the columns of one or other of the leading weeklies. -These are the circumstances under which the native kindliness of the -irritable race is displayed most freely. The envy which sees merit in -a new man and determines to crush it with silence or malignant attack, -is inhuman, and practically, I fancy, scarcely exists. The entirely -unheard-of writer wounds no susceptibilities, awakens no suspicions, -and even excites a pleasurable warmth of patronage. It is a little -later on, when the new man is quite new no longer, but is becoming a -formidable rival, that evil passions are aroused, or sometimes seem to -have been aroused, in pure literary bosoms. The most sincere reviews -are often those which treat the works of unknown writers, and this is -perhaps the reason why the shrewd public still permits itself to be -moved by these when they are strongly favourable. At any rate, every -new-comer must be introduced to our crowded public to be observed at -all, and to new-comers the review is still the indispensable master of -the ceremonies. - -But the power of reviews to create this form of literary reputation -has of late been greatly circumscribed. The public grows less and less -the dupe of an anonymous judgment, expressed in the columns of one of -the too-numerous organs of public opinion. A more _naïve_ generation -than ours was overawed by the nameless authority which moved behind -a review. Ours, on the contrary, is apt to go too far, and pay no -notice, because it does not know the name of a writer. The author who -writhed under the humiliation of attack in a famous paper, little -suspected that his critic was one Snooks, an inglorious creature whose -acquaintance with the matter under discussion was mainly taken from -the book he was reviewing. But, on the other hand, there is that story -of the writer of some compendium of Greek history severely handled -anonymously by the _Athenæum_, whose scorn of the nameless critic gave -way to horror and shame when he discovered him to have been no other -than Mr. Grote. On the whole, when we consider the careful, learned, -and judicial reviews which are still to be found, like grains of salt, -in the vast body of insipid criticism in the newspapers, it may be held -that the public pays less attention to the reviews than it should. -The fact seems to remain that, except in the case of entirely unknown -writers, periodical criticism possesses an ever-dwindling power of -recommendation. - -It is in conversation that the fame of the best books is made. There -are certain men and women in London who are on the outlook for new -merit, who are supposed to be hard to please, and whose praise is like -rubies. It is those people who, in the smoking-room of the club, or -across the dinner-table, create the fame of writers and the success -of new books. "Seen _Polyanthus_?" says one of these peripatetic -oracles. "No," you answer; "I am afraid I don't know what _Polyanthus_ -is." "Well, it's not half bad; it's this new realistic romance." -"Indeed! By whom is it written?" "Oh! a fellow called--called Binks, -I think--Binks or Bunks; quite a new man. You ought to see it, don't -you know." Some one far down the table ventures to say, "Oh! I think -it was the _Palladium_ said on Saturday that it wasn't a good book -at all, awfully abnormal, or something of that kind." "Well, you -look at it; I think you'll agree with me that it's not half bad." -Such a conversation as this, if held in a fructifying spot among the -best people, does _Polyanthus_ more good than a favourable review. -It excites curiosity, and echoes of the praise ("not half bad" is at -the present moment the most fulsome of existing expressions of London -enthusiasm) reverberate and reverberate until the fortune of the book -is made. At the same time, be it for ever remembered, there must be in -_Polyanthus_ the genuine force and merit which appeal to an impartial -judge and convert reader after reader, or else vainly does the friendly -oracle try to raise the wind. He betrays himself, most likely, by using -the expression, "a very fine book," or "beautifully written." These -phrases have a falsetto air, and lack the persuasive sincerity of the -true modern eulogium, "not half bad." - -But there are reputations formed in other places than in London -dining-rooms and the libraries of clubs. There are certain books which -are not welcomed by the reviews, and which fail to please or even to -meet the eye of experts in literature, which nevertheless, by some -strange and unaccountable attraction, become known to the outer public, -and are eagerly accepted by a very wide circle of readers. I am not -aware that the late Mr. Roe was ever a favourite with the writing or -speaking critics of America. He achieved his extraordinary success not -by the aid, but in spite of the neglect and disapproval of the lettered -classes. I have no close acquaintance with Mr. Roe's novels, but I know -them well enough to despair of discovering why they were found to be so -eminently welcome to thousands of readers. So far as I have examined -them, they have appeared to me to be--if I may speak frankly--neither -good enough nor bad enough to account for their popularity. It is not -that I am such a prig as to disdain Mr. Roe's honourable industry; -far from it. But his books are lukewarm; they have neither the heat -of a rich insight into character, nor the deathly coldness of false -or insincere fiction. They are not ill-constructed, although they -certainly are not well-constructed. It is their lack of salient -character that makes me wonder what enabled them to float where scores -and scores of works not appreciably worse or better than they have sunk. - -Most countries possess at any given moment an author of this class. -In England we have the lady who signs her eminently reputable novels -by the pseudonym of "Edna Lyall." I do not propose to say what the -lettered person thinks of the author of _Donovan_; I would only point -out that the organs of literary opinion do not recognise her existence. -I cannot recollect ever noticing a prominent review of one of her books -in any leading paper. I never heard them so much as mentioned by any -critical reader. To find out something about "Edna Lyall" I have just -consulted the latest edition of _Men of the Time_, but she is unknown -to that not excessively austere compendium. And now for the reverse -of the medal. I lately requested the mistress of a girls' school, a -friend of mine, to ask her elder classes to write down the name of the -greatest English author. The universal answer was "Shakespeare." What -could be more respectable? But the second question was, "Who is your -favourite English author?" And this time, by a large majority, Edna -Lyall bore off the bell. - -I think this amiable lady may be consoled for the slight which _Men -of the Time_ puts upon her. It seems plain that she is a very great -personage indeed to all the girls of the time. But if you ask me how -such a subterranean reputation as this is formed, what starts it, -how it is supported, I can only say I have failed, after some not -unindustrious search, to discover. I may but conjecture that, as I -have suggested, the public instinctively feels the attraction of the -article that satisfies its passing requirement. These illiterate -successes--if I may use the word "illiterate" in its plain meaning and -without offence--are exceedingly ephemeral, and sink into the ground as -silently and rapidly as they rose from it. What has become of Mrs. Gore -and Mrs. March? Who wrote _Emilia Wyndham_, and to what elegant pen did -the girls who are now grandmothers owe _Ellen Middleton_? Alas! it has -taken only forty years to strew the poppy of oblivion over these once -thrilling titles. - -For we have to face the fact that reputations are lost as well as -won. What destroys the fame of an accepted author? This, surely, is a -question not less interesting than that with which we started, and -a necessary corollary to it. Not unfavourable reviews, certainly. An -unjust review may annoy and depress the author, it may cheer a certain -number of his enemies and cool the ardour of a few of his friends, -but in the long run it is sure to be innocuous in proportion to its -injustice. I have in my mind the mode in which Mr. Browning's poems -were treated in certain quarters twenty years ago. I remember more -than one instance in which critics were permitted, in newspapers which -ought to have known better, to exemplify that charge of needless -obscurity which it was then the fashion to bring against the poet, by -the quotation of mutilated fragments, and even by the introduction -of absurd mistakes into the transcription of the text. Now, in this -case, a few persons were possibly deterred from the further perusal -of a writer who appeared, by these excerpts, to be a lunatic; but I -think far more were roused into vehement sympathy for Mr. Browning by -comparing the quotations with the originals, and so finding out that -the reviewers had lied. - -It rests with the author, not the critic, to destroy his own -reputation. No one, as Bentley said, was ever written down except by -himself, and the public is quite shrewd enough to do a rough sort -of justice to the critic who accuses as well as to the author who is -arraigned. As Dangle observes, "it certainly does hurt an author of -delicate feelings to see the liberties the reviews take" with his -writings; but if he is worth his salt at all, he will comfort himself -by thinking, with Sir Fretful, that "their abuse is, after all, the -best panegyric." To an author who is smarting under a more than common -infliction of this kind of peppering, one consolatory consideration may -be hinted--namely, that not to be spoken about at all is even worse -than being maligned. - -One of the most insidious perils that waylay the modern literary life -is an exaggerated success at the outset of a career. A very remarkable -instance of this has been seen in our time. Thirteen years ago a -satire was published, which, although essentially destructive, and -therefore not truly promising, was set forth with so much novelty -of execution, brightness of wit, and variety of knowledge that the -world was taken by storm. The author of that work was received with -plaudits of the most exaggerated kind, and his second book was looked -forward to with unbounded anticipation. It came, and though fresh and -witty, it had less distinction, less vitality than the first. Book -after book has marked ever a further step in steady decline, and now -that once flattered and belaureled writer's name is one no more to -conjure with. This, surely, is a pathetic fate. I can imagine no form -of failure so desperately depressing as that which comes disguised in -excessive juvenile success. In literature, at least as much as in other -professions, the race is not to the swift, although the battle must -eventually be to the strong. There is a blossoming, like that of forced -annuals, which pays for its fulness and richness by a plague of early -sterility. - -What the young writer of wholesome ambition should pray for is, not -to flash like a meteor on the astonished world of fashion, but by -solid and admirable writing slowly to win a place which has a firm and -wide basis. There is such a fate as to suffer through life from the -top-heaviness of an initial success. Such a struggle as Thackeray's may -be painful at the time, and may call for the exercise of a great deal -of patience and good temper. It is, nevertheless, a better thing in the -long run to serve a novitiate in Grub Street, than, like Samuel Warren, -to be famous at thirty, and die almost forgotten at seventy. There -is a deadly tendency in the mind which too easily has found others -captivated by his effusions, to fancy that anything is good enough -for the public. A precocious favourite conceives that he has only to -whistle and the world will at any moment come back to him. The soldier -who meets with no resistance throws aside his armour and relaxes his -ambition. He forgets that, as Andrew Marvell says: - - - _The same art that did gain_ - _A power, must it maintain._ - - -Some danger to a partially established reputation is to be met with -from the fickleness of public taste and the easy satiety of readers. -If an imaginative writer has won the attention of the public by a -vigorous and original picture of some unhackneyed scene of life which -is thoroughly familiar to himself, he is apt to find himself on the -horns of a dilemma. If he turns to a new class of subjects, the public -which has already "placed" him as an authority on a particular subject, -will be disappointed; on the other hand, if he sticks to his last, he -runs the chance of fatiguing his readers and of exhausting his own -impressions. For such an author, ultimate success probably lies on the -side of courage. He must reject the temptation to indulge the public -with what he knows it wants, and must boldly force it to like another -and still unrecognised phase of his talent. He ought, however, to make -very sure that he is right, and not his readers, before he insists -upon a change. It is not every one who possesses the versatility of -the first Lord Lytton, and can conquer new worlds under a pseudonym -at the age of fifty. There are plenty of instances of men of letters -who, weary of being praised for what they did well, have tried to -force down the throats of the public what everybody but themselves -could see was ill-done. I remember Hans Christian Andersen, in the -last year of his life, telling me that the books he should really be -remembered by were his dramas and his novels, not the fairy-stories -that everybody persisted in making so much fuss about. He had gone -through life without gaining the least skill in gauging his own -strength or weakness. Andersen, however, was exceptionally uncritical; -and the author who is not blinded by vanity can generally tell, before -he reaches middle life, in what his real power consists. - -Yet, when we sum up the whole question, we have to confess that we -know very little about the causes which lead to the distribution of -public praise. The wind of fame bloweth where it listeth, and we -hear the sound of it without knowing whence it cometh. This, however, -appears to be certain, that, except in the case of those rare authors -of exceptionally sublime genius who conquer attention by their force -of originality, a great deal more than mere cleverness in writing is -needful to make a reputation. Sagacity in selection, tact in dealing -with other people, suppleness of character, rapidity in appreciation, -and adroitness in action--all these are qualities which go to the -formation of a broad literary reputation. In these days an author must -be wide awake, and he must take a vast deal of trouble. The age is gone -by when he could sit against the wall and let the gooseberries fall -into his mouth. The increased pressure of competition tells upon the -literary career as much as upon any other branch of professional life, -and the author who wishes to continue to succeed must keep his loins -girded. - -_1889._ - - - - -THE LIMITS OF REALISM IN FICTION - - - - -The Limits of Realism in Fiction - - -In the last new Parisian farce, by M. Sarcey's clever young son-in-law, -there is a conscientious painter of the realistic school who is -preparing for the Salon a very serious and abstruse production. The -young lady of his heart says, at length: "It's rather a melancholy -subject; I wonder you don't paint a sportsman, crossing a rustic -bridge, and meeting a pretty girl." This is the climax, and the artist -breaks off his relations with Young Lady No. 1. Toward the end of the -play, while he is still at work on his picture, Young Lady No. 2 says: -"If I were you, I should take another subject. Now, for instance, why -don't you paint a pretty girl, crossing a rustic bridge, and met by a -sportsman?" - -This is really an allegory, whether M. Gandillot intends it or not. -Thus have those charming, fresh, ingenuous, ignorant, and rather -stupid young ladies, the English and American publics, received the -attempts which novelists have made to introduce among them what is -called, outside the Anglo-Saxon world, the experimental novel. The -present writer is no defender of that class of fiction; least of all -is he an exclusive defender of it; but he is tired to death of the -criticism on both sides of the Atlantic, which refuses to see what the -realists are, whither they are tending, and what position they are -beginning to hold in the general evolution of imaginative literature. -He is no great lover of what they produce, and most certainly does not -delight in their excesses; but when they are advised to give up their -studies and paint pretty girls on rustic bridges, he is almost stung -into partisanship. The present essay will have no interest whatever for -persons who approve of no more stringent investigation into conduct -than Miss Yonge's, and enjoy no action nearer home than Zambeziland; -but to those who have perceived that in almost every country in the -world the novel of manners has been passing through a curious phase, it -may possibly not be uninteresting to be called upon to inquire what the -nature of that phase has been, and still more what is to be the outcome -of it. - -So far as the Anglo-Saxon world is concerned, the experimental or -realistic novel is mainly to be studied in America, Russia, and France. -It exists now in all the countries of the European Continent, but -we know less about its manifestations there. It has had no direct -development in England, except in the clever but imperfect stories of -Mr. George Moore. Ten years ago the realistic novel, or at all events -the naturalist school, out of which it proceeded, was just beginning -to be talked about, and there was still a good deal of perplexity, -outside Paris, as to its scope and as to the meaning of its name. -Russia, still unexplored by the Vicomte de Vogüé and his disciples, was -represented to western readers solely by Turgéneff, who was a great -deal too romantic to be a pure naturalist. In America, where now almost -every new writer of merit seems to be a realist, there was but one, Mr. -Henry James, who, in 1877, had inaugurated the experimental novel in -the English language, with his _American_. Mr. Howells, tending more -and more in that direction, was to write on for several years before he -should produce a thoroughly realistic novel. - -Ten years ago, then, the very few people who take an interest in -literary questions were looking with hope or apprehension, as the case -might be, to Paris, and chiefly to the study of M. Zola. It was from -the little villa at Médan that revelation on the subject of the coming -novel was to be awaited; and in the autumn of 1880 the long-expected -message came, in the shape of the grotesque, violent, and narrow, -but extremely able volume of destructive and constructive criticism -called _Le Roman Expérimental_. People had complained that they did -not know what M. Zola was driving at; that they could not recognise -a "naturalistic" or "realistic" book when they saw it; that the -"scientific method" in fiction, the "return to nature," "experimental -observation" as the basis of a story, were mere phrases to them, vague -and incomprehensible. The Sage of Médan determined to remove the -objection and explain everything. He put his speaking-trumpet to his -lips, and, disdaining to address the crassness of his countrymen, he -shouted his system of rules and formulas to the Russian public, that -all the world might hear. - -In 1880 he had himself proceeded far. He had published the -Rougon-Macquart series of his novels, as far as _Une Page d'Amour_. -He has added since then six or seven novels to the bulk of his works, -and he has published many forcible and fascinating and many repulsive -pages. But since 1880 he has not altered his method or pushed on to any -further development. He had already displayed his main qualities--his -extraordinary mixture of versatility and monotony, his enduring force, -his plentiful lack of taste, his cynical disdain for the weaknesses -of men, his admirable constructive power, his inability to select the -salient points in a vast mass of observations. He had already shown -himself what I must take the liberty of saying that he appears to me -to be--one of the leading men of genius in the second half of the -nineteenth century, one of the strongest novelists of the world; and -that in spite of faults so serious and so eradicable that they would -have hopelessly wrecked a writer a little less overwhelming in strength -and resource. - -Zola seems to me to be the Vulcan among our later gods, afflicted -with moral lameness from his birth, and coming to us sooty and brutal -from the forge, yet as indisputably divine as any Mercury-Hawthorne -or Apollo-Thackeray of the best of them. It is to Zola, and to Zola -only, that the concentration of the scattered tendencies of naturalism -is due. It is owing to him that the threads of Flaubert and Daudet, -Dostoiefsky and Tolstoi, Howells and Henry James can be drawn into -anything like a single system. It is Zola who discovered a common -measure for all these talents, and a formula wide enough and yet close -enough to distinguish them from the outside world and bind them to one -another. It is his doing that for ten years the experimental novel has -flowed in a definite channel, and has not spread itself abroad in a -thousand whimsical directions. - -To a serious critic, then, who is not a partisan, but who sees how -large a body of carefully composed fiction the naturalistic school -has produced, it is of great importance to know what is the formula -of M. Zola. He has defined it, one would think, clearly enough, but -to see it intelligently repeated is rare indeed. It starts from the -negation of fancy--not of imagination, as that word is used by the -best Anglo-Saxon critics, but of fancy--the romantic and rhetorical -elements that novelists have so largely used to embroider the home-spun -fabric of experience with. It starts with the exclusion of all that -is called "ideal," all that is not firmly based on the actual life of -human beings, all, in short, that is grotesque, unreal, nebulous, or -didactic. I do not understand Zola to condemn the romantic writers of -the past; I do not think he has spoken of Dumas _pêre_ or of George -Sand as Mr. Howells has allowed himself to speak of Dickens. He has a -phrase of contempt--richly deserved, it appears to me--for the childish -evolution of Victor Hugo's plots, and in particular of that of _Notre -Dame de Paris_; but, on the whole, his aim is rather to determine the -outlines of a new school than to attack the recognised masters of the -past. If it be not so, it should be so; there is room in the Temple of -Fame for all good writers, and it does not blast the laurels of Walter -Scott that we are deeply moved by Dostoiefsky. - -With Zola's theory of what the naturalistic novel should be, it seems -impossible at first sight to quarrel. It is to be contemporary; it is -to be founded on and limited by actual experience; it is to reject -all empirical modes of awakening sympathy and interest; its aim is to -place before its readers living beings, acting the comedy of life as -naturally as possible. It is to trust to principles of action and to -reject formulas of character; to cultivate the personal expression; -to be analytical rather than lyrical; to paint men as they are, not -as you think they should be. There is no harm in all this. There is -not a word here that does not apply to the chiefs of one of the two -great parallel schools of English fiction. It is hard to conceive of -a novelist whose work is more experimental than Richardson. Fielding -is personal and analytical above all things. If France counts George -Sand among its romanticists, we can point to a realist who is greater -than she, in Jane Austen. There is not a word to be found in M. Zola's -definitions of the experimental novel that is not fulfilled in the -pages of _Emma_; which is equivalent to saying that the most advanced -realism may be practised by the most innocent as well as the most -captivating of novelists. Miss Austen did not observe over a wide -area, but within the circle of her experience she disguised nothing, -neglected nothing, glossed over nothing. She is the perfection of the -realistic ideal, and there ought to be a statue of her in the vestibule -of the forthcoming Académie des Goncourts. Unfortunately, the lives of -her later brethren have not been so sequestered as hers, and they, too, -have thought it their duty to neglect nothing and to disguise nothing. - -It is not necessary to repeat here the rougher charges which have been -brought against the naturalist school in France--charges which in -mitigated form have assailed their brethren in Russia and America. On -a carefully reasoned page in the copy of M. Zola's essay _Du Roman_ -which lies before me, one of those idiots who write in public books has -scribbled the remark, "They see nothing in life but filth and crime." -This ignoble wielder of the pencil but repeats what more ambitious -critics have been saying in solemn terms for the last fifteen years. -Even as regards Zola himself, as the author of the delicate comedy -of _La Conquête de Plassans_, and the moving tragedy of _Une Page -d'Amour_, this charge is utterly false, and in respect of the other -leaders it is simply preposterous. None the less, there are sides -upon which the naturalistic novelists are open to serious criticism -in practice. It is with no intention of underrating their eminent -qualities that I suggest certain points at which, as it appears to me, -their armour is conspicuously weak. There are limits to realism, and -they seem to have been readily discovered by the realists themselves. -These weak points are to be seen in the jointed harness of the -strongest book that the school has yet produced in any country, _Le -Crime et le Châtiment_. - -When the ideas of Zola were first warmly taken up, about ten years ago, -by the most earnest and sympathetic writers who then were young, the -theory of the experimental novel seemed unassailable, and the range -within which it could be worked to advantage practically boundless. But -the fallacies of practice remained to be experienced, and looking back -upon what has been written by the leaders themselves, the places where -the theory has broken down are patent. It may not be uninteresting to -take up the leading dogmas of the naturalistic school, and to see what -elements of failure, or, rather, what limitations to success, they -contained. The outlook is very different in 1890 from what it was in -1880; and a vast number of exceedingly clever writers have laboured -to no avail, if we are not able at the latter date to gain a wider -perspective than could be obtained at the earlier one. - -Ten years ago, most ardent and generous young authors, outside the -frontiers of indifferent Albion, were fired with enthusiasm at the -results to be achieved by naturalism in fiction. It was to be the -Revealer and the Avenger. It was to display society as it is, and to -wipe out all the hypocrisies of convention. It was to proceed from -strength to strength. It was to place all imagination upon a scientific -basis, and to open boundless vistas to sincere and courageous young -novelists. We have seen with what ardent hope and confidence its -principles were accepted by Mr. Howells. We have seen all the Latin -races, in their coarser way, embrace and magnify the system. We -have seen Zola, like a heavy father in high comedy, bless a budding -generation of novel-writers, and prophesy that they will all proceed -further than he along the road of truth and experiment. Yet the -naturalistic school is really less advanced, less thorough, than it was -ten years ago. Why is this? - -It is doubtless because the strain and stress of production have -brought to light those weak places in the formula which were -not dreamed of. The first principle of the school was the exact -reproduction of life. But life is wide, and it is elusive. All that -the finest observer can do is to make a portrait of one corner of it. -By the confession of the master-spirit himself, this portrait is not -to be a photograph. It must be inspired by imagination, but sustained -and confined by the experience of reality. It does not appear at first -sight as though it should be difficult to attain this, but in point -of fact it is found almost impossible to approach this species of -perfection. The result of building up a long work on this principle -is, I hardly know why, to produce the effect of a reflection in a -convex mirror. The more accurately experimental some parts of the -picture are, the more will the want of balance and proportion in other -parts be felt. I will take at random two examples. No better work in -the naturalistic direction has been done than is to be found in the -beginning of M. Zola's _La Joie de Vivre_, or in the early part of -the middle of Mr. James's _Bostonians_. The life in the melancholy -Norman house upon the cliff, the life among the uncouth fanatic -philanthropists in the American city, these are given with a reality, -a brightness, a personal note which have an electrical effect upon the -reader. But the remainder of each of these remarkable books, built -up as they are with infinite toil by two of the most accomplished -architects of fiction now living, leaves on the mind a sense of a -strained reflection, of images blurred or malformed by a convexity of -the mirror. As I have said, it is difficult to account for this, which -is a feature of blight on almost every specimen of the experimental -novel; but perhaps it can in a measure be accounted for by the inherent -disproportion which exists between the small flat surface of a book -and the vast arch of life which it undertakes to mirror, those studies -being least liable to distortion which reflect the smallest section of -life, and those in which ambitious masters endeavour to make us feel -the mighty movements of populous cities and vast bodies of men being -the most inevitably misshapen. - -Another leading principle of the naturalists is the disinterested -attitude of the narrator. He who tells the story must not act the part -of Chorus, must not praise or blame, must have no favourites; in short, -must not be a moralist but an anatomist. This excellent and theoretical -law has been a snare in practice. The nations of continental Europe are -not bound down by conventional laws to the same extent as we English -are. The Anglo-Saxon race is now the only one that has not been touched -by that pessimism of which the writings of Schopenhauer are the most -prominent and popular exponent. This fact is too often overlooked when -we scornfully ask why the foreign nations allow themselves so great a -latitude in the discussion of moral subjects. It is partly, no doubt, -because of our beautiful Protestant institutions; because we go to -Sunday-schools and take a lively interest in the souls of other people; -because, in short, we are all so virtuous and godly, that our novels -are so prim and decent. But it is also partly because our hereditary -dulness in perceiving delicate ethical distinctions has given the -Anglo-Saxon race a tendency to slur over the dissonances between man -and nature. This tendency does not exist among the Latin races, who run -to the opposite extreme and exaggerate these discords. The consequence -has been that they have, almost without exception, being betrayed by -the disinterested attitude into a contemplation of crime and frailty -(notoriously more interesting than innocence and virtue) which has -given bystanders excuse for saying that these novelists are lovers -of that which is evil. In the same way they have been tempted by the -Rembrandtesque shadows of pain, dirt, and obloquy to overdash their -canvases with the subfusc hues of sentiment. In a word, in trying to -draw life evenly and draw it whole, they have introduced such a brutal -want of tone as to render the portrait a caricature. The American -realists, who were guarded by fashion from the Scylla of brutality, -have not wholly escaped, on their side and for the same reason, the -Charybdis of insipidity. - -It would take us too far, and would require a constant reference to -individual books, to trace the weaknesses of the realistic school of -our own day. Human sentiment has revenged itself upon them for their -rigid regulations and scientific formulas, by betraying them into -faults the possibility of which they had not anticipated. But above -all other causes of their limited and temporary influence, the most -powerful has been the material character which their rules forced upon -them, and their excess of positivism and precision. In eliminating the -grotesque and the rhetorical they drove out more than they wished to -lose; they pushed away with their scientific pitchfork the fantastic -and intellectual elements. How utterly fatal this was may be seen, not -in the leaders, who have preserved something of the reflected colour -of the old romance, but in those earnest disciples who have pushed the -theory to its extremity. In their sombre, grimy, and dreary studies in -pathology, clinical bulletins of a soul dying of atrophy, we may see -what the limits of realism are, and how impossible it is that human -readers should much longer go on enjoying this sort of literary aliment. - -If I have dwelt upon these limitations, however, it has not been to -cast a stone at the naturalistic school. It has been rather with the -object of clearing away some critical misconceptions about the future -development of it. Anglo-Saxon criticism of the perambulating species -might, perhaps, be persuaded to consider the realists with calmer -judgment, if it looked upon them, not as a monstrous canker that was -slowly spreading its mortal influence over the whole of literature, -which it would presently overwhelm and destroy, but as a natural and -timely growth, taking its due place in the succession of products, and -bound, like other growths, to bud and blossom and decline. I venture -to put forth the view that the novel of experiment has had its day; -that it has been made the vehicle of some of the loftiest minds of our -age; that it has produced a huge body of fiction, none of it perfect, -perhaps, much of it bad, but much of it, also, exceedingly intelligent, -vivid, sincere, and durable; and that it is now declining, to leave -behind it a great memory, the prestige of persecution, and a library of -books which every highly educated man in the future will be obliged to -be familiar with. - -It would be difficult, I think, for any one but a realistic novelist -to overrate the good that realism in fiction has done. It has cleared -the air of a thousand follies, has pricked a whole fleet of oratorical -bubbles. Whatever comes next, we cannot return, in serious novels, to -the inanities and impossibilities of the old "well-made" plot, to the -children changed at nurse, to the madonna heroine and the god-like -hero, to the impossible virtues and melodramatic vices. In future, -even those who sneer at realism and misrepresent it most wilfully, -will be obliged to put in their effects in ways more in accord with -veritable experience. The public has eaten of the apple of knowledge, -and will not be satisfied with mere marionettes. There will still be -novel-writers who address the gallery, and who will keep up the gaudy -old convention and the clumsy _Family Herald_ evolution, but they will -no longer be distinguished people of genius. They will no longer sign -themselves George Sand and Charles Dickens. - -In the meantime, wherever I look I see the novel ripe for another -reaction. The old leaders will not change. It is not to be expected -that they will write otherwise than in the mode which has grown mature -with them. But in France, among the younger men, every one is escaping -from the realistic formula. The two young athletes for whom M. Zola -predicted ten years ago an "experimental" career more profoundly -scientific than his own, are realists no longer. M. Guy de Maupassant -has become a psychologist, and M. Huysmans a mystic. M. Bourget, who -set all the ladies dancing after his ingenious, musky books, never -has been a realist; nor has Pierre Loti, in whom, with a fascinating -freshness, the old exiled romanticism comes back with a laugh and a -song. All points to a reaction in France; and in Russia, too, if what -we hear is true, the next step will be one toward the mystical and -the introspective. In America it would be rash for a foreigner to say -what signs of change are evident. The time has hardly come when we -look to America for the symptoms of literary initiative. But it is my -conviction that the limits of realism have been reached; that no great -writer who has not already adapted the experimental system will do so; -and that we ought now to be on the outlook to welcome (and, of course, -to persecute) a school of novelists with a totally new aim, part of -whose formula must unquestionably be a concession to the human instinct -for mystery and beauty. - -_1890._ - - - - -IS VERSE IN DANGER? - - - - -Is Verse in Danger? - - -We are passing through a period obviously unfavourable to the -development of the art of poetry. A little while ago there was an -outburst of popular appreciation of living verse, but this is now -replaced, for the moment, by an almost ostentatious indifference. These -alternations of curiosity and disdain deceive no one who looks at the -history of literature with an eye which is at all philosophical. It is -easy to say, as is commonly said, that they depend on the merit of the -poetry which is being produced. But this is not always, or even often, -the case. About twenty years ago a ferment of interest and enthusiasm -was called forth, all over the English-speaking world, by the early -writings of Mr. Swinburne and by those of the late Mr. Rossetti. This -was deserved by the merit of those productions; but the disdain which, -twenty years earlier, the verse of Mr. Robert Browning and Mr. Matthew -Arnold had met with, cannot be so accounted for. It is wiser to admit -that sons never look at life with their fathers' eyes, and that taste -is subject to incessant and almost regular fluctuations. At the present -moment, though men should sing with the voice of angels, the barbarian -public would not listen, and a new Milton would probably be less warmly -welcomed in 1890 than a Pomfret was two centuries ago or a Bowles was -in 1790. Literary history shows that a demand for poetry does not -always lead to a supply, and that a supply does not always command a -market. He who doubts this fact may compare the success of Herrick with -that of Erasmus Darwin. - -The only reason for preluding a speculation on the future of the art -of poetry with these remarks, is to clear the ground of any arguments -based on the merely momentary condition of things. The eagerness or -coldness of the public, the fertility or exhaustion of the poets, -at this particular juncture, are elements of no real importance. If -poetry is to continue to be one of the living arts of humanity, it -does not matter an iota whether poetry is looked upon with contempt by -the members of a single generation. If poetry is declining, and, as a -matter of fact, is now moribund, the immense vogue of Tennyson at a -slightly earlier period will take its place among the insignificant -phenomena of a momentary reaction. The problem is a more serious -one. It is this: Is poetry, in its very essence, an archaic and -rudimentary form of expression, still galvanised into motion, indeed, -by antiquarianism, but really obsolete and therefore to be cultivated -only at the risk of affectation and insincerity; or is it an art -capable of incessant renovation--a living organism which grows, on the -whole, with the expansion of modern life? In other words, is the art of -verse one which, like music or painting, delights and consoles us with -a species of expression which can never be superseded, because it is -in danger of no direct rivalry from a similar species; or was poetry -merely the undeveloped, though in itself the extremely beautiful, -infancy of a type which is now adult, and which has relinquished its -charming puerilities for a mode of expression infinitely wider and of -more practical utility? Sculptors, singers, painters must always exist; -but need we have poets any longer, since the world has discovered how -to say all it wants to say in prose? Will any one who has anything -of importance to communicate be likely in the future to express it -through the medium of metrical language? - -These questions are not to be dismissed with a smile. A large number of -thoughtful persons at the present time are, undoubtedly, disposed to -answer them in the affirmative, although a certain decency forbids them -openly to say so. Plenty of clever people secretly regard the Muse as -a distinguished old lady, of good family, who has been a beauty and a -wit in her day, but who really rules only by sufferance in these years -of her decline. They whisper that she is sinking into second childhood, -that she repeats herself when she converses, and that she has exchanged -her early liberal tastes for a love of what is puerile, ingenious, and -"finikin." A great Parisian critic has just told us that each poet is -read only by the other poets, and he gives as the reason that the art -of verse has become so refined and so elaborate that it passes over -the heads of the multitude. But may it not be that this refinement is -only a decrepitude--the amusement of an old age that has sunk to the -playing of more and more helplessly ingenious games of patience? That -is what those hint who, more insidious by far than the open enemies of -literature, suggest that poetry has had its reign, its fascinating and -imperial tyranny, and that it must now make way for the democracy of -prose. - -Probably there would have been no need to face this question, either -in this generation or for many generations to come, if it had not -been for a single circumstance. The great enemies of the poets of -the present are the poets of the past, and the antiquarian spirit of -the nineteenth century has made the cessation of the publication of -fresh verse a possibility. The intellectual condition of our times -differs from that of all preceding ages in no other point so much as -in its attitude toward the writings of the dead. In those periods of -renovation which have refreshed the literatures of the world, the -tendency has always been to study some one class of deceased writers -with affection. In English history, we have seen the romantic poets of -Italy, the dramatists of Spain, the Latin satirists, and the German -ballad-mongers, exercise, at successive moments, a vivid influence on -English writers. But this study was mainly limited to those writers -themselves, and did not extend to the circle of their readers; while -even with the writers it never absorbed at a single moment the whole -range of poetry. We may take one instance. Pope was the disciple of -Horace and of the French Jesuits, of Dryden and of the conceit-creating -school of Donne. But he was able to use Boileau and Crashaw so freely -because he addressed a public that had never met with the first and had -forgotten the second; and when he passed outside this narrow circle -he was practically without a rival. To the class whom he addressed, -Shakespeare and Milton were phantoms, Chaucer and Spenser not so much -as names. The only doubt was whether Alexander Pope was man enough to -arrest attention by the intrinsic merits of his poetry. If his verse -was admitted to be good, his public were not distracted by a preference -for other verse which they had known for a longer time. - -This remained true until about a generation ago. The great romantic -poets of the beginning of this century found the didactic and -rhetorical verse-writers of the eighteenth century in possession of the -field, but they found no one else there. Their action was of the nature -of a revolt--a revolution so successful that it became constitutional. -All that Wordsworth and Keats had to do was to prove their immediate -predecessors to be unworthy of public attention, and when once they -had persuaded the reading world that what they had to offer was more -pleasing than what Young and Churchill and Darwin had offered, the -revolution was complete. But, in order to draw attention to the merits -of the proposed change, the romantic poets of the Georgian age pointed -to the work of the writers of the Elizabethan age, whom they claimed as -their natural predecessors--the old stock cast out at the Restoration -and now reinstated. The public had entirely forgotten the works of -these writers, except to some extent those of the dramatists, and it -became necessary to reprint them. A whole galaxy of poetic stars was -revealed when the cloud of prejudice was blown away, and a class of -dangerous rivals to the modern poet was introduced. - -The activity of the dead is now paramount, and threatens to paralyse -original writing altogether. The revival of the old poets who were in -direct sympathy with Keats and Wordsworth has extended far beyond the -limits which those who inaugurated it desired to lay down. Every poetic -writer of any age precedent to our own has now a chance of popularity, -often a very much better chance than he possessed during his own -lifetime. Scarcely a poet, from Chaucer downward, remains inedited. -The imitative lyrist who, in a paroxysm of inspiration, wrote one good -sonnet under the sway of James I., but was never recognised as a poet -even by his friends, rejoices now in a portly quarto, and lives for the -first time. The order of nature is reversed, and those who were only -ghosts in the seventeenth century come back to us clothed in literary -vitality. - -In this great throng of resuscitated souls, all of whom have forfeited -their copyright, how is the modern poet to exist? He has no longer to -compete--as "his great forefathers did, from Homer down to Ben"--with -the leading spirits of his own generation, but with the picked genius -of the world. He writes an epic; Mr. Besant and the Society of Authors -oblige him to "retain his rights," to "publish at a royalty," and to -keep the rules of the game. But Milton has no rights and demands no -royalty. The new poet composes lyrics and publishes them in a volume. -They are sincere and ingenious; but why should the reader buy that -volume, when he can get the best of Shelley and Coleridge, of Gray and -Marvell, in a cheaper form in _The Golden Treasury_? At every turn the -thronging company of the ghosts impedes and disheartens the modern -writer, and it is no wonder if the new Orpheus throws down his lyre -in despair when the road to his desire is held by such an invincible -army of spectres. In the golden age of the Renaissance an enthusiast -is said to have offered up a manuscript by Martial every year, as a -burnt sacrifice to Catullus, an author whom he distinctly preferred. -The modern poet, if he were not afraid of popular censure, might make -a yearly holocaust of editions of the British classics, in honour of -the Genius of Poetry. There are many enemies of the art abroad, but -among them all the most powerful and insidious are those of its own -household. The poets of to-day might contrive to fish the murex up, and -to eat turtle, if it were not for the intolerable rivalry of "souls of -poets dead and gone." - -On the whole, however, it is highly unlikely that the antiquarian -passion of our age will last. Already it gives signs of wearing -out, and it will probably be succeeded by a spirit of unreasonable -intolerance of the past. Intellectual invention will not allow itself -to be pinioned for ever by these soft and universal cords of tradition, -each as slight as gossamer in itself, but overwhelming in the immense -mass. As for the old poets, young verse-writers may note with glee -that these rivals of theirs are being caught in the butterfly net of -education, where they will soon find the attractive feathers rubbed -off their wings. One by one they pass into text-books and are lost. -Chaucer is done for, and so is Milton; Goldsmith is annotated, Scott -is prepared for "local examinations," and even Byron, the loose, the -ungrammatical, is edited as a school book. The noble army of extension -lecturers will scarcely pause in their onward march. We shall see -Wordsworth captured, Shelley boiled down for the use of babes, and -Keats elaborately annotated, with his blunders in classical mythology -exposed. The schoolmaster is the only friend the poet of the future -dares to look to, for he alone has the power to destroy the loveliness -and mystery which are the charm of the old poets. Even a second-rate -verse-writer may hope to live by the side of an Elizabethan poet edited -for the Clarendon Press. - -This remedy may, however, be considered fantastic, and it would -scarcely be wise to trust to it. There is, nevertheless, nothing -ironical in the statement that an exaggerated attention paid to -historical work leaves no time and no appetite for what contemporaries -produce. The neglect of poetry is so widespread that if the very small -residuum of love of verse is expended lavishly on the dead, the living -are likely to come off badly indeed. The other arts, which can better -defend themselves, are experiencing the same sense of being starved -by the old masters. The bulk of the public neither buys books nor -invests in pictures, nor orders statuary according to its own taste, -but according to the fashion; and if the craze is antiquarian, we may -produce Raphaels in dozens and Shelleys in shoals; they will have to -subsist as the bears and the pelicans do. - -Let us abandon ourselves, however, to the vain pleasure of prophesying. -Let us suppose, for the humour of it, that what very young gentlemen -call "the might of poesy" is sure to reassert itself, that the votaries -of modern verse will always form a respectable minimum, and that some -alteration in fashion will reduce the tyranny of antiquarianism to -decent proportions. Admit that poetry, in whatever lamentable condition -it may be at the present time, is eternal in its essence, and must -offer the means of expression to certain admirable talents in each -generation. What, then, is the form which we may reasonably expect it -to take next? This is, surely, a harmless kind of speculation, and the -moral certainty of being fooled by the event need not restrain us -from indulging in it. We will prophesy, although fully conscious of -the wild predictions on the same subject current in England in 1580, -1650, and 1780, and in France in 1775 and 1825. We may be quite sure of -one thing, that when the Marlowe or the André Chénier is coming, not -a single critic will be expecting him. But in the meantime why show a -front less courageous than that of the history-defying Zadkiel? - -It is usually said, in hasty generalisation, that the poetry of the -present age is unique in the extreme refinement of its exterior -mechanism. Those who say this are not aware that the great poets whose -virile simplicity and robust carelessness of detail they applaud--thus -building tombs to prophets whom they have never worshipped--have, -almost without exception, been scrupulously attentive to form. No -modern writer has been so learned in rhythm as Milton, so faultless -in rhyme-arrangement as Spenser. But what is true is that a care for -form, and a considerable skill in the technical art of verse, have -been acquired by writers of a lower order, and that this sort of -perfection is no longer the hall-mark of a great master. We may expect -it, therefore, to attract less attention in the future; and although, -assuredly, the bastard jargon of Walt Whitman, and kindred returns to -sheer barbarism, will not be accepted, technical perfection will more -and more be taken as a matter of course, as a portion of the poet's -training which shall be as indispensable, and as little worthy of -notice, as that a musician should read his notes correctly. - -Less effort, therefore, is likely to be made, in the immediate -future, to give pleasure by the manner of poetry, and more skill -will be expended on the subject-matter. By this I do not understand -that greater concession will be made than in the past to what may be -called the didactic fallacy, the obstinate belief of some critics in -the function of poetry as a teacher. The fact is certain that nothing -is more obsolete than educational verse, the literary product which -deliberately supplies information. We may see another Sappho; it is -even conceivable that we might see another Homer; but a new Hesiod, -never. Knowledge has grown to be far too complex, exact, and minute to -be impressed upon the memory by the artifice of rhyme; and poetry had -scarcely passed its infancy before it discovered that to stimulate, to -impassion, to amuse, were the proper duties of an art which appeals to -the emotions, and to the emotions only. The curious attempts, then, -which have been made by poets of no mean talent to dedicate their verse -to botany, to the Darwinian hypothesis, to the loves of the fossils, -and to astronomical science, are not likely to be repeated, and if they -should be repeated, they would scarcely attract much popular attention. -Nor is the epic, on a large scale--that noble and cumbersome edifice -with all its blank windows and corridors that lead to nothing--a -species of poetic architecture which the immediate future can be -expected to indulge in. - -Leaving the negative for the positive, then, we may fancy that one -or two probabilities loom before us. Poetry, if it exist at all, -will deal, and probably to a greater degree than ever before, with -those more frail and ephemeral shades of emotion which prose scarcely -ventures to describe. The existence of a delicately organised human -being is diversified by divisions and revulsions of sensation, -ill-defined desires, gleams of intuition, and the whole gamut of -spiritual notes descending from exultation to despair, none of which -have ever been adequately treated except in the hieratic language of -poetry. The most realistic novel, the closest psychological analysis in -prose, does no more than skim the surface of the soul; verse has the -privilege of descending into its depths. In the future, lyrical poetry -will probably grow less trivial and less conventional, at the risk of -being less popular. It will interpret what prose dares not suggest. -It will penetrate further into the complexity of human sensation, -and, untroubled by the necessity of formulating a creed, a theory, or -a story, will describe with delicate accuracy, and under a veil of -artistic beauty, the amazing, the unfamiliar, and even the portentous -phenomena which it encounters. - -The social revolution or evolution which most sensible people are -now convinced is imminent, will surely require a species of poetry -to accompany its course and to celebrate its triumphs. If we could -foresee what form this species will take, we should know all things. -But we must believe that it will be democratic, and that to a -degree at present unimaginable. The aristocratic tradition is still -paramount in all art. Kings, princesses, and the symbols of chivalry -are as essential to poetry, as we now conceive it, as roses, stars, -or nightingales. The poet may be a pronounced socialist; he may be -Mr. William Morris; but the oligarchic imagery pervades his work as -completely as if he were a troubadour of the thirteenth century. It is -difficult to understand what will be left if this romantic phraseology -is destroyed, but it is still more difficult to believe that it can -survive a complete social revolution. - -A kind of poetry now scarcely cultivated at all may be expected to -occupy the attention of the poets, whether socialism hastens or delays. -What the Germans understand by epic verse--that is to say, short and -highly finished studies in narrative--is a class of literature which -offers unlimited opportunities. What may be done in this direction is -indicated in France by the work of M. Coppée. In England and America -we have at present nothing at all like it, the idyllic stories of Mr. -Coventry Patmore presenting the closest parallel. The great danger -which attends the writing of these narratives in English is the -tendency to lose distinction of style, to become humorous in dealing -with the grotesque and tame in describing the simple. Blank verse will -be wholly eschewed by those who in the future sing the annals of the -humble; they will feel that the strictest art and the most exquisite -ornament of rhyme and metre will be required for the treatment of -such narratives. M. Coppée himself, who records the adventures of -seamstresses and engine-drivers, of shipwrecked sailors and retail -grocers, with such simplicity and moving pathos, has not his rival -in all France for purity of phrase and for exquisite propriety of -versification. - -The modern interest in the drama, and the ever-growing desire to -see literature once more wedded to the stage, will, it can hardly -be doubted, lead to a revival of dramatic poetry. This will not, -of course, have any relation to the feeble lycean plays of the -hour--spectacular romances enshrined in ambling blank verse--but will, -in its form and substance alike, offer entertainment to other organs -than the eye. Probably the puritanic limitations which have so long -cramped the English theatre will be removed, and British plays, while -remaining civilised and decent, will once more deal with the realities -of life and not with its conventions. Neither the funeral baked meats -of the romantic English novel, nor the spiced and potted dainties of -the French stage, will satisfy our playgoers when once we have strong -and sincere playwrights of our own. - -In religious verse something, and in philosophical verse much, remains -to be done. The wider hope has scarcely found a singer yet, and the -deeper speculation has been very imperfectly and empirically celebrated -by our poets. Whether love, the very central fountain of poetic -inspiration in the past, can yield many fresh variations, remains to be -seen. That passion will, however, in all probability be treated in the -future less objectively and with a less obtrusive landscape background. -The school which is now expiring has carried description, the -consciousness of exterior forms and colours, the drapery and upholstery -of nature, to its extreme limit. The next development of poetry is -likely to be very bare and direct, unembroidered, perhaps even arid, -in character. It will be experimental rather than descriptive, human -rather than animal. So at least we vaguely conjecture. But whatever -the issue may be, we may be confident that the art will retain that -poignant charm over undeveloped minds, and that exquisite fascination, -which for so many successive generations have made poetry the wisest -and the fairest friend of youth. - -_1891._ - - - - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER - - - - -Tennyson--and After - - -As we filed slowly out of the Abbey on the afternoon of Wednesday, the -12th of October, 1892, there must have occurred to others, I think, -as to myself, a whimsical and half-terrifying sense of the symbolic -contrast between what we had left and what we emerged upon. Inside, -the grey and vitreous atmosphere, the reverberations of music moaning -somewhere out of sight, the bones and monuments of the noble dead, -reverence, antiquity, beauty, rest. Outside, in the raw air, a tribe -of hawkers urging upon the edges of a dense and inquisitive crowd a -large sheet of pictures of the pursuit of a flea by a "lady," and more -insidious salesmen doing a brisk trade in what they falsely pretended -to be "Tennyson's last poem." - -Next day we read in our newspapers affecting accounts of the emotion -displayed by the vast crowds outside the Abbey--horny hands dashing -away the tear, seamstresses holding the "the little green volumes" to -their faces to hide their agitation. Happy for those who could see -these things with their fairy telescopes out of the garrets of Fleet -Street. I, alas!--though I sought assiduously--could mark nothing -of the kind. Entering the Abbey, conducted by courteous policemen -through unparalleled masses of the curious, we distinguished patience, -good behaviour, cheerful and untiring inquisitiveness, a certain -obvious gratitude for an incomprehensible spectacle provided by the -authorities, but nothing else. And leaving the Abbey, as I say, the -impression was one almost sinister in its abrupt transition. Poetry, -authority, the grace and dignity of life, seemed to have been left -behind us for ever in that twilight where Tennyson was sleeping with -Chaucer and with Dryden. - -In recording this impression I desire nothing so little as to appear -censorious. Even the external part of the funeral at Westminster -seemed, as was said of the similar scene which was enacted there nearly -two hundred years ago, "a well-conducted and uncommon public ceremony, -where the philosopher can find nothing to condemn, nor the satirist -to ridicule." But the contrast between the outside and the inside of -the Abbey, a contrast which may possibly have been merely whimsical -in itself, served for a parable of the condition of poetry in England -as the burial of Tennyson has left it. If it be only the outworn body -of this glorious man which we have relinquished to the safeguard of -the Minster, gathered to his peers in the fulness of time, we have no -serious ground for apprehension, nor, after the first painful moment, -even for sorrow. His harvest is ripe, and we hold it in our granaries. -The noble physical presence which has been the revered companion of -three generations has, indeed, sunk at length: - - - _Yet would we not disturb him from his tomb,_ - _Thus sleeping in his Abbey's friendly shade,_ - _And the rough waves of life for ever laid._ - - -But what if this vast and sounding funeral should prove to have -really been the entombment of English poetry? What if it should be -the prestige of verse that we left behind us in the Abbey? That is a -question which has issues far more serious than the death of any one -man, no matter how majestic that man may be. - -Poetry is not a democratic art. We are constantly being told by the -flexible scribes who live to flatter the multitude that the truest -poetry is that which speaks to the million, that moves the great -heart of the masses. In his private consciousness no one knows better -than the lettered man who writes such sentences that they are not -true. Since the pastoral days in which poets made great verses for a -little clan, it has never been true that poetry of the noblest kind -was really appreciated by the masses. If we take the bulk of what are -called educated people, but a very small proportion are genuinely fond -of reading. Sift this minority, and but a minute residue of it will -be found to be sincerely devoted to beautiful poetry. The genuine -lovers of verse are so few that if they could be made the subject of a -statistical report, we should probably be astounded at the smallness of -their number. From the purely democratic point of view it is certain -that they form a negligible quantity. They would produce no general -effect at all if they were not surrounded by a very much larger -number of persons who, without taste for poetry themselves, are yet -traditionally impressed with its value, and treat it with conventional -respect, buying it a little, frequently conversing about it, pressing -to gaze at its famous professors, and competing for places beside the -tombs of its prophets. The respect for poetry felt by these persons, -although in itself unmeaning, is extremely valuable in its results. It -supports the enthusiasm of the few who know and feel for themselves, -and it radiates far and wide into the outer masses, whose darkness -would otherwise be unreached by the very glimmer of these things. - -There is no question, however, that the existence in prominent public -honour of an art in its essence so aristocratic as poetry--that is to -say, so dependent on the suffrages of a few thousand persons who happen -to possess, in greater or lesser degree, certain peculiar qualities -of mind and ear--is, at the present day, anomalous, and therefore -perilous. All this beautiful pinnacled structure of the glory of verse, -this splendid position of poetry at the summit of the civil ornaments -of the Empire, is built of carven ice, and needs nothing but that the -hot popular breath should be turned upon it to sink into so much water. -It is kept standing there, flashing and sparkling before our eyes, by a -succession of happy accidents. To speak rudely, it is kept there by an -effort of bluff on the part of a small influential class. - -In reflecting on these facts, I have found myself depressed and -terrified at an ebullition of popularity which seems to have struck -almost everybody else with extreme satisfaction. It has been very -natural that the stupendous honour apparently done to Tennyson, not -merely by the few who always valued him, but by the many who might be -supposed to stand outside his influence, has been welcomed with delight -and enthusiasm. But what is so sinister a circumstance is the excessive -character of this exhibition. I think of the funeral of Wordsworth at -Grasmere, only forty-two years ago, with a score of persons gathering -quietly under the low wall that fenced them from the brawling Rotha; -and I turn to the spectacle of the 12th, the vast black crowd in the -street, the ten thousand persons refused admission to the Abbey, -the whole enormous popular manifestation.[1] What does it mean? Is -Tennyson, great as he is, a thousand times greater than Wordsworth? Has -poetry, in forty years, risen at this ratio in the public estimation? -The democracy, I fear, doth protest too much, and there is danger in -this hollow reverence. - -The danger takes this form. It may at any moment come to be held -that the poet, were he the greatest that ever lived, was greater -than poetry; the artist more interesting than his art. This was a -peril unknown in ancient times. The plays of Shakespeare and his -contemporaries were scarcely more closely identified with the men -who wrote them than Gothic cathedrals were with their architects. -Cowley was the first English poet about whom much personal interest -was felt outside the poetic class. Dryden is far more evident to us -than the Elizabethans were, yet phantasmal by the side of Pope. Since -the age of Anne an interest in the poet, as distinguished from his -poetry, has steadily increased; the fashion for Byron, the posthumous -curiosity in Shelley and Keats, are examples of the rapid growth of -this individualisation in the present century. But since the death -of Wordsworth it has taken colossal proportions, without, so far as -can be observed, any parallel quickening of the taste for poetry -itself. The result is that a very interesting or picturesque figure, -if identified with poetry, may attract an amount of attention and -admiration which is spurious as regards the poetry, and of no real -significance. Tennyson had grown to be by far the most mysterious, -august, and singular figure in English society. He represented poetry, -and the world now expects its poets to be as picturesque, as aged, and -as individual as he was, or else it will pay poetry no attention. I -fear, to be brief, that the personal, as distinguished from the purely -literary, distinction of Tennyson may strike, for the time being, a -serious blow at the vitality of poetry in this country. - -Circumstances have combined, in a very curious way, to produce this -result. If a supernatural power could be conceived as planning a scenic -effect, it could hardly have arranged it in a manner more telling, or -more calculated to excite the popular imagination, than has been the -case in the quick succession of the death of Matthew Arnold, of Robert -Browning, and of Tennyson. - - - _Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?_ - _Thy shaft few thrice; and thrice our peace was slain._ - - -A great poet was followed by a greater, and he by the greatest of the -century, and all within five years. So died, but not with this crescent -effect, Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Raleigh; so Vanbrugh, Congreve, -Gay, Steele, and Defoe; so Byron, Shelley, and Keats; so Scott, -Coleridge, and Lamb. But in none of these cases was the field left -so exposed as it now is in popular estimation. The deaths of Keats, -Shelley, and Byron were really momentous to an infinitely greater -degree than those of Arnold, Browning, and Tennyson, because the former -were still in the prime of life, while the latter had done their work; -but the general public was not aware of this, and, as is well known, -Shelley and Keats passed away without exciting a ripple of popular -curiosity. - -The tone of criticism since the death of Tennyson has been very much -what might, under the circumstances, have been expected. Their efforts -to overwhelm his coffin with lilies and roses have seemed paltry to -the critics, unless they could succeed, at the same time, in laying -waste all the smaller gardens of his neighbours. There is no doubt -that the instinct for suttee lies firmly embedded in human nature, and -that the glory of a dead rajah is dimly felt by us all to be imperfect -unless some one or other is immolated on his funeral pile. But when -we come to think calmly on this matter, it will be seen that this -offering up of the live poets as a burnt sacrifice to the memory of -their dead master is absurd and grotesque. We have boasted all these -years that we possessed the greatest of the world's poets since Victor -Hugo. We did well to boast. But he is taken from us at a great age, -and we complain at once, with bitter cries--because we have no poet -left so venerable or so perfect in ripeness of the long-drawn years of -craftsmanship--that poetry is dead amongst us, and that all the other -excellent artists in verse are worthless scribblers. This is natural, -perhaps, but it is scarcely generous and not a little ridiculous. It -is, moreover, exactly what the critics said in 1850, when Arnold, -Browning, and Tennyson had already published a great deal of their most -admirable work. - -The ingratitude of the hour towards the surviving poets of England pays -but a poor compliment to the memory of that great man whose fame it -professes to honour. I suppose that there has scarcely been a writer -of interesting verse who has come into anything like prominence within -the lifetime of Tennyson who has not received from him some letter of -praise--some message of benevolent indulgence. More than fifty years -ago he wrote, in glowing terms, to congratulate Mr. Bailey on his -_Festus_; it is only yesterday that we were hearing of his letters to -Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. William Watson. Tennyson did not affect to -be a critic--no man, indeed, can ever have lived who less _affected_ -to be anything--but he loved good verses, and he knew them when he -saw them, and welcomed them indulgently. No one can find it more -distasteful to him to have it asserted that Tennyson was, and will be, -"the last of the English poets" than would Tennyson himself. - -It was not my good fortune to see him many times, and only twice, at an -interval of about twelve years, did I have the privilege of hearing him -talk at length and ease. On each of those occasions, however, it was -noticeable with what warmth and confidence he spoke of the future of -English poetry, with what interest he evidently followed its progress, -and how cordially he appreciated what various younger men were doing. -In particular, I hope it is not indiscreet to refer to the tone in -which he spoke to me on each of these occasions of Mr. Swinburne, -whose critical conscience had, it must not be forgotten, led him to -refer with no slight severity to several of the elder poet's writings. -In 1877 Mr. Swinburne's strictures were still recent, and might not -unreasonably have been painfully recollected. Yet Tennyson spoke of -him almost as Dryden did two hundred years ago to Congreve: - - - _And this I prophesy--thou shalt be seen_ - _(Though with some short parenthesis between)_ - _High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,_ - _Not mine (that's little), but thy laurel wear._ - - -It would never have occurred to this great and wise man that his own -death could be supposed to mark the final burning up and turning to -ashes of the prophetic bays. - -These are considerations, however--to return to my original -parable--for the few within the Abbey. They are of no force in guiding -opinion among the non-poetical masses outside. These, dangerously moved -for the nonce to observe the existence of poetry, may make a great -many painful and undesirable reflections before the subject quits -their memory. There is always a peril in a popular movement that is -not founded on genuine feeling, and the excitement about Tennyson's -death has been far too universal to be sincere. It is even now not too -early for us to perceive, if we will face it calmly, that elements of -a much commoner and emptier nature than reverence for a man of genius -have entered into the stir about the Laureate's burial. The multitude -so stirred into an excited curiosity about a great poet will presently -crave, of course, a little more excitement still over another poet, -and this stimulant will not be forthcoming. We have not, and shall not -have for a generation at least, such another sacrifice to offer to the -monster. It will be in the retreat of the wave, in the sense of popular -disappointment at the non-recurrence of such intellectual shocks as the -deaths of Browning and Tennyson have supplied, that the right of poetry -to take precedence among the arts of writing will for the first time -come to be seriously questioned. Our critics will then, too late, begin -to regret their suttee of the Muses; but if they try to redeem their -position by praising this living poet or that, the public will only too -glibly remind them of their own dictum that "poetry died with Tennyson." - -In old days the reading public swept the literature of its fathers -into the dust-bin, and read Horace while its immediate contemporaries -were preparing works in prose and verse to suit the taste of the -moment. But nowadays each great writer who passes out of physical life -preserves his intellectual existence intact and becomes a lasting -rival to his surviving successor. The young novelist has no living -competitor so dangerous to him as Dickens and Thackeray are, who are -nevertheless divided from him by time almost as far as Milton was from -Pope. It is nearly seventy years since the earliest of Macaulay's -_Essays_ appeared, and the least reference to one of them would now -be recognised by "every schoolboy." Less than seventy years after -the death of Bacon his _Essays_ were so completely forgotten that -when extracts from them were discovered in the common-place book of -a deceased lady of quality, they were supposed to be her own, were -published and praised by people as clever as Congreve, went through -several editions, and were not detected until within the present -century. When an age made a palimpsest of its memory in this way it was -far easier to content it with contemporary literary excellence than it -is now, when every aspirant is confronted with the quintessence of the -centuries. - -It is not, however, from the captious taste of the public that most is -to be feared, but from its indifference. Let it not be believed that, -because a mob of the votaries of Mr. Jerome and Mr. Sims have been -drawn to the precincts of the Abbey to gaze upon a pompous ceremonial, -these admirable citizens have suddenly taken to reading _Lucretius_ -or _The Two Voices_. What their praise is worth no one among us would -venture to say in words so unmeasured as those of the dead Master -himself, who, with a prescience of their mortuary attentions, spoke of -these irreverent admirers as those - - - _Who make it seem more sweet to be_ - _The little life of bank and brier,_ - _The bird who pipes his lone desire_ - _And dies unheard within his tree,_ - - _Than he that warbles long and loud,_ - _And drops at Glory's temple-gates,_ - _For whom the carrion-vulture waits_ - _To tear his heart before the crowd._ - - -If this is more harsh reproof than a mere idle desire to be excited by -a spectacle or by an event demands, it may nevertheless serve us as -an antidote to the vain illusion that these multitudes are suddenly -converted to a love of fine literature. They are not so converted, and -fine literature--however scandalous it may sound in the ears of this -generation to say it--is for the few. - -How long, then, will the many permit themselves to be brow-beaten by -the few? At the present time the oligarchy of taste governs our vast -republic of readers. We tell them to praise the Bishop of Oxford for -his history, and Mr. Walter Pater for his essays, and Mr. Herbert -Spencer for his philosophy, and Mr. George Meredith for his novels. -They obey us, and these are great and illustrious personages about -whom newspaper gossip is continually occupied, whom crowds, when they -have the chance, hurry to gaze at, but whose books (or I am cruelly -misinformed) brave a relatively small circulation. These reputations -are like beautiful churches, into which people turn to cross themselves -with holy water, bow to the altar, and then hurry out again to spend -the rest of the morning in some snug tavern. - -Among these churches of living fame, the noblest, the most exquisite -was that sublime cathedral of song which we called Tennyson; and -there, it is true, drawn by fashion and by a choral service of extreme -beauty, the public had formed the habit of congregating. But at length, -after a final ceremony of incomparable dignity, this minster has been -closed. Where will the people who attended there go now? The other -churches stand around, honoured and empty. Will they now be better -filled? Or will some secularist mayor, of strong purpose and an enemy -to sentiment, order them to be deserted altogether? We may, at any -rate, be quite sure that this remarkable phenomenon of the popularity -of Tennyson, however we regard it, is but transitory and accidental, -or at most personal to himself. That it shows any change in the public -attitude of reserved or grumbling respect to the best literature, and -radical dislike to style, will not be seriously advanced. - -What I dread, what I long have dreaded, is the eruption of a sort -of Commune in literature. At no period could the danger of such an -outbreak of rebellion against tradition be so great as during the -reaction which must follow the death of our most illustrious writer. -Then, if ever, I should expect to see a determined resistance made to -the pretensions of whatever is rare, or delicate, or abstruse. At no -time, I think, ought those who guide taste amongst us to be more on -their guard to preserve a lofty and yet generous standard, to insist on -the merits of what is beautiful and yet unpopular, and to be unaffected -by commercial tests of distinction. We have lived for ten years in a -fool's paradise. Without suspecting the truth, we have been passing -through a period of poetic glory hardly to be paralleled elsewhere -in our history. One by one great luminaries were removed--Rossetti, -Newman, Arnold, Browning sank, each star burning larger as it neared -the horizon. Still we felt no apprehension, saying, as we turned -towards Farringford: - - - "_Mais le père est là-bas, dans l'île._" - - -Now he is gone also, and the shock of his extinction strikes us for the -moment with a sense of positive and universal darkness. - -But this very natural impression is a mistaken one. As our eyes grow -accustomed to the absence of this bright particular planet, we shall -be more and more conscious of the illuminating power of the heavenly -bodies that are left. We shall, at least, if criticism directs us -carefully and wholesomely. With all the losses that our literature -has sustained, we are, still, more richly provided with living poets -of distinction than all but the blossoming periods of our history -have been. In this respect we are easily deceived by a glance at some -chart of the course of English literature, where the lines of life of -aged writers overlap those of writers still in their early youth. The -worst pessimist amongst us will not declare that our poetry seems to -be in the utterly and deplorably indigent condition in which the death -of Burns appeared to leave it in 1796. Then the beholder, glancing -round, would see nothing but Crabbe, grown silent for eleven years, -Cowper insane, Blake undeveloped and unrecognised; the pompous, florid -Erasmus Darwin left solitary master of the field. But we, who look at -the chart, see Wordsworth and Coleridge on the point of evolution, -Campbell and Moore at school, Byron and Shelley in the nursery, and -Keats an infant. Who can tell what inheritors of unfulfilled renown may -not now be staining their divine lips with the latest of this season's -blackberries? - -But we are not left to these conjectural consolations. I believe that -I take very safe ground when I say that our living poets present a -variety and amplitude of talent, a fulness of tone, an accomplishment -in art, such as few other generations in England, and still fewer -elsewhere, have been in a position to exult in. It would be invidious, -and it might indeed be very difficult and tedious, to go through the -list of those who do signal honour to our living literature in this -respect. Without repeating the list so patiently drawn up and so -humorously commented upon by Mr. Traill, it would be easy to select -from it fifteen names, not one of which would be below the fair -meridian of original merit, and many of which would rise far above it. -Could so much have been said in 1592, or in 1692, or in 1792? Surely, -no. I must not be led to multiply names, the mere mention of which in -so casual a manner can hardly fail to seem impertinent; yet I venture -to assert that a generation which can boast of Mr. Swinburne and Miss -Christina Rossetti, of Mr. William Morris and Mr. Coventry Patmore, of -Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Robert Bridges, has no reason to complain of -lack of fire or elevation, grace or versatility. - -It was only in Paradise, so we learn from St. Basil, that roses ever -grew without thorns. We cannot have the rose of such an exceptional -life as Tennyson's without suffering for it. We suffer by the void its -cessation produces, the disturbance in our literary hierarchy that -it brings, the sense of uncertainty and insufficiency that follows -upon it. The death of Victor Hugo led to precisely such a rocking and -swaying of the ship of literature in France, and to this day it cannot -be said that the balance there is completely restored. I cannot think -that we gain much by ignoring this disturbance, which is inevitable, -and still less by folding our hands and calling out that it means that -the vessel is sinking. It means nothing of the kind. What it does mean -is that when a man of the very highest rank in the profession lives to -an exceptionally great age, and retains his intellectual gifts to the -end, combining with these unusual advantages the still more fortuitous -ones of being singular and picturesque in his personality and the -object of much ungratified curiosity, he becomes the victim, in the -eyes of his contemporaries, of a sort of vertical mirage. He is seen -up in the sky where no man could be. I trust I shall not be accused of -anything like disrespect to the genius of Tennyson--which I loved and -admired as nearly to the pitch of idolatry as possible--when I say that -his reputation at this moment is largely mirage. His gifts were of the -very highest order; but in the popular esteem, at this moment, he holds -a position which is, to carry on the image, topographically impossible. -No poet, no man, ever reached that altitude above his fellows. - -The result of seeing one mountain in vertical mirage, and various -surrounding acclivities (if that were possible) at their proper -heights, would be to falsify the whole system of optical proportion. -Yet this is what is now happening, and for some little time will -continue to happen _in crescendo_, with regard to Tennyson and his -surviving contemporaries. There is no need, however, to cherish "those -gloomy thoughts led on by spleen" which the melancholy events of the -past month have awakened. The recuperative force of the arts has never -yet failed the human race, and will not fail us now. All the _Tit-Bits_ -and _Pearson's Weeklies_ in the world will not be able to destroy a -fragment of pure and original literature, although the tastes they -foster may delay its recognition and curtail its rewards. - -The duty of all who have any influence on the public is now clear. So -far from resigning the responsibility of praise and blame, so far from -opening the flood-gates to what is bad--on the ground that the best -is gone, and that it does not matter--it behoves those who are our -recognised judges of literary merit to resist more strenuously than -ever the inroads of mere commercial success into the Temple of Fame. -The Scotch ministry preserve that interesting practice of "fencing the -tables" of the Lord by a solemn searching of would-be communicants. Let -the tables of Apollo be fenced, not to the exclusion or the discomfort -of those who have a right to his sacraments, but to the chastening of -those who have no other mark of his service but their passbook. And -poetry, which survived the death of Chaucer, will recover even from the -death of Tennyson. - -_1892._ - -FOOTNOTE: - -[1] See Mr. Hall Caine's interesting article in the _Times_ for October -17th, 1892. - - - - -SHELLEY in 1892 - - - - -Shelley in 1892 - -_Centenary Address delivered at Horsham, August 11, 1892_ - - -We meet to-day to celebrate the fact that, exactly one hundred -years ago, there was born, in an old house in this parish, one of -the greatest of the English poets, one of the most individual and -remarkable of the poets of the world. This beautiful county of Sussex, -with its blowing woodlands and its shining downs, was even then not -unaccustomed to poetic honours. One hundred and thirty years before, -it had given birth to Otway; seventy years before, to Collins. But -charming as these pathetic figures were and are, not Collins and -not Otway can compare for a moment with that writer who is the -main intellectual glory of Sussex, the ever-beloved and ethereally -illustrious Percy Bysshe Shelley. It has appeared to me that you might, -as a Sussex audience, gathered in a Sussex town, like to be reminded, -before we go any further, of the exact connection of our poet with -the county--of the stake, as it is called, which his family held in -Sussex, and of the period of his own residence in it. You will see -that, although his native province lost him early, she had a strong -claim upon his interests and associations. - -When Shelley was born, on the 4th of August, 1792, his grandfather, -afterwards a baronet, Sir Bysshe Shelley, was ensconced at Goring -Castle, while his father, the heir to the title, Mr. Timothy Shelley, -inhabited that famous house, Field Place, which lies here at your -doors. Mr. Timothy Shelley had married a lady from your nearest eastern -neighbour, the town of Cuckfield; he was M.P. for another Sussex -borough, Shoreham; in the next Parliament he was to represent, if I am -not mistaken, Horsham itself. The names which meet us in the earliest -pages of the poet's biographies are all Sussex names. It was at Warnham -that he was taught his earliest lessons, and it was in Warnham Pond -that the great tortoise lurked which was the earliest of his visions. -St. Irvine's, in whose woods he loved to wander by moonlight, has -disappeared, but Strode is close to you still, and if St. Leonard's -Forest has shrunken somewhat to the eastward since Shelley walked and -raved in its allies, you still possess it in your neighbourhood. - -Until Shelley was expelled from Oxford, Field Place was his constant -residence out of school and college hours. Nor, although his father at -first forbade him to return, was his connection with Sussex broken even -then. The house of his uncle, Captain Pilfold, was always open to him -at Cuckfield, and when the Duke of Norfolk made his kind suggestion -that the young man should enter Parliament, as a species of moral -sedative, it was to a Sussex borough that he proposed to nominate -him. Shelley's first abortive volume of poems was set up by a Horsham -printer, and it was from Hurstpierpoint that Miss Hitchener, afterwards -known as the "Brown Demon," started on her disastrous expedition into -the lives of the Shelleys. It was not until 1814, on the eve of his -departure for the Continent, that Shelley came to Sussex for the last -time, paying that furtive visit to his mother and sisters, on which, -in order to conceal himself from his father, he buttoned the scarlet -jacket of a guardsman round his attenuated form. - -If I have endeavoured, by thus grouping together all the Sussex names -which are connected with Shelley, to attract your personal and local -sympathy around the career of the poet, it is with no intention to -claim for him a provincial significance. Shelley does not belong to -any one county, however rich and illustrious that county may be; he -belongs to Europe--to the world. The tendency of his poetry and its -peculiar accent were not so much English as European. He might have -been a Frenchman, or an Italian, a Pole, or a Greek, in a way in which -Wordsworth, for instance, or even Byron, could never have been anything -but an Englishman. He passes, as we watch the brief and sparkling -record of his life, from Sussex to the world. One day he is a child, -sailing paper boats among the reeds in Warnham Pond; next day we look, -and see, scarcely the son of worthy Mr. Timothy Shelley of Field Place, -but a spirit without a country, "a planet-crested shape sweeping by -on lightning-braided pinions" to scatter the liquid joy of life over -humanity. - -Into the particulars of this strange life I need not pass. You -know them well. No life so brief as Shelley's has occupied so much -curiosity, and for my part I think that even too minute inquiry has -been made concerning some of its details. The "Harriet problem" leaves -its trail across one petal of this rose; minuter insects, not quite -so slimy, lurk where there should be nothing but colour and odour. -We may well, I think, be content to-day to take the large romance -of Shelley's life, and leave any sordid details to oblivion. He -died before he was quite thirty years of age, and the busy piety of -biographers has peeped into the record of almost every day of the last -ten of those years. What seems to me most wonderful is that a creature -so nervous, so passionate, so ill-disciplined as Shelley was, should -be able to come out of such an unprecedented ordeal with his shining -garments so little specked with mire. Let us, at all events, to-day, -think of the man only as "the peregrine falcon" that his best and -oldest friends describe him. - -We may, at all events, while a grateful England is cherishing Shelley's -memory, and congratulating herself on his majestic legacy of song to -her, reflect almost with amusement on the very different attitude of -public opinion seventy and even fifty years ago. That he should have -been pursued by calumny and prejudice through his brief, misrepresented -life, and even beyond the tomb, can surprise no thinking spirit. It was -not the poet who was attacked; it was the revolutionist, the enemy of -kings and priests, the extravagant and paradoxical humanitarian. It is -not needful, in order to defend Shelley's genius aright, to inveigh -against those who, taught in the prim school of eighteenth-century -poetics, and repelled by political and social peculiarities which they -but dimly understood, poured out their reprobation of his verses. -Even his reviewers, perhaps, were not all of them "beaten hounds" -and "carrion kites"; some, perhaps, were very respectable and rather -narrow-minded English gentlemen, devoted to the poetry of Shenstone. -The newer a thing is, in the true sense, the slower people are to -accept it, and the abuse of the _Quarterly Review_, rightly taken, was -but a token of Shelley's opulent originality. - -To this unintelligent aversion there succeeded in the course of years -an equally blind, although more amiable, admiration. Among a certain -class of minds the reaction set in with absolute violence, and once -more the centre of attention was not the poet and his poetry, but -the faddist and his fads. Shelley was idealised, etherealised, and -canonised. Expressions were used about his conduct and his opinions -which would have been extravagant if employed to describe those of a -virgin-martyr or of the founder of a religion. Vegetarians clustered -around the eater of buns and raisins, revolutionists around the -enemy of kings, social anarchists around the husband of Godwin's -daughter. Worse than all, those to whom the restraints of religion -were hateful, marshalled themselves under the banner of the youth who -had rashly styled himself an atheist, forgetful of the fact that all -his best writings attest that, whatever name he might give himself, -he, more than any other poet of the age, saw God in everything. This -also was a phase, and passed away. The career of Shelley is no longer -a battlefield for fanatics of one sort or the other; if they still -skirmish a little in its obscurer corners, the main tract of it is -not darkened with the smoke from their artillery. It lies, a fair -open country of pure poetry, a province which comes as near to being -fairyland as any that literature provides for us. - -We cannot, however, think of this poet as of a writer of verses in the -void. He is anything but the "idle singer of an empty day." Shelley was -born amid extraordinary circumstances into an extraordinary age. On the -very day, one hundred years ago, when the champagne was being drunk -in the hall of Field Place in honour of the birth of a son and heir -to Mr. Timothy Shelley, the thunder-cloud of revolution was breaking -over Europe. Never before had there been felt within so short a space -of time so general a crash of the political order of things. Here, in -England, we were spectators of the wild and sundering stress, in which -the other kingdoms of Europe were distracted actors. The faces of Burke -and of his friends wore "the expression of men who are going to defend -themselves from murderers," and those murderers are called, during the -infancy of Shelley, by many names, Mamelukes and Suliots, Poles and -Swedes, besides the all-dreaded one of _sansculottes_. In the midst of -this turmoil Shelley was born, and the air of revolution filled his -veins with life. - -In Shelley we see a certain type of revolutionist, born out of due -time, and directed to the bloodless field of literature. The same -week that saw the downfall of La Fayette saw the birth of Shelley, -and we might believe the one to be an incarnation of the hopes of the -other. Each was an aristocrat, born with a passionate ambition to play -a great part in the service of humanity; in neither was there found -that admixture of the earthly which is needful for sustained success -in practical life. Had Shelley taken part in active affairs, his will -and his enthusiasm must have broken, like waves, against the coarser -type of revolutionist, against the Dantons and the Robespierres. Like -La Fayette, Shelley was intoxicated with virtue and glory; he was -chivalrous, inflammable, and sentimental. Happily for us, and for -the world, he was not thrown into a position where these beautiful -qualities could be displayed only to be shattered like a dome of -many-coloured glass. He was the not unfamiliar figure of revolutionary -times, the _grand seigneur_ enamoured of democracy. But he was much -more than this; as Mr. Swinburne said long ago, Shelley "was born a -son and soldier of light, an archangel winged and weaponed for angel's -work." Let us attempt to discover what sort of prophecy it was that he -blew through his golden trumpet. - -It is in the period of youth that Shelley appeals to us most directly, -and exercises his most unquestioned authority over the imagination. In -early life, at the moment more especially when the individuality begins -to assert itself, a young man or a young woman of feeling discovers in -this poet certain qualities which appear to be not merely good, but -the best, not only genuine, but exclusively interesting. At that age -we ask for light, and do not care how it is distributed; for melody, -and do not ask the purpose of the song; for colour, and find no hues -too brilliant to delight the unwearied eye. Shelley satisfies these -cravings of youth. His whole conception of life is bounded only by -its illusions. The brilliancy of the morning dream, the extremities -of radiance and gloom, the most pellucid truth, the most triumphant -virtue, the most sinister guilt and melodramatic infamy, alone contrive -to rivet the attention. All half-lights, all arrangements in grey or -russet, are cast aside with impatience, as unworthy of the emancipated -spirit. Winged youth, in the bright act of sowing its intellectual wild -oats, demands a poet, and Horsham, just one hundred years ago, produced -Shelley to satisfy that natural craving. - -It is not for grey philosophers, or hermits wearing out the evening -of life, to pass a definitive verdict on the poetry of Shelley. It -is easy for critics of this temper to point out weak places in the -radiant panoply, to say that this is incoherent, and that hysterical, -and the other an ethereal fallacy. Sympathy is needful, a recognition -of the point of view, before we can begin to judge Shelley aright. We -must throw ourselves back to what we were at twenty, and recollect -how dazzling, how fresh, how full of colour, and melody, and odour, -this poetry seemed to us--how like a May-day morning in a rich Italian -garden, with a fountain, and with nightingales in the blossoming boughs -of the orange-trees, with the vision of a frosty Apennine beyond the -belt of laurels, and clear auroral sky everywhere above our heads. We -took him for what he seemed, "a pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift," -and we thought to criticise him as little as we thought to judge the -murmur of the forest or the reflections of the moonlight on the lake. -He was exquisite, emancipated, young like ourselves, and yet as wise -as a divinity. We followed him unquestioning, walking in step with his -panthers, as the Bacchantes followed Dionysus out of India, intoxicated -with enthusiasm. - -If our sentiment is no longer so rhapsodical, shall we blame the poet? -Hardly, I think. He has not grown older, it is we who are passing -further and further from that happy eastern morning where the light is -fresh, and the shadows plain and clearly defined. Over all our lives, -over the lives of those of us who may be seeking to be least trammelled -by the commonplace, there creeps ever onward the stealthy tinge of -conventionality, the admixture of the earthly. We cannot honestly -wish it to be otherwise. It is the natural development, which turns -kittens into cats, and blithe-hearted lads into earnest members of -Parliament. If we try to resist this inevitable tendency, we merely -become eccentric, a mockery to others, and a trouble to ourselves. -Let us accept our respectability with becoming airs of gravity; it -is another thing to deny that youth was sweet. When I see an elderly -professor proving that the genius of Shelley has been overrated, I -cannot restrain a melancholy smile. What would he, what would I, give -for that exquisite ardour, by the light of which all other poetry than -Shelley's seemed dim? You recollect our poet's curious phrase, that to -go to him for common sense was like going to a gin-palace for mutton -chops. The speech was a rash one, and has done him harm. But it is -true enough that those who are conscious of the grossness of life, and -are over-materialised, must go to him for the elixir and ether which -emancipate the senses. - -If I am right in thinking that you will all be with me in considering -this beautiful passion of youth, this recapturing of the illusions, -as the most notable of the gifts of Shelley's poetry to us, you will -also, I think, agree with me in placing only second to it the witchery -which enables this writer, more than any other, to seize the most -tumultuous and agitating of the emotions, and present them to us -coloured by the analogy of natural beauty. Whether it be the petulance -of a solitary human being, to whom the little downy owl is a friend, -or the sorrows and desires of Prometheus, on whom the primal elements -attend as slaves, Shelley is able to mould his verse to the expression -of feeling, and to harmonise natural phenomena to the magnitude or the -delicacy of his theme. No other poet has so wide a grasp as he in this -respect, no one sweeps so broadly the full diapason of man in nature. -Laying hold of the general life of the universe with a boldness that is -unparalleled, he is equal to the most sensitive of the naturalists in -his exact observation of tender and humble forms. - -And to the ardour of fiery youth and the imaginative sympathy of -pantheism, he adds what we might hardly expect from so rapt and -tempestuous a singer, the artist's self-restraint. Shelley is none -of those of whom we are sometimes told in these days, whose mission -is too serious to be transmitted with the arts of language, who are -too much occupied with the substance to care about the form. All that -is best in his exquisite collection of verse cries out against this -wretched heresy. With all his modernity, his revolutionary instinct, -his disdain of the unessential, his poetry is of the highest and most -classic technical perfection. No one, among the moderns, has gone -further than he in the just attention to poetic form, and there is so -severe a precision in his most vibrating choruses that we are taken -by them into the company, not of the Ossians and the Walt Whitmans, -not of those who feel, yet cannot control their feelings, but of those -impeccable masters of style, - - - _who dwelt by the azure sea_ - _Of serene and golden Italy,_ - _Or Greece the mother of the free._ - - -And now, most inadequately and tamely, yet, I trust, with some sense of -the greatness of my theme, I have endeavoured to recall to your minds -certain of the cardinal qualities which animated the divine poet whom -we celebrate to-day. I have no taste for those arrangements of our -great writers which assign to them rank like schoolboys in a class, and -I cannot venture to suggest that Shelley stands above or below this -or that brother immortal. But of this I am quite sure, that when the -slender roll is called of those singers, who make the poetry of England -second only to that of Greece (if even of Greece), however few are -named, Shelley must be among them. To-day, under the auspices of the -greatest poet our language has produced since Shelley died, encouraged -by universal public opinion and by dignitaries of all the professions, -yes, even by prelates of our national church, we are gathered here as a -sign that the period of prejudice is over, that England is in sympathy -at last with her beautiful wayward child, understands his great -language, and is reconciled to his harmonious ministry. A century has -gone by, and once more we acknowledge the truth of his own words: - - - _The splendours of the firmament of time_ - _May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;_ - _Like stars to their appointed height they climb._ - - - - -SYMBOLISM AND M. STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ - - - - -Symbolism and M. Stéphane Mallarmé - - -The name which stands at the head of this essay is that of a writer -who is at the present time more talked about, more ferociously -attacked, more passionately beloved and defended, and at the same -time less understood, than perhaps any other man of his intellectual -rank in Europe. Even in the ferocious world of Parisian letters his -purity of motive and dignity of attitude are respected. Benevolent to -those younger than himself, exquisitely courteous and considerate in -controversy, a master of that suavity and reserve the value of which -literary persons so rarely appreciate, M. Mallarmé, to one who from a -distance gazes with curiosity into the Parisian hurly-burly, appeals -first by the beautiful amenity of his manners--a dreamy Sir Launcelot -riding through a forest of dragons to help the dolorous lady of Poesy -from pain. In the incessant pamphlet-wars of his party, others seem to -strike for themselves, M. Mallarmé always for the cause; and when the -battle is over, and the rest meet to carouse round a camp-fire, he is -always found stealing back to the ivory tower of contemplation. Before -we know the rights of the case, or have read a line of his verses, we -are predisposed towards a figure so pure and so distinguished. - -But though the personality of M. Mallarmé is so attractive, and though -he marches at the head of a very noisy rabble, exceedingly little -seems to be clearly known about him in this country. Until now, he has -published in such a rare and cryptic manner, that not half a dozen of -any one of his books can have reached England. Two or three abstruse -essays in prose, published in the _National Observer_, have lately -amazed the Philistines. Not thus did Mr. Lillyvick understand that -the French language was to be imparted to Morleena Kenwigs. Charming -stories float about concerning Scotch mammas who subscribed to the -_National Observer_ for the use of their girls, and discovered that -the articles were written in Moldo-Wallachian. M. Mallarmé's theories -have been ridiculed and travestied, his style parodied, his practice -gravely rebuked; but what that practice and style and theories are, -has scarcely been understood. M. Mallarmé has been wrapped up in -the general fog which enfolds our British notions of symbolists and -impressionists. If the school has had a single friend in England, it -has been Mr. Arthur Symons, one of the most brilliant of our younger -poets; and even he has been interested, I think, more in M. Verlaine -than in the Symbolists and Décadents proper. - -It was in 1886 that the Décadents first began to be talked about. Then -it was that Arthur Rimbaud's famous sonnet about the colours of the -vowels flashed into celebrity, and everybody was telling everybody else -that - - - _A's black; E, white; I, blue; O, red; V, yellow;_ - _But purple seeks in vain a vowel-fellow._ - - -Those were the days, already ancient now! of Noël Loumo and Marius -Tapera, when the inexpressible Adoré Floupette published _Les -Déliquescences_. Where are the deliquescents of yesteryear? Where -is the once celebrated scene in the "boudoir oblong aux cycloïdes -bigarrures" which enlivened _Le Thé chez Miranda_ of M. Jean Moréas? -These added to the gaiety of nations, and have been forgotten; brief -life was here their portion. Fresh oddities come forward, poets -in shoals and schools, Evolutivo-instrumentists, Cataclysmists, -Trombonists--even while we speak, have they not faded away? But amidst -all this world of phantasmagoria, among these fugitive apparitions -and futile individualities, dancing once across the stereopticon and -seen no more--one figure of a genuine man of letters remains, that of -M. Stéphane Mallarmé, the solitary name among those of the so-called -Décadents which has hitherto proved its right to serious consideration. - -If the dictionaries are to be trusted, M. Mallarmé was born in 1842. -His career seems to have been the most uneventful on record. He has -always been, and I think still is, professor of English at the Lycée -Fontanes in Paris. About twenty years ago he paid a short visit to -London, carrying with him, as I well remember, the vast portfolio of -his translation of Poe's _Raven_, with Manet's singular illustrations. -His life has been spent in a Buddhistic calm, in meditation. He -has scarcely published anything, disliking, so it is said, the -"exhibitionnisme" involved in bringing out a book, the banality of -types and proofs and revises. - -His revolutionary ideas with regard to style were formulated about -1875, when the _Parnasse Contemporain_, edited by the friends -and co-evals of M. Mallarmé, rejected his first important poem, -_L'Après-Midi d'un Faune_, which appeared at length in 1876, as a -quarto pamphlet, illustrated by Manet. In the same year he gave his -earliest example of the new prose in the shape of an essay prefixed to -a beautiful reprint of Beckford's _Vathek_, a volume bound in vellum, -tied with black and crimson silk, and produced in a very small edition. -Ridicule was the only welcome vouchsafed to these two couriers of the -Décadance. Perhaps M. Mallarmé was somewhat discouraged, although -absolutely unsubdued. - -He remained long submerged, but with the growth of his school he was -persuaded to reappear. In 1887 one fascicule only of his complete poems -was brought out in an extraordinary form, photolithographed from the -original manuscript. In 1888 followed a translation of the poems of -Edgar Poe. But until 1893 the general reader has had no opportunity, -even in France, of forming an opinion on the prose or verse of M. -Mallarmé. Meanwhile, his name has become one of the most notorious in -contemporary literature. A thousand eccentricities, a thousand acts of -revolt against tradition, have been perpetrated under the banner of -his tacit encouragement. It is high time to try and understand what M. -Mallarmé's teaching really is, and what his practice. - -To ridicule the Décadents, or to insist upon their extravagance, is -so easy as to be unworthy of a serious critic. It would be quite -simple for some crusty Christopher to show that the poems of master -and scholars alike are monstrous, unintelligible, ludicrously inept, -and preposterous. M. Mallarmé has had hard words, not merely from the -old classical critics such as M. Brunetière, but from men from whom -the extremity of sympathy might have been looked. Life-long friends -like M. Leconte de Lisle confess that they understood him once, but, -alas! understand him no longer; or, like M. François Coppée, avoid all -discussion of his verses, and obstinately confine themselves to "son -esprit élevé, sa vie si pure, si belle." When such men as these profess -themselves unable to comprehend a writer of their own age and language, -it seems presumptuous for a foreigner to attempt to do so, nor do I -pretend that in the formal and minute sense I am able to comprehend -the poems of M. Mallarmé. He remains, under the most loving scrutiny, -a most difficult writer. But, at all events, I think that sympathy -and study may avail to enable the critic to detect the spirit which -inspires this strange and cryptic figure. Study and sympathy I have -given, and I offer some results of them, not without diffidence. - -Translated into common language, then, the main design of M. Mallarmé -and his friends seems to be to refresh the languid current of French -style. They hold--and in this view no English critic can dare to join -issue with them--that art is not a stable nor a definite thing, and -that success for the future must lie along paths not exactly traversed -in the immediate past. They are tired of the official versification -of France, and they dream of new effects which all the handbooks tell -them are impossible to French prosody. They make infinite experiments, -they feel their way; and I have nothing to reproach them with except -their undue haste (but M. Mallarmé has not been hasty) in publishing -their "tentatives." Their aims are those of our own Areopagites of -1580, met "for the general surceasing and silence of bold Rymers, and -also of the very best of them too"--"our new famous enterprise for the -exchange of barbarous rymes for artificial verses." We must wish for -the odd productions of these modern Parisian euphuists a better fate -than befell the trimeter iambics of Master Drant and Master Preston. -But the cause of their existence is plain enough. It is the exhaustion, -the enervation of the language, following upon the activities of -Victor Hugo and his contemporaries. It is, morever, a reaction -towards freedom, directly consequent upon the strict and impersonal -versification of the Parnassians. When the official verse has been -burnished and chased to the metallic perfection of M. de Hérédia's -sonnets, nothing but to withdraw to the wilderness in sheepskins is -left to would-be poets of the next generation. - -To pass from Symbolism generally to M. Mallarmé and his particular -series of theories, he presents himself to us above all as an -individualist. The poets of the last generation were a flock of -singing-birds, trained in a general aviary. They met, as on the marble -pavement of some new Serapeum, to contend in public for the rewards -of polished verse. In contrast with these rivalries and congregations -M. Mallarmé has always shown himself solitary and disengaged. As he -has said: "The poet is a man who isolates himself that he may carve -the sculptures of his own tomb." He refuses to obey that hierarchical -tradition of which Victor Hugo was the most formidable pontiff. He -finds the alexandrine, as employed in the intractable prosody of -modern France, a rigid and puerile instrument, from which melodies can -nowadays no more be extracted. So far as I comprehend the position, M. -Mallarmé does not propose, as do some of his disciples, to reject this -noble verse-form altogether, and to slide into a sort of rhymed Walt -Whitmanism. I cannot trace in his published poems a single instance -of such a determination. But it is plain that he takes the twelve -syllables of the line as forming, not six notes, but twelve, and he -demands permission to form with these twelve as many combinations as -he pleases. Melody, to be gained at any sacrifice of the old Jesuit -laws, is what he desiderates: harmony of versification, obtained in new -ways, by extracting the latent capabilities of the organ until now too -conventionally employed. - -So much, very briefly, for the prosodical innovation. For the language -he demands an equal refreshment, by the rejection of the old worn -phrases in favour of odd, exotic, and archaic terms. He takes up -and adopts literally the idea of Théophile Gautier that words are -precious stones, and should be so set as to flash and radiate from -the page. More individually characteristic of M. Mallarmé I find a -certain preference for enigma. Language, to him, is given to conceal -definite thought, to draw the eye away from the object. The Parnassians -defined, described, analysed the object until it stood before us as in -a coloured photograph. M. Mallarmé avoids this as much as possible. -He aims at allusion only; he wraps a mystery around his simplest -utterance; the abstruse and the symbolic are his peculiar territory. -His aim, or I greatly misunderstand him, is to use words in such -harmonious combinations as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition which is not mentioned in the text, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition. To the -conscious aiming at this particular effect are, it appears to me, due -the more curious characteristics of his style, and much of the utter -bewilderment which it produces on the brain of an indolent reader -debauched by the facilities of realism. - -The longest and the most celebrated of the poems of M. Mallarmé is -_L'Après-Midi d'un Faune_. It appears in the "florilège" which he has -just published, and I have now read it again, as I have often read it -before. To say that I understand it bit by bit, phrase by phrase, -would be excessive. But if I am asked whether this famous miracle of -unintelligibility gives me pleasure, I answer, cordially, Yes. I even -fancy that I obtain from it as definite and as solid an impression as -M. Mallarmé desires to produce. This is what I read in it: A faun--a -simple, sensuous, passionate being--wakens in the forest at daybreak -and tries to recall his experience of the previous afternoon. Was he -the fortunate recipient of an actual visit from nymphs, white and -golden goddesses, divinely tender and indulgent? Or is the memory he -seems to retain nothing but the shadow of a vision, no more substantial -than the "arid rain" of notes from his own flute? He cannot tell. Yet -surely there was, surely there is, an animal whiteness among the brown -reeds of the lake that shines out yonder? Were they, are they, swans? -No! But Naiads plunging? Perhaps! - -Vaguer and vaguer grows the impression of this delicious experience. -He would resign his woodland godship to retain it. A garden of lilies, -golden-headed, white-stalked, behind the trellis of red roses? Ah! the -effort is too great for his poor brain. Perhaps if he selects one lily -from the garth of lilies, one benign and beneficent yielder of her cup -to thirsty lips, the memory, the ever-receding memory, may be forced -back. So, when he has glutted upon a bunch of grapes, he is wont to -toss the empty skins into the air and blow them out in a visionary -greediness. But no, the delicious hour grows vaguer; experience or -dream, he will now never know which it was. The sun is warm, the -grasses yielding; and he curls himself up again, after worshipping the -efficacious star of wine, that he may pursue the dubious ecstasy into -the more hopeful boskages of sleep. - -This, then, is what I read in the so excessively obscure and -unintelligible _L'Après-Midi d'un Faune_; and, accompanied as it is -with a perfect suavity of language and melody of rhythm, I know not -what more a poem of eight pages could be expected to give. It supplies -a simple and direct impression of physical beauty, of harmony, of -colour; it is exceedingly mellifluous, when once the ear understands -that the poet, instead of being the slave of the alexandrine, weaves -his variations round it like a musical composer. Unfortunately, -_L'Après-Midi_ was written fifteen years ago, and his theories have -grown upon M. Mallarmé as his have on Mr. George Meredith. In the -new collection of _Vers et Prose_ I miss some pieces which I used -to admire--in particular, surely, _Placet_, and the delightful poem -called _Le Guignon_. Perhaps these were too lucid for the worshippers. -In return, we have certain allegories which are terribly abstruse, -and some subfusc sonnets. I have read the following, called _Le -Tombeau d'Edgard Poe_, over and over and over. I am very stupid, but -I cannot tell what it _says_. In a certain vague and vitreous way I -think I perceive what it _means_; and we are aided now by its being -punctuated, which was not the case in the original form in which I met -with it. But, "O my Brothers, ye the Workers," is it not still a little -difficult? - - - _Tel qu'en Lui-même enfin l'éternité le change,_ - _Le Poëte suscite avec un glaive nu_ - _Son siècle épouvanté de n'avoir pas connu_ - _Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange!_ - _Eux, comme un vil sursaut d'hydre oyant jadis l'ange_ - _Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu_ - _Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu_ - _Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange._ - _Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief!_ - _Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief_ - _Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s'orne_ - _Calme bloc ici-bas chu d'un désastre obscur_ - _Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne_ - _Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur._ - - -Of the prose of M. Mallarmé, I can here speak but briefly. He has -not published very much of it; and it is all polished and cadenced -like his verse, with strange transposed adjectives and exotic nouns -fantastically employed. It is even more distinctly to be seen in his -prose than in his verse that he descends directly from Baudelaire, and -in the former that streak of Lamartine that marks his poems is lacking. - -The book called _Pages_ can naturally be compared with the _Poèmes -en Prose_ of Baudelaire. Several of the sketches so named are -now reprinted in _Vers et Prose_, and they strike me as the most -distinguished and satisfactory of the published writings of M. -Mallarmé. They are difficult, but far more intelligible than the -enigmas which he calls his sonnets. _La Pipe_, in which the sight -of an old meerschaum brings up dreams of London and the solitary -lodgings there; _Le Nénuphar Blanc_, recording the vision of a lovely -lady, visible for one tantalising moment to a rower in his boat; -_Frisson d'Hiver_, the wholly fantastic and nebulous reverie of -archaic elegances evoked by the ticking of a clock of Dresden china; -each of these, and several more of these exquisite _Pages_, give -just that impression of mystery and allusion which the author deems -that style should give. They are exquisite--so far as they go--pure, -distinguished, ingenious; and the fantastic oddity of their vocabulary -seems in perfect accord with their general character. - -Here is a fragment of _La Pénultième_, on which the reader may try his -skill in comprehending the New French: - -"Mais où s'installe l'irrécusable intervention du surnaturel, et le -commencement de l'angoisse sous laquelle agonise mon esprit naguère -seigneur, c'est quand je vis, levant les yeux, dans la rue des -antiquaires instinctivement suivie, que j'étais devant la boutique d'un -luthier vendeur de vieux instruments pendus au mur, et, à terre, des -palmes jaunes et les ailes enfouies en l'ombre, d'oiseaux anciens. Je -m'enfuis, bizarre, personne condamnée à porter probablement le deuil de -l'inexplicable Pénultième." - -As a translator, all the world must commend M. Mallarmé. He has put -the poems of Poe into French in a way which is subtle almost without -parallel. Each version is in simple prose, but so full, so reserved, -so suavely mellifluous, that the metre and the rhymes continue to sing -in an English ear. None could enter more tenderly than he into the -strange charm of _Ulalume_, of _The Sleeper_, or of _The Raven_. It is -rarely indeed that a word suggests that the melody of one, who was a -symbolist and a weaver of enigmas like himself, has momentarily evaded -the translator. - -M. Mallarmé, who understands English so perfectly, has perhaps seen the -poems of Sydney Dobell. He knows, it is possible, that thirty or forty -years ago there was an English poet who cultivated the symbol, who -deliquesced the language, as he himself does in French. Sydney Dobell -wrote lovely, unintelligible things, that broke, every now and then, -into rhapsodies of veritable beauty. But his whole system was violent. -He became an eccentric cometary nebula, whirling away from our poetic -system at a tangent. He whirled away, for all his sincere passion, into -oblivion. This is what one fears for the Symbolists: that being read -with so great an effort by their own generation, they may, by the next, -not be read at all, and what is pure and genuine in their artistic -impulses be lost. Something of M. Mallarmé will, however, always be -turned back to with respect and perhaps with enthusiasm, for he is a -true man of letters. - -_1893._ - - - - -TWO PASTELS - - - - -I - -Mr. R. L. Stevenson as a Poet - - -A pretty little anthology might be made of poems by distinguished -writers who never for a moment professed to be poets, and who only -"swept, with hurried hand, the strings" when they thought nobody was -listening. The elegant technical people of the eighteenth century, -who never liked to be too abstruse to seem polite, would contribute -a great many of these flowers that were born to bloom unseen. It is -not everybody who is aware that the majestic Sir William Blackstone -was "guilty," as people put it, of a set of one hundred octosyllabic -verses which would do credit to any laurelled master on Parnassus. We -might, indeed, open our little volume with _The Lawyers Farewell to -his Muse_. Then, of course, there would be Bishop Berkeley's unique -poem, _Westward the Course of Empire takes its Way_; and Oldys, -the antiquary, would spare us his _Busy, curious, thirsty Fly_. We -should appeal to Burton for the prefatory verses in the _Anatomy of -Melancholy_, and to Bacon for _The World's Bubble_. If I had any finger -in that anthology, Smollett's _Ode to Leven Water_ should by no means -be omitted. It would be a false pride that would reject Holcroft's -_Gaffer Gray_, or Sydney Smith's _Receipt for a Salad_, which latter -Herrick might have been glad to sign. Hume's solitary poem should be -printed by itself, or with some of Carlyle's lyrics, and George Eliot's -sonnets, in an appendix, as an awful warning. - -As we come down to recent times the task of editing our anthology would -grow difficult. In our day, the prose writers have either been coy -or copious with their verses. If Professor Tyndall has never essayed -the Lydian measure it is very surprising, but we have not yet been -admitted to hear his shell; nor has Mr. Walter Besant, to the best of -my belief, published an ode to anything. Let the shades of Berkeley and -Smollett administer reproof. Until quite lately, however, we should -have been contented to close our selection with "The bed was made, the -room was fit," from _Travels with a Donkey_. But Mr. Stevenson is now -ineligible--he has published books of poems. - -That this departure is not quite a new one might be surmised by any one -who has followed closely the publications of the essayist and novelist -whom a better man than I am has called "the most exquisite and original -of our day." Though Mr. Stevenson's prose volumes are more than twelve -in number, and though he had been thought of essentially as a prose -writer, the ivory shoulder of the lyre has peeped out now and then. I -do not refer to his early collections of verse, to _Not I, and other -Poems_, to _Moral Emblems_, and to _The Graver and the Pen_. (I mention -these scarce publications of the Davos press in the hope of rousing -wicked passions in the breasts of other collectors, since my own set -of them is complete.) These volumes were decidedly occult. A man might -build upon them a reputation as a sage, but hardly as a poet. Their -stern morality came well from one whose mother's milk has been the -_Shorter Catechism;_ they are books which no one can read and not be -the better for; but as mere verse, they leave something to be desired. -_Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda_, if you happen to be lucky enough -to possess them, _e passa_. Where the careful reader has perceived -that Mr. Stevenson was likely to become openly a poet has been in -snatches of verse published here and there in periodicals, and of a -quality too good to be neglected. Nevertheless, the publication of _A -Child's Garden of Verses_ (Longmans, 1885) was something of a surprise, -and perhaps the new book of grown-up poems, _Underwoods_ (Chatto and -Windus, 1887) is more surprising still. There is no doubt about it any -longer. Mr. Stevenson is a candidate for the bays. - -The _Child's Garden of Verses_ has now been published long enough to -enable us to make a calm consideration of its merits. When it was -fresh, opinion was divided, as it always is about a new strong thing, -between those who, in Mr. Longfellow's phrase about the little girl, -think it very, very good, and those who think it is horrid. After -reading the new book, the _Underwoods_, we come back to _A Child's -Garden_ with a clearer sense of the writer's intention, and a wider -experience of his poetical outlook upon life. The later book helps us -to comprehend the former; there is the same sincerity, the same buoyant -simplicity, the same curiously candid and confidential attitude -of mind. If any one doubted that Mr. Stevenson was putting his own -childish memories into verse in the first book, all doubt must cease in -reading the second book, where the experiences, although those of an -adult, have exactly the same convincing air of candour. The first thing -which struck the reader of _A Child's Garden_ was the extraordinary -clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager -childhood were reproduced in it. People whose own childish memories had -become very vague, and whose recollections of their games and dreams -were hazy in the extreme, asked themselves how far this poet's visions -were inspired by real memory and how far by invention. The new book -sets that question at rest; the same hand that gave us-- - - - _My bed is like a little boat;_ - _Nurse helps me in when I embark;_ - _She girds me in my sailor's coat,_ - _And starts me in the dark;_ - - -and the even more delicious-- - - - _Now, with my little gun, I crawl_ - _All in the dark along the wall,_ - _And follow round the forest-track_ - _Away behind the sofa-back,--_ - - -now gives us pictures like the following: - - - My house, _I say. But hark to the sunny doves,_ - _That make my roof the arena of their loves_, - _That gyre about the gable all day long_ - _And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:_ - Our house, _they say; and_ mine, _the cat declares,_ - _And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;_ - _And_ mine _the dog, and rises stiff with wrath_ - _If any alien foot profane the path._ - _So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,_ - _Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;_ - _Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode_ - _And his late kingdom, only from the road._ - - -We now perceive that it is not invention, but memory of an -extraordinarily vivid kind, patiently directed to little things, and -charged with imagination; and we turn back with increased interest -to _A Child's Garden_, assured that it gives us a unique thing, a -transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, -but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a -photograph. Long ago, in one of the very earliest, if I remember right, -of those essays by R. L. S. for which we used so eagerly to watch the -_Cornhill Magazine_ in Mr. Leslie Stephen's time, in the paper called -"Child Play," this retention of what is wiped off from the memories of -the rest of us was clearly displayed. Out of this rarely suggestive -essay I will quote a few lines, which might have been printed as an -introduction to _A Child's Garden_: - -"In the child's world of dim sensation, play is all in all. 'Making -believe' is the gist of his whole life, and he cannot so much as take -a walk except in character. I could not learn my alphabet without some -suitable _mise-en-scène_, and had to act a business-man in an office -before I could sit down to my book.... I remember, as though it were -yesterday, the expansion of spirit, the dignity and self-reliance, that -came with a pair of mustachios in burnt cork, even when there was none -to see. Children are even content to forego what we call the realities, -and prefer the shadow to the substance. When they might be speaking -intelligently together, they chatter gibberish by the hour, and are -quite happy because they are making believe to speak French." - -Probably all will admit the truth of this statement of infant fancy, -when it is presented to them in this way. But how many of us, in -perfect sincerity, not relying upon legends of the nursery, not -refreshed by the study of our own children's "make-believe," can -say that we clearly recollect the method of it? We shall find that -our memories are like a breath upon the glass, like the shape of a -broken wave. Nothing is so hopelessly lost, so utterly volatile, as -the fancies of our childhood. But Mr. Stevenson, alone amongst us all, -appears to have kept daguerreotypes of the whole series of his childish -sensations. Except the late Mrs. Ewing, he seems to be without a rival -in this branch of memory as applied to literature. - -The various attitudes of literary persons to the child are very -interesting. There are, for instance, poets like Victor Hugo and Mr. -Swinburne who come to admire, who stay to adore, and who do not disdain -to throw their purple over any humble article of nursery use. They are -so magnificent in their address to infancy, they say so many brilliant -and unexpected things, that the mother is almost as much dazzled as she -is gratified. We stand round, with our hats off, and admire the poet -as much as he admires the child; but we experience no regret when he -presently turns away to a discussion of grown-up things. We have an -ill-defined notion that he reconnoitres infancy from the outside, and -has not taken the pains to reach the secret mind of childhood. It is to -be noted, and this is a suspicious circumstance, that Mr. Swinburne -and Victor Hugo like the child better the younger it is. - - - _What likeness may define, and stray not_ - _From truth's exactest way,_ - _A baby's beauty? Love can say not,_ - _What likeness may._ - - -This is charming; but the address is to the mother, is to the grown-up -reflective person. To the real student of child-life the baby contains -possibilities, but is at present an uninteresting chrysalis. It cannot -carry a gun through the forest, behind the sofa-back; it is hardly so -useful as a cushion to represent a passenger in a railway-train of -inverted chairs. - -Still more remote than the dithyrambic poets are those writers about -children--and they are legion--who have ever the eye fixed upon -morality, and carry the didactic tongue thrust in the cheek of fable. -The late Charles Kingsley, who might have made so perfect a book of -his _Water-Babies_, sins notoriously in this respect. The moment a -wise child perceives the presence of allegory, or moral instruction, -all the charm of a book is gone. Parable is the very antipodes of -childish "make-believe," into which the element of ulterior motive or -secondary moral meaning never enters for an instant. The secret of the -charm of Mrs. Gatty's _Parables from Nature_, which were the fairest -food given to very young minds in my day, was that the fortunate child -never discovered that they were parables at all. I, for one, used to -read and re-read them as realistic statements of fact, the necessity of -pointing a moral merely having driven the amiable author to the making -of her story a little more fantastic, and therefore more welcome, than -it would otherwise be. It was explained to me one hapless day that the -parables were of a nature to instil nice principles into the mind; and -from that moment Mrs. Gatty became a broken idol. Lewis Carroll owed -his great and deserved success to his suppleness in bending his fancy -to the conditions of a mind that is dreaming. It has never seemed to -me that the _Adventures in Wonderland_ were specially childish; dreams -are much the same, whether a child or a man is passive under them, and -it is a fact that Lewis Carroll appeals just as keenly to adults as to -children. In Edward Lear's rhymes and ballads the love of grotesque -nonsense in the grown-up child is mainly appealed to; and these are -certainly appreciated more by parents than by children. - -It would be easy, by multiplying examples, to drive home my contention -that only two out of the very numerous authors who have written -successfully on or for children have shown a clear recollection of -the mind of healthy childhood itself. Many authors have achieved -brilliant success in describing children, in verbally caressing them, -in amusing, in instructing them; but only two, Mrs. Ewing in prose, -and Mr. Stevenson in verse, have sat down with them without disturbing -their fancies, and have looked into the world of "make-believe" with -the children's own eyes. If Victor Hugo should visit the nursery, -every head of hair ought to be brushed, every pinafore be clean, and -nurse must certainly be present, as well as mamma. But Mrs. Ewing or -Mr. Stevenson might lead a long romp in the attic when nurse was out -shopping, and not a child in the house should know that a grown-up -person had been there. There are at least a dozen pieces in the -_Child's Garden_ which might be quoted to show what is meant. "The -Lamplighter" will serve our purpose as well as any other: - - - _My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;_ - _It's time to take the window to see Learie going by;_ - _For every night at tea-time, and before you take your seat,_ - _With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street,_ - - _Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,_ - _And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;_ - _But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,_ - _O Learie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!_ - - _For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,_ - _And Learie stops to light it as he lights so many more;_ - _And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,_ - _O Learie, see a little child, and nod to him to-night._ - - -In publishing this autumn a second volume, this time of grown-up -verses, Mr. Stevenson has ventured on a bolder experiment. His -_Underwoods_, with its title openly borrowed from Ben Jonson, is an -easy book to appreciate and enjoy, but not to review. In many respects -it is plainly the work of the same fancy that described the Country -of Counterpane and the Land of Story-books, but it has grown a little -sadder, and a great deal older. There is the same delicate sincerity, -the same candour and simplicity, the same artless dependence on -the good faith of the public. The ordinary themes of the poets are -untouched; there is not one piece from cover to cover which deals -with the passion of love. The book is occupied with friendship, with -nature, with the honourable instincts of man's moral machinery. Above -all, it enters with great minuteness, and in a very confidential -spirit, into the theories and moods of the writer himself. It will be -to many readers a revelation of the every-day life of an author whose -impersonal writings have given them so much and so varied pleasure. -Not a dozen ordinary interviewers could have extracted so much of the -character of the man himself as he gives us in these one hundred and -twenty pages. - -The question of admitting the personal element into literature is -one which is not very clearly understood. People try to make rules -about it, and say that an author may describe his study, but not his -dining-room, and his wife, but not her cousin. The fact is that no -rules can possibly be laid down in a matter which is one of individual -sympathy. The discussion whether a writer may speak of himself or no -is utterly vain until we are informed in what voice he has the habit -of speaking. It is all a question which depends on the _timbre_ of -the literary voice. As in life there are persons whose sweetness of -utterance is such that we love to have them warbling at our side, no -matter on what subject they speak, and others to whom we have scarcely -patience to listen if they want to tell us that we have inherited a -fortune, so it is in literature. Except that little class of stoic -critics who like to take their books _in vacuo_, most of us prefer to -know something about the authors we read. But whether we like them to -tell it us themselves, or no, depends entirely on the voice. Thackeray -and Fielding are never confidential enough to satisfy us; Dickens and -Smollett set our teeth on edge directly they start upon a career of -confidential expansion; and this has nothing to do with any preference -for _Tom Jones_ over _Peregrine Pickle_. There is no doubt that Mr. -Stevenson is one of those writers the sound of whose personal voices -is pleasing to the public, and there must be hundreds of his admirers -who will not miss one word of "To a Gardener" or "The Mirror Speaks," -and who will puzzle out each of the intimate addresses to his private -friends with complete satisfaction. - -The present writer is one of those who are most under the spell. For -me Mr. Stevenson may speak for ever, and chronicle at full length all -his uncles and his cousins and his nurses. But I think if it were my -privilege to serve him in the capacity of Molière's old woman, or to be -what a friend of mine would call his "foolometer," I should pluck up -courage to represent to him that this thing can be overdone. I openly -avow myself an enthusiast, yet even I shrink before the confidential -character of the prose inscription to _Underwoods_. This volume is -dedicated, if you please, to eleven physicians, and it is strange that -one so all compact of humour as Mr. Stevenson should not have noticed -how funny it is to think of an author seated affably in an armchair, -simultaneously summoning by name eleven physicians to take a few words -of praise each, and a copy of his little book. - -The objective side of Mr. Stevenson's mind is very rich and full, and -he has no need to retire too obstinately upon the subjective. Yet -I know not that anything he has written in verse is more worthily -dignified than the following little personal fragment, in which he -refers, of course, to the grandfather who died a few weeks before his -birth, and to the father whom he had just conducted to the grave, both -heroic builders of lighthouses: - - - _Say not of me that weakly I declined_ - _The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,_ - _The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,_ - _To play at home with paper like a child._ - _But rather say: In the afternoon of time_ - _A strenuous family dusted from its hands_ - _The sand of granite, and beholding far_ - _Along the sounding coast its pyramids_ - _And tall memorials catch the dying sun,_ - _Smiled well content, and to this childish task_ - _Around the fire addressed its evening hours._ - - -This is a particularly happy specimen of Mr. Stevenson's blank verse, -in which metre, as a rule, he does not show to advantage. It is not -that his verses are ever lame or faulty, for in the technical portion -of the art he seldom fails, but that his rhymeless iambics remind the -ear too much now of Tennyson, now of Keats. He is, on the contrary, -exceedingly happy and very much himself in that metre of eight or seven -syllables, with couplet-rhymes, which served so well the first poets -who broke away from heroic verse, such as Swift and Lady Winchilsea, -Green and Dyer. If he must be affiliated to any school of poets it is -to these, who hold the first outworks between the old classical camp -and the invading army of romance, to whom I should ally him. Martial -is with those octo-syllabists of Queen Anne, and to Martial might well -have been assigned, had they been in old Latin, the delicately homely -lines, "To a Gardener." How felicitous is this quatrain about the -onion-- - - - _Let first the onion flourish there,_ - _Rose among roots, the maiden fair,_ - _Wine-scented and poetic soul_ - _Of the capacious salad-bowl._ - - -Or this, in more irregular measure, and enfolding a loftier fancy-- - - - _Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still,_ - _Sing truer, or no longer sing!_ - _No more the voice of melancholy Jacques_ - _To make a weeping echo in the hill;_ - _But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,_ - _From the green elm a living linnet takes,_ - _One natural verse recapture--then be still._ - - -It would be arrogant in the extreme to decide whether or no Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's poems will be read in the future. They are, however, so -full of character, so redolent of his own fascinating temperament, -that it is not too bold to suppose that so long as his prose is -appreciated those who love that will turn to this. There have been -prose writers whose verse has not lacked accomplishment or merit, but -has been so far from interpreting their prose that it rather disturbed -its effect and weakened its influence. Cowley is an example of this, -whose ingenious and dryly intellectual poetry positively terrifies the -reader away from his eminently suave and human essays. Neither of Mr. -Stevenson's volumes of poetry will thus disturb his prose. Opinions may -be divided as to their positive value, but no one will doubt that the -same characteristics are displayed in the poems, the same suspicion -of "the abhorred pedantic sanhedrim," the same fulness of life and -tenderness of hope, the same bright felicity of epithet as in the -essays and romances. The belief, however, may be expressed without -fear of contradiction that Mr. Stevenson's fame will rest mainly upon -his verse and not upon his prose, only in that dim future when Mr. -Matthew Arnold's prophecy shall be fulfilled and Shelley's letters -shall be preferred to his lyrical poems. It is saying a great deal to -acknowledge that the author of _Kidnapped_ is scarcely less readable in -verse than he is in prose. - -_1887._ - - - - -II - -Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Short Stories - - -Two years ago there was suddenly revealed to us, no one seems to -remember how, a new star out of the East. Not fewer distinguished men -of letters profess to have "discovered" Mr. Kipling than there were -cities of old in which Homer was born. Yet, in fact, the discovery was -not much more creditable to them than it would be, on a summer night, -to contrive to notice a comet flaring across the sky. Not only was this -new talent robust, brilliant, and self-asserting, but its reception -was prepared for by a unique series of circumstances. The fiction of -the Anglo-Saxon world, in its more intellectual provinces, had become -curiously feminised. Those novel-writers who cared to produce subtle -impressions upon their readers, in England and America, had become -extremely refined in taste and discreet in judgment. People who were -not content to pursue the soul of their next-door neighbour through -all the burrows of self-consciousness had no choice but to take ship -with Mr. Rider Haggard for the Mountains of the Moon. Between excess -of psychological analysis and excess of superhuman romance there was -a great void in the world of Anglo-Saxon fiction. It is this void -which Mr. Kipling, with something less than one hundred short stories, -one novel, and a few poems, has filled by his exotic realism and his -vigorous rendering of unhackneyed experience. His temperament is -eminently masculine, and yet his imagination is strictly bound by -existing laws. The Evarras of the novel had said: - - - _Thus gods are made,_ - _And whoso makes them otherwise shall die,_ - - -when, behold, a young man comes up out of India, and makes them quite -otherwise, and lives. - -The vulgar trick, however, of depreciating other writers in order to -exalt the favourite of a moment was never less worthy of practice than -it is in the case of the author of _Soldiers Three_. His relation to -his contemporaries is curiously slight. One living writer there is, -indeed, with whom it is not unnatural to compare him--Pierre Loti. -Each of these men has attracted the attention, and then the almost -exaggerated admiration, of a crowd of readers drawn from every class. -Each has become popular without ceasing to be delightful to the -fastidious. Each is independent of traditional literature, and affects -a disdain for books. Each is a wanderer, a lover of prolonged exile, -more at home among the ancient races of the East than among his own -people. Each describes what he has seen in short sentences, with highly -coloured phrases and local words, little troubled to obey the laws of -style if he can but render an exact impression of what the movement -of physical life has been to himself. Each produces on the reader a -peculiar thrill, a voluptuous and agitating sentiment of intellectual -uneasiness, with the spontaneous art of which he has the secret. -Totally unlike in detail, Rudyard Kipling and Pierre Loti have these -general qualities in common, and if we want a literary parallel to the -former, the latter is certainly the only one that we can find. Nor is -the attitude of the French novelist to his sailor friends at all unlike -that of the Anglo-Indian civilian to his soldier chums. To distinguish -we must note very carefully the difference between Mulvaney and _mon -frère Yves_; it is not altogether to the advantage of the latter. - -The old rhetorical manner of criticism was not meant for the discussion -of such writers as these. The only way in which, as it seems to me, we -can possibly approach them, is by a frank confession of their personal -relation to the feelings of the critic. I will therefore admit that -I cannot pretend to be indifferent to the charm of what Mr. Kipling -writes. From the first moment of my acquaintance with it it has held -me fast. It excites, disturbs, and attracts me; I cannot throw off its -disquieting influence. I admit all that is to be said in its disfavour. -I force myself to see that its occasional cynicism is irritating and -strikes a false note. I acknowledge the broken and jagged style, the -noisy newspaper bustle of the little peremptory sentences, the cheap -irony of the satires on society. Often--but this is chiefly in the -earlier stories--I am aware that there is a good deal too much of the -rattle of the piano at some café concert. But when all this is said, -what does it amount to? What but an acknowledgment of the crudity of a -strong and rapidly developing young nature? You cannot expect a creamy -smoothness while the act of vinous fermentation is proceeding. - - - _Wit will shine_ - _Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line;_ - _A noble error, and but seldom made,_ - _When poets are by too much force betray'd;_ - _Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,_ - _Still show a quickness, and maturing time_ - _But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rime._ - - -In the following pages I shall try to explain why the sense of these -shortcomings is altogether buried for me in delighted sympathy -and breathless curiosity. Mr. Kipling does not provoke a critical -suspension of judgment. He is vehement, and sweeps us away with him; -he plays upon a strange and seductive pipe, and we follow him like -children. As I write these sentences, I feel how futile is this attempt -to analyse his gifts, and how greatly I should prefer to throw this -paper to the winds and listen to the magician himself. I want more -and more, like Oliver Twist. I want all those "other stories"; I wish -to wander down all those bypaths that we have seen disappear in the -brushwood. If one lay very still and low by the watch-fire, in the -hollow of Ortheris's greatcoat, one might learn more and more of the -inextinguishable sorrows of Mulvaney. One might be told more of what -happened, out of the moonlight, in the blackness of Amir Nath's Gully. -I want to know how the palanquin came into Dearsley's possession, and -what became of Kheni Singh, and whether the seal-cutter did really -die in the House of Suddhoo. I want to know who it is who dances the -_Hálli Hukk_, and how, and why, and where. I want to know what happened -at Jagadhri, when the Death Bull was painted. I want to know all the -things that Mr. Kipling does not like to tell--to see the devils of the -East "rioting as the stallions riot in spring." It is the strength of -this new story-teller that he reawakens in us the primitive emotions -of curiosity, mystery, and romance in action. He is the master of a -new kind of terrible and enchanting peepshow, and we crowd around him -begging for "just one more look." When a writer excites and tantalises -us in this way, it seems a little idle to discuss his style. Let -pedants, then, if they will, say that Mr. Kipling has no style; yet, if -so, how shall we designate such passages as this, frequent enough among -his more exotic stories? - -"Come back with me to the north and be among men once more. Come back -when this matter is accomplished and I call for thee. The bloom of the -peach-orchards is upon all the valley, and _here_ is only dust and a -great stink. There is a pleasant wind among the mulberry-trees, and -the streams are bright with snow-water, and the caravans go up and the -caravans go down, and a hundred fires sparkle in the gut of the pass, -and tent-peg answers hammer-nose, and pony squeals to pony across the -drift-smoke of the evening. It is good in the north now. Come back with -me. Let us return to our own people. Come!" - - -I - -The private life of Mr. Rudyard Kipling is not a matter of public -interest, and I should be very unwilling to exploit it, even if I had -the means of doing so. The youngest of living writers should really be -protected for a few years longer against those who chirp and gabble -about the unessential. All that needs to be known, in order to give him -his due chronological place, is that he was born in Bombay in Christmas -week, 1865. The careful student of what he has published will collect -from it the impression that Mr. Kipling was resident in India at an age -when few European children remain there; that he returned to England -for a brief period; that he began a career on his own account in India -at an unusually early age; that he has led a life of extraordinary -vicissitude, as a journalist, as a war correspondent, as a civilian -in the wake of the army; that an insatiable curiosity has led him to -shrink from no experience that might help to solve the strange riddles -of Oriental existence; and that he is distinguished from other active, -adventurous, and inquisitive persons in that his capacious memory -retains every impression that it captures. - -Beyond this, all that must here be said about the man is that his -stories began to be published--I think about eight years ago--in local -newspapers of India, that his first book of verse, _Departmental -Ditties_, appeared in 1886, while his prose stories were not collected -from a Lahore journal, of which he was the sub-editor, until 1888, when -a volume of _Plain Tales from the Hills_ appeared in Calcutta. In the -same year six successive pamphlets or thin books appeared in an _Indian -Railway Library_, published at Allahabad, under the titles of _Soldiers -Three_, _The Gadsbys_, _In Black and White_, _Under the Deodars_, _The -Phantom 'Rickshaw_, and _Wee Willie Winkle_. These formed the literary -baggage of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, when, in 1889, he came home to find -himself suddenly famous at the age of twenty-three. - -Since his arrival in England Mr. Kipling has not been idle. In 1890 -he brought out a Christmas annual called _The Record of Badalia -Herodsfoot_, and a short novel, _The Light that Failed_. Already in -1891 he has published a fresh collection of tales called (in America) -_Mine Own People_, and a second miscellany of verses. This is by no -means a complete record of his activity, but it includes the names -of all his important writings. At an age when few future novelists -have yet produced anything at all, Mr. Kipling is already voluminous. -It would be absurd not to acknowledge that a danger lies in this -precocious fecundity. It would probably be an excellent thing for every -one concerned if this brilliant youth could be deprived of pens and -ink for a few years and be buried again somewhere in the far East. -There should be a "close time" for authors no less than for seals, and -the extraordinary fulness and richness of Mr. Kipling's work does not -completely reassure us. - -The publications which I have named above have not, as a rule, any -structural cohesion. With the exception of _Badalia Herodsfoot_ and -_The Light that Failed_, which deal with phases of London life, their -contents might be thrown together without much loss of relation. The -general mass so formed could then be redivided into several coherent -sections. It may be remarked that Mr. Kipling's short stories, of -which, as I have said, we hold nearly a hundred, mainly deal with three -or four distinct classes of Indian life. We may roughly distinguish -these as the British soldier in India, the Anglo-Indian, the Native, -and the British child in India. In the following pages, I shall -endeavour to characterise his treatment of these four classes. I retain -the personal impression that it is pre-eminently as a poet that we -shall eventually come to regard him. For the present his short stories -fill the popular mind in connection with his name. - - -II - -There can be no question that the side upon which Mr. Kipling's talent -has most delicately tickled British curiosity, and British patriotism -too, is his revelation of the soldier in India. A great body of our -countrymen are constantly being drafted out to the East on Indian -service. They serve their time, are recalled, and merge in the mass -of our population; their strange temporary isolation between the -civilian and the native, and their practical inability to find public -expression for their feelings, make these men--to whom, though we so -often forget it, we owe the maintenance of our Empire in the East--an -absolutely silent section of the community. Of their officers we may -know something, although _A Conference of the Powers_ may perhaps have -awakened us to the fact that we know very little. Still, people like -Tick Boileau and Captain Mafflin of the Duke of Derry's Pink Hussars -are of ourselves; we meet them before they go out and when they come -back; they marry our sisters and our daughters; and they lay down the -law about India after dinner. Of the private soldier, on the other -hand, of his loves and hates, sorrows and pleasures, of the way in -which the vast, hot, wearisome country and its mysterious inhabitants -strike him, of his attitude towards India, and of the way in which -India treats him, we know, or knew until Mr. Kipling enlightened us, -absolutely nothing. It is not surprising, then, if the novelty of this -portion of his writings has struck ordinary English readers more than -that of any other. - -This section of Mr. Kipling's work occupies the seven tales called -_Soldiers Three_, and a variety of stories scattered through his other -books. In order to make his point of view that of the men themselves, -not spoiled by the presence of superior officers, or by social -restraint of any sort, the author takes upon himself the character of -an almost silent young civilian who has gained the warm friendship of -three soldiers, whose intimate companion and chum he becomes. Most of -the military stories, though not all, are told by one of these three, -or else recount their adventures or caprices. - -Before opening the book called _Soldiers Three_, however, the reader -will do well to make himself familiar with the opening pages of a -comparatively late story, _The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney_, in -which the characteristics of the famous three are more clearly defined -than elsewhere. Mulvaney, the Irish giant, who has been the "grizzled, -tender, and very wise Ulysses" to successive generations of young and -foolish recruits, is a great creation. He is the father of the craft -of arms to his associates; he has served with various regiments from -Bermuda to Halifax; he is "old in war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, -and in his pious hours an unequalled soldier." Learoyd, the second of -these friends, is "six and a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed -Yorkshireman, born on the wolds, bred in the dales, and educated -chiefly among the carriers' carts at the back of York railway-station." -The third is Ortheris, a little man as sharp as a needle, "a -fox-terrier of a cockney," an inveterate poacher and dog-stealer. - -Of these three strongly contrasted types the first and the third live -in Mr. Kipling's pages with absolute reality. I must confess that -Learoyd is to me a little shadowy, and even in a late story, _On -Greenhow Hill_, which has apparently been written in order to emphasise -the outline of the Yorkshireman, I find myself chiefly interested in -the incidental part, the sharp-shooting of Ortheris. It seems as though -Mr. Kipling required, for the artistic balance of his cycle of stories, -a third figure, and had evolved Learoyd while he observed and created -Mulvaney and Ortheris, nor am I sure that places could not be pointed -out where Learoyd, save for the dialect, melts undistinguishably into -an incarnation of Mulvaney. The others are studied from the life, -and by an observer who goes deep below the surface of conduct. How -penetrating the study is, and how clear the diagnosis, may be seen -in one or two stories which lie somewhat outside the popular group. -It is no superficial idler among men who has taken down the strange -notes on military hysteria which inspire _The Madness of Ortheris_ and -_In the Matter of a Private_, while the skill with which the battered -giant Mulvaney, who has been a corporal and then has been reduced for -misconduct, who to the ordinary view and in the eyes of all but the -wisest of his officers is a dissipated blackguard, is made to display -the rapidity, wit, resource, and high moral feeling which he really -possesses, is extraordinary. - -We have hitherto had in English literature no portraits of private -soldiers like these, and yet the soldier is an object of interest -and of very real, if vague and inefficient, admiration to his -fellow-citizens. Mr. Thomas Hardy has painted a few excellent soldiers, -but in a more romantic light and a far more pastoral setting. -Other studies of this kind in fiction have either been slight and -unsubstantial, or else they have been, as in the baby-writings of a -certain novelist who has enjoyed popularity for a moment, odious in -their sentimental unreality. There seems to be something essentially -volatile about the soldier's memory. His life is so monotonous, so -hedged in by routine, that he forgets the details of it as soon as the -restraint is removed, or else he looks back upon it to see it bathed -in a fictitious haze of sentiment. The absence of sentimentality in -Mr. Kipling's version of the soldier's life in India is one of its -great merits. What romance it assumes under his treatment is due to the -curious contrasts it encourages. We see the ignorant and raw English -youth transplanted, at the very moment when his instincts begin to -develop, into a country where he is divided from everything which can -remind him of his home, where by noon and night, in the bazar, in -barracks, in the glowing scrub jungle, in the ferny defiles of the -hills, everything he sees and hears and smells and feels produces on -him an unfamiliar and an unwelcome impression. How he behaves himself -under these new circumstances, what code of laws still binds his -conscience, what are his relaxations and what his observations, these -are the questions which we ask and which Mr. Kipling essays for the -first time to answer. - -Among the short stories which Mr. Kipling has dedicated to the British -soldier in India there are a few which excel all the rest as works of -art. I do not think that any one will deny that of this inner selection -none exceeds in skill or originality _The Taking of Lungtungpen_. Those -who have not read this little masterpiece have yet before them the -pleasure of becoming acquainted with one of the best short stories, -not merely in English, but in any language. I do not know how to -praise adequately the technical merit of this little narrative. It -possesses to the full that masculine buoyancy, that power of sustaining -an extremely spirited narrative in a tone appropriate to the action, -which is one of Mr. Kipling's rare gifts. Its concentration, which -never descends into obscurity, its absolute novelty, its direct and -irresistible appeal to what is young and daring and absurdly splendid, -are unsurpassed. To read it, at all events to admire and enjoy it, is -to recover for a moment a little of that dare-devil quality that lurks -somewhere in the softest and the baldest of us. Only a very young man -could have written it, perhaps, but still more certainly only a young -man of genius. - -A little less interesting, in a totally different way, is _The Daughter -of the Regiment_, with its extraordinarily vivid account of the -breaking-out of cholera in a troop-train. Of _The Madness of Ortheris_ -I have already spoken; as a work of art this again seems to me somewhat -less remarkable, because carried out with less completeness. But it -would be hard to find a parallel, of its own class, to _The Rout of -the White Hussars_, with its study of the effects of what is believed -to be supernatural on a gathering of young fellows who are absolutely -without fear of any phenomenon of which they comprehend the nature. -In a very late story, _The Courting of Dinah Shadd_, Mr. Kipling has -shown that he is able to deal with the humours and matrimonial amours -of Indian barrack-life just as rapidly, fully, and spiritedly as with -the more serious episodes of a soldier's career. The scene between Judy -Sheehy and Dinah, as told by Mulvaney in that story, is pure comedy, -without a touch of farce. - -On the whole, however, the impression left by Mr. Kipling's military -stories is one of melancholy. Tommy Atkins, whom the author knows so -well and sympathises with so truly, is a solitary being in India. In -all these tales I am conscious of the barracks as of an island in a -desolate ocean of sand. All around is the infinite waste of India, -obscure, monotonous, immense, inhabited by black men and pariah dogs, -Pathans and green parrots, kites and crocodiles, and long solitudes -of high grass. The island in this sea is a little collection of young -men, sent out from the remoteness of England to serve "the Widder," -and to help to preserve for her the rich and barbarous empire of the -East. This microcosm of the barracks has its own laws, its own morals, -its own range of emotional sentiment. What these are the new writer -has not told us (for that would be a long story), but shown us that he -himself has divined. He has held the door open for a moment, and has -revealed to us a set of very human creations. One thing, at least, the -biographer of Mulvaney and Ortheris has no difficulty in persuading -us--namely, that "God in his wisdom has made the heart of the British -soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of -a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers -into tight and nasty places." - - -III - -The Anglo-Indians with whom Mr. Kipling deals are of two kinds. I -must confess that there is no section of his work which appears to -me so insignificant as that which deals with Indian "society." The -eight tales which are bound together as _The Story of the Gadsbys_ -are doubtless very early productions. I have been told, but I know -not whether on good authority, that they were published in serial -form before the author was twenty-one. Judged as the observation of -Anglo-Indian life by so young a boy, they are, it is needless to say, -astonishingly clever. Some pages in them can never, I suppose, come -to seem unworthy of his later fame. The conversation in _The Tents of -Kedar_, where Captain Gadsby breaks to Mrs. Herriott that he is engaged -to be married, and absolutely darkens her world to her during "a Naini -Tal dinner for thirty-five," is of consummate adroitness. What a "Naini -Tal dinner" is I have not the slightest conception, but it is evidently -something very sumptuous and public, and if any practised hand of the -old social school could have contrived the thrust and parry under the -fire of seventy critical eyes better than young Mr. Kipling has done, -I know not who that writer is. In quite another way the pathos of the -little bride's delirium in _The Valley of the Shadow_ is of a very -high, almost of the highest, order. - -But, as a rule, Mr. Kipling's "society" Anglo-Indians are not drawn -better than those which other Indian novelists have created for our -diversion. There is a sameness in the type of devouring female, and -though Mr. Kipling devises several names for it, and would fain -persuade us that Mrs. Herriott, and Mrs. Reiver, and Mrs. Hauksbee -possess subtle differences which distinguish them, yet I confess I am -not persuaded. They all--and the Venus Annodomini as well--appear to -me to be the same high-coloured, rather ill-bred, not wholly spoiled -professional coquette. Mr. Kipling seems to be too impatient of what -he calls "the shiny toy-scum stuff people call civilisation" to paint -these ladies very carefully. _The Phantom 'Rickshaw_, in which a -hideously selfish man is made to tell the story of his own cruelty -and of his mechanical remorse, is indeed highly original, but here it -is the man, not the woman, in whom we are interested. The proposal of -marriage in the dust-storm in _False Dawn_, a theatrical, lurid scene, -though scarcely natural, is highly effective. The archery contest in -_Cupid's Arrows_ needs only to be compared with a similar scene in -_Daniel Deronda_ to show how much more closely Mr. Kipling keeps his -eye on detail than George Eliot did. But these things are rare in this -class of his stories, and too often the Anglo-Indian social episodes -are choppy, unconvincing, and not very refined. - -All is changed when the central figure is a man. Mr. Kipling's -officials and civilians are admirably vivid and of an amazing variety. -If any one wishes to know why this new author has been received -with joy and thankfulness by the Anglo-Saxon world, it is really not -necessary for him to go further for a reason than to the moral tale of -_The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin_. Let the author of that tract -speak for himself: - -"Every man is entitled to his own religious opinions; but no man--least -of all a junior--has a right to thrust these down other men's throats. -The Government sends out weird civilians now and again; but McGoggin -was the queerest exported for a long time. He was clever--brilliantly -clever--but his cleverness worked the wrong way. Instead of keeping -to the study of the vernaculars, he had read some books written by a -man called Comte, I think, and a man called Spencer, and a Professor -Clifford. [You will find these books in the Library.] They deal with -people's insides from the point of view of men who have no stomachs. -There was no order against his reading them, but his mamma should have -smacked him.... I do not say a word against this creed. It was made -up in town, where there is nothing but machinery and asphalte and -building--all shut in by the fog.... But in this country [India], where -you really see humanity--raw, brown, naked humanity--with nothing -between it and the blazing sky, and only the used-up, over-handled -earth underfoot, the notion somehow dies away, and most folk come back -to simpler theories." - -Those who will not come back to simpler theories are prigs, for whom -the machine-made notion is higher than experience. Now Mr. Kipling, in -his warm way, hates many things, but he hates the prig for preference. -Aurelian McGoggin, better known as the Blastoderm, is a prig of the -over-educated type, and upon him falls the awful calamity of sudden -and complete nerve-collapse. Lieutenant Golightly, in the story which -bears his name, is a prig who values himself for spotless attire and -clockwork precision of manner; he therefore is mauled and muddied up -to his eyes, and then arrested under painfully derogatory conditions. -In _Lispeth_ we get the missionary prig, who thinks that the Indian -instincts can be effaced by a veneer of Christianity. Mr. Kipling hates -"the sheltered life." The men he likes are those who have been thrown -out of their depth at an early age, and taught to swim off a boat. The -very remarkable story of _Thrown Away_ shows the effect of preparing -for India by a life "unspotted from the world" in England; it is as -hopelessly tragic as any in Mr. Kipling's somewhat grim repertory. - -Against the _régime_ of the prig Mr. Kipling sets the _régime_ of -Strickland. Over and over again he introduces this mysterious figure, -always with a phrase of extreme approval. Strickland is in the police, -and his power consists in his determination to know the East as the -natives know it. He can pass through the whole of Upper India, dressed -as a fakir, without attracting the least attention. Sometimes, as in -_Beyond the Pale_, he may know too much. But this is an exception, -and personal to himself. Mr. Kipling's conviction is that this is -the sort of man to pervade India for us, and that one Strickland is -worth a thousand self-conceited civilians. But even below the Indian -prig, because he has at least known India, is the final object of Mr. -Kipling's loathing, "Pagett, M.P.," the radical English politician who -comes out for four months to set everybody right. His chastisement -is always severe and often comic. But in one very valuable paper, -which Mr. Kipling must not be permitted to leave unreprinted, _The -Enlightenment of Pagett, M.P._, he has dealt elaborately and quite -seriously with this noxious creature. Whether Mr. Kipling is right or -wrong, far be it from me in my ignorance to pretend to know. But his -way of putting these things is persuasive. - -Since Mr. Kipling has come back from India he has written about society -"of sorts" in England. Is there not perhaps in him something of Pagett, -M.P., turned inside out? As a delineator of English life, at all -events, he is not yet thoroughly master of his craft. Everything he -writes has vigour and picturesqueness. But _The Lamentable Comedy of -Willow Wood_ is the sort of thing that any extremely brilliant Burman, -whose English, if slightly odd, was nevertheless unimpeachable, might -write of English ladies and gentlemen, having never been in England. -_The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot_ was in every way better, more truly -observed, more credible, more artistic, but yet a little too cynical -and brutal to come straight from life. And last of all there is the -novel of _The Light that Failed_, with its much-discussed two endings, -its oases of admirable detail in a desert of the undesirable, with its -extremely disagreeable woman, and its far more brutal and detestable -man, presented to us, the precious pair of them, as typical specimens -of English society. I confess that it is _The Light that Failed_ that -has wakened me to the fact that there are limits to this dazzling new -talent, the _éclat_ of which had almost lifted us off our critical feet. - - -IV - -The conception of Strickland would be very tantalising and incomplete -if we were not permitted to profit from his wisdom and experience. But, -happily, Mr. Kipling is perfectly willing to take us below the surface, -and to show us glimpses of the secret life of India. In so doing he -puts forth his powers to their fullest extent, and I think it cannot be -doubted that the tales which deal with native manners are not merely -the most curious and interesting which Mr. Kipling has written, but -are also the most fortunately constructed. Every one who has thought -over this writer's mode of execution will have been struck with the -skill with which his best work is restrained within certain limits. -When inspiration flags with him, indeed, his stories may grow too long, -or fail, as if from languor, before they reach their culmination. But -his best short stories--and among his best we include the majority of -his native Indian tales--are cast at once, as if in a mould; nothing -can be detached from them without injury. In this consists his great -technical advantage over almost all his English rivals; we must look to -France or to America for stories fashioned in this way. In several of -his tales of Indian manners this skill reaches its highest because most -complicated expression. It may be comparatively easy to hold within -artistic bonds a gentle episode of European amorosity. To deal, in -the same form, but with infinitely greater audacity, with the muffled -passions and mysterious instincts of India, to slur over nothing, to -emphasise nothing, to give in some twenty pages the very spicy odour of -the East, this is marvellous. - -Not less than this Mr. Kipling has done in a little group of stories -which I cannot but hold to be the culminating point of his genius so -far. If the remainder of his writings were swept away, posterity would -be able to reconstruct its Rudyard Kipling from _Without Benefit of -Clergy_, _The Man who Would be King_, _The Strange Ride of Morrowbie -Jukes_, and _Beyond the Pale_. More than that, if all other record of -Indian habits had been destroyed, much might be conjectured from these -of the pathos, the splendour, the cruelty, and the mystery of India. -From _The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows_ more is to be gleaned of the -real action of opium-smoking, and the causes of that indulgence, than -from many sapient debates in the British House of Commons. We come very -close to the confines of the moonlight-coloured world of magic in _The -Bisara of Pooree_. For pure horror and for the hopeless impenetrability -of the native conscience there is _The Recrudescence of Imray_. In a -revel of colour and shadow, at the close of the audacious and Lucianic -story of _The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney_, we peep for a moment -into the mystery of "a big queen's praying at Benares." - -Admirable, too, are the stories which deal with the results of attempts -made to melt the Asiatic and the European into one. The red-headed -Irish-Thibetan who makes the king's life a burden to him in the -fantastic story of _Namgay Doola_ represents one extremity of this -chain of grotesque Eurasians; Michele D'Cruze, the wretched little -black police inspector, with a drop of white blood in his body, who -wakes up to energetic action at one supreme moment of his life, is at -the other. The relapse of the converted Indian is a favourite theme -with this cynical observer of human nature. It is depicted in _The -Judgment of Dungara_, with a rattling humour worthy of Lever, where the -whole mission, clad in white garments woven of the scorpion nettle, go -mad with fire and plunge into the river, while the trumpet of the god -bellows triumphantly from the hills. In _Lispeth_ we have a study--much -less skilfully worked out, however--of the Indian woman carefully -Christianised from childhood reverting at once to heathenism when her -passions reach maturity. - -The lover of good literature, however, is likely to come back to -the four stories which we named first in this section. They are the -very flower of Mr. Kipling's work up to the present moment, and on -these we base our highest expectations for his future. _Without -Benefit of Clergy_ is a study of the Indian woman as wife and mother, -uncovenanted wife of the English civilian and mother of his son. The -tremulous passion of Ameera, her hopes, her fears, and her agonies of -disappointment, combine to form by far the most tender page which Mr. -Kipling has written. For pure beauty the scene where Holden, Ameera, -and the baby count the stars on the housetop for Tota's horoscope is -so characteristic that, although it is too long to quote in full, its -opening paragraph must here be given as a specimen of Mr. Kipling's -style in this class of work: - -"Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that led to the flat roof. The -child, placid and unwinking, lay in the hollow of her right arm, -gorgeous in silver-fringed muslin, with a small skull-cap on his head. -Ameera wore all that she valued most. The diamond nose-stud that takes -the place of the Western patch in drawing attention to the curve of -the nostril, the gold ornament in the centre of the forehead studded -with tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the heavy circlet of -beaten gold that was fastened round her neck by the softness of the -pure metal, and the clinking curb-patterned silver anklets hanging low -over the rosy ankle-bone. She was dressed in jade-green muslin, as -befitted a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to elbow and elbow -to wrist ran bracelets of silver tied with floss silk; frail glass -bangles slipped over the wrist in proof of the slenderness of the hand, -and certain heavy gold bracelets that had no part in her country's -ornaments, but, since they were Holden's gift, and fastened with a -cunning European snap, delighted her immensely. - -"They sat down by the low white parapet of the roof, overlooking the -city and its lights." - -What tragedy was in store for the gentle astrologer, or in what -darkness of waters the story ends, it is needless to repeat here. - -In _The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes_ a civil engineer stumbles by -chance on a ghastly city of the dead who do not die, trapped into it, -down walls of shifting sand, on the same principle as the ant-lion -secures its prey, the parallel being so close that one half suspects -Mr. Kipling of having invented a human analogy to the myrmeleon. The -abominable settlement of living dead men is so vividly described, -and the wonders of it are so calmly, and, as it were, so temperately -discussed, that no one who possesses the happy gift of believing can -fail to be persuaded of the truth of the tale. The character of Gunga -Dass, a Deccanee Brahmin whom Jukes finds in this reeking village, -and who, reduced to the bare elements of life, preserves a little, -though exceedingly little, of his old traditional obsequiousness, is an -admirable study. But all such considerations are lost, as we read the -story first, in the overwhelming and Poe-like horror of the situation -and the extreme novelty of the conception. - -A still higher place, however, I am inclined to claim for the daring -invention of _The Man who would be King_. This is a longer story than -is usual with Mr. Kipling, and it depends for its effect, not upon -any epigrammatic surprise or extravagant dénouement of the intrigue, -but on an imaginative effort brilliantly sustained through a detailed -succession of events. Two ignorant and disreputable Englishmen, exiles -from social life, determine to have done with the sordid struggle, and -to close with a try for nothing less than empire. They are seen by -the journalist who narrates the story to disappear northward from the -Kumharsan Serai disguised as a mad priest and his servant starting to -sell whirligigs to the Ameer of Kabul. Two years later there stumbles -into the newspaper office a human creature bent into a circle, and -moving his feet one over the other like a bear. This is the surviving -adventurer, who, half dead and half dazed, is roused by doses of raw -whisky into a condition which permits him to unravel the squalid and -splendid chronicle of adventures beyond the utmost rim of mountains, -adventures on the veritable throne of Kafiristan. The tale is recounted -with great skill as from the lips of a dying king. At first, to give -the needful impression of his faint, bewildered state, he mixes up -his narrative, whimpers, forgets, and repeats his phrases; but by -the time the curiosity of the reader is fully arrested, the tale has -become limpid and straightforward enough. When it has to be drawn to -a close, the symptoms of aphasia and brain-lesion are repeated. This -story is conceived and conducted in the finest spirit of an artist. -It is strange to the verge of being incredible, but it never outrages -possibility, and the severe moderation of the author preserves our -credence throughout. - -It is in these Indian stories that Mr. Kipling displays more than -anywhere else the accuracy of his eye and the retentiveness of his -memory. No detail escapes him, and, without seeming to emphasise the -fact, he is always giving an exact feature where those who are in -possession of fewer facts or who see less vividly are satisfied with a -shrewd generality. - - -V - -In Mr. Kipling's first volume there was one story which struck -quite a different note from all the others, and gave promise of a -new delineator of children. _Tods' Amendment_, which is a curiously -constructed piece of work, is in itself a political allegory. It is to -be noticed that when he warms to his theme the author puts aside the -trifling fact that Tods is an infant of six summers, and makes him give -a clear statement of collated native opinion worthy of a barrister in -ample practice. What led to the story, one sees without difficulty, -was the wish to emphasise the fact that unless the Indian Government -humbles itself, and becomes like Tods, it can never legislate with -efficiency, because it never can tell what all the _jhampanis_ and -_saises_ in the bazar really wish for. If this were all, Mr. Kipling in -creating Tods would have shown no more real acquaintance with children -than other political allegorists have shown with sylphs or Chinese -philosophers. But Mr. Kipling is always an artist, and in order to -make a setting for his child-professor of jurisprudence, he invented -a really convincing and delightful world of conquering infancy. Tods, -who lives up at Simla with Tods' mamma, and knows everybody, is "an -utterly fearless young pagan," who pursues his favourite kid even into -the sacred presence of the Supreme Legislative Council, and is on terms -of equally well-bred familiarity with the Viceroy and with Futteh Khan, -the villainous loafer _khit_ from Mussoorie. - -To prove that _Tods' Amendment_ was not an accident, and also, -perhaps, to show that he could write about children purely and simply, -without any after-thought of allegory, he brought out, as the sixth -instalment of the _Indian Railway Library_, a little volume entirely -devoted to child-life. Of the four stories contained in this book one -is among the finest productions of its author, while two others are -very good indeed. There are also, of course, the children in _The Light -that Failed_, although they are too closely copied from the author's -previous creations in _Baa, Baa, Black Sheep_; and in other writings of -his, children take a position sufficiently prominent to justify us in -considering this as one of the main divisions of his work. - -In his preface to _Wee Willie Winkie_, Mr. Kipling has sketched for us -the attitude which he adopts towards babies. "Only women," he says, but -we may doubt if he means it, "understand children thoroughly; but if a -mere man keeps very quiet, and humbles himself properly, and refrains -from talking down to his superiors, the children will sometimes be -good to him, and let him see what they think about the world." This is -a curious form of expression, and suggests the naturalist more than -the lover of children. So might we conceive a successful zoologist -affirming that the way to note the habits of wild animals and birds -is by keeping very quiet, and lying low in the grass, and refraining -from making sudden noises. This is, indeed, the note by which we may -distinguish Mr. Kipling from such true lovers of childhood as Mrs. -Ewing. He has no very strong emotion in the matter, but he patiently -and carefully collects data, partly out of his own faithful and -capacious personal memory, partly out of what he still observes. - -The Tods type he would probably insist that he has observed. A finer -and more highly developed specimen of it is given in _Wee Willie -Winkie_, the hero of which is a noble infant of overpowering vitality, -who has to be put under military discipline to keep him in any sort of -domestic order, and who, while suffering under two days' confinement to -barracks (the house and verandah), saves the life of a headstrong girl. -The way in which Wee Willie Winkie--who is of Mr. Kipling's favourite -age, six--does this is at once wholly delightful and a terrible strain -to credence. The baby sees Miss Allardyce cross the river, which he has -always been forbidden to do, because the river is the frontier, and -beyond it are bad men, goblins, Afghans, and the like. He feels that -she is in danger, he breaks mutinously out of barracks on his pony and -follows her, and when she has an accident, and is surrounded by twenty -hill-men, he saves her by his spirit and by his complicated display of -resource. To criticise this story, which is told with infinite zest -and picturesqueness, seems merely priggish. Yet it is contrary to Mr. -Kipling's whole intellectual attitude to suppose him capable of writing -what he knows to be supernatural romance. We have therefore to suppose -that in India infants "of the dominant race" are so highly developed at -six, physically and intellectually, as to be able to ride hard, alone, -across a difficult river, and up pathless hilly country, to contrive -a plan for succouring a hapless lady, and to hold a little regiment -of savages at bay by mere force of eye. If Wee Willie Winkie had been -twelve instead of six, the feat would have been just possible. But -then the romantic contrast between the baby and his virile deeds would -not have been nearly so piquant. In all this Mr. Kipling, led away by -sentiment and a false ideal, is not quite the honest craftsman that he -should be. - -But when, instead of romancing and creating, he is content to observe -children, he is excellent in this as in other branches of careful -natural history. But the children he observes, are, or we much misjudge -him, himself. _Baa, Baa, Black Sheep_ is a strange compound of work at -first and at second hand. Aunty Rosa (delightfully known, without a -suspicion of supposed relationship, as "Antirosa"), the Mrs. Squeers -of the Rocklington lodgings, is a sub-Dickensian creature, tricked out -with a few touches of reality, but mainly a survival of early literary -hatreds. The boy Harry and the soft little sister of Punch are rather -shadowy. But Punch lives with an intense vitality, and here, without -any indiscretion, we may be sure that Mr. Kipling has looked inside -his own heart and drawn from memory. Nothing in the autobiographies -of their childhood by Tolstoi and Pierre Loti, nothing in Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's _Child's Garden of Verses_, is more valuable as a record of -the development of childhood than the account of how Punch learned to -read, moved by curiosity to know what the "falchion" was with which the -German man split the Griffin open. Very nice, also, is the reference to -the mysterious rune, called "Sonny, my Soul," with which mamma used to -sing Punch to sleep. - -By far the most powerful and ingenious story, however, which Mr. -Kipling has yet dedicated to a study of childhood is _The Drums of the -Fore and Aft_. "The Fore and Aft" is a nickname given in derision to a -crack regiment, whose real title is "The Fore and Fit," in memory of a -sudden calamity which befell them on a certain day in an Afghan pass, -when, if it had not been for two little blackguard drummer-boys, they -would have been wofully and contemptibly cut to pieces, as they were -routed by a dashing troop of Ghazis. The two little heroes, who only -conquer to die, are called Jakin and Lew, stunted children of fourteen, -"gutter-birds" who drink and smoke and "do everything but lie," and are -the disgrace of the regiment. In their little souls, however, there -burns what Mr. Pater would call a "hard, gem-like flame" of patriotism, -and they are willing to undergo any privation, if only they may wipe -away the stigma of being "bloomin' non-combatants." - -In the intervals of showing us how that stain was completely removed, -Mr. Kipling gives us not merely one of the most thrilling and effective -battles in fiction, but a singularly delicate portrait of two grubby -little souls turned white and splendid by an element of native -greatness. It would be difficult to point to a page of modern English -more poignant than that which describes how "the only acting-drummers -who were took along," and--left behind, moved forward across the pass -alone to the enemy's front, and sounded on drum and fife the return of -the regiment to duty. But perhaps the most remarkable feature of the -whole story is that a record of shocking British retreat and failure is -so treated as to flatter in its tenderest susceptibilities the pride of -British patriotism. - -_1891._ - - - - -AN ELECTION AT THE ENGLISH ACADEMY - - - - -An Election at the English Academy - - -ATHENÆUM CLUB, PALL MALL, S.W. - -TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, R.E.A., Samoa - -DEAR MR. STEVENSON,--Last night I think that even you must -have regretted being a beachcomber. Even the society of your friend -Ori-a-Ori and the delights of kava and bread-fruit can hardly make up -to you for what you lost in Piccadilly. It was the first occasion, as -you are aware, upon which we have been called upon to fill up a vacancy -in the Forty. You know, long before this letter reaches you, that we -have already lost one of our original members. Poor Kinglake! I thought -at the time that it was a barren honour, but it was one which his fame -imperatively demanded. I can't say I knew him: a single introduction, -a few gracious words in a low voice, a grave and sad presence--that -is all I retain of him personally. I shall know more when our new -Academician has to deliver the eulogium on his predecessor. What an -intellectual treat it will be! - -We had a splendid gathering. Do you recollect that when the papers -discussed us, before our foundation, one thing they said was that -there never would be a decent attendance? I must confess our -business meetings have been rather sparsely filled up. Besant is -invariably there, Lecky generally, a few others. There has always -been a quorum--not much more. But between you and me and those other -palms--the feathery palms of your cabin--there has not been much -business to transact; not much more than might have been left to -assiduous Mr. Robinson, our paid secretary. But last night the clan was -all but complete. There were thirty-seven of us, nobody missing but Mr. -Ruskin and yourself. Ruskin, by the way, wrote a letter to be read at -the meeting, and then sent on to the _Pall Mall Gazette_--so diverting! -I must cut it out and enclose it. But his style, if this is to be taken -as an example, is not quite what it was.[2] - -Well, I am still so excited that I hardly know where to begin. To -me, a real country bumpkin, the whole thing was such an occasion! -Such a _social_ occasion! I must begin from the beginning. I came -all the way up from Luxilian, my green uniform, with the golden -palm-shoots embroidered on it, safely packed in my portmanteau under my -dress-clothes. To my great annoyance the children had been wearing it -in Christmas charades. My dear wife, ay me, has so little firmness of -character. By-the-by, I hope you wear yours on official occasions in -Samoa? The whole costume, I should fancy, must be quite in a Polynesian -taste. I was more "up" in the candidates and their characteristics -than you would expect. Ah! I know you think me rather a Philistine--but -can an Academician be a Philistine? That is a question that might be -started when next the big gooseberry season begins. I was "up" in the -candidates because, as good luck would have it, Sala had been spending -a week with me in the country. Delightful companion, but scarcely -fitted for rural pleasures. He mentioned such a great number of eminent -literary persons whom I had never heard of--mostly rather occasional -writers, I gathered. He has an extraordinarily wide circle, I find: -it makes me feel quite the Country Mouse. He did not seem to know -much about Gardiner, it is true, but then he could tell me all that -Hardy had written--or pretty nearly all; and, of course, as you know, -Gardiner is my own hobby. - -The moment I got to Paddington I foolishly began looking hither and -thither for fellow-"immortals." Rather absurd, but not so absurd as -you might suppose, for there, daintily stepping out of a first-class -carriage, whom should I see but Max Müller. I scarcely know him, and -should not have ventured to address him, but he called out: "Ah! my -dear friend, we come, I suspect, on the same interesting, the same -patriotic errand!" I had felt a few qualms of conscience about my own -excitement in the election; we are so quiet at Luxilian that we can -scarcely measure the relative importance of events. But Max Müller -completely reassured me. It was delightful to me to see how seriously -he regarded the event. "Europe," he said, "is not inattentive to such -a voice as the unanimity of the English Academy may--may wield." I -could not help smiling at the last word, and reflecting how carelessly -the most careful of us professional writers expresses himself in -conversation. But his enthusiasm was very beautiful, and I found myself -more elevated than ever. "It is permitted to us," he went on, "to -whisper among ourselves what the world must not hear--the unthinking -world--that the social status of English Academician adds not a -little dignity to literature. One hopes that, whoever may be added -to our number to-night, the social----eh?" I had formulated just the -same feeling myself. "Only in so far," he went on, "as is strictly -consistent with the interests of literature and scholarship--of course? -Good-bye!" and he left me with an impression that he wanted to vote for -both candidates. - -There was a little shopping I had to do in Regent Street, after I -had left my costume at the Academy, and I called in at Mudie's for a -moment on my way to the British Museum. To give you an idea of the -mental disturbance I was suffering from, I asked the very polite -young man at the counter for my own _Mayors of Woodshire_--you know, -my seventeenth-century book--instead of _The Mayor of Casterbridge_, -which my wife wanted to read. I did not realise my mistake till I saw -the imprint of the Clarendon Press. At last I got to the manuscript -room, made my references, and found that our early dinner hour was -approaching. I walked westward down Oxford Street, enjoying the -animation and colour of the lovely evening, and then, suddenly, -realising what the hour was, turned and took a hansom to the Athenæum. - -Who should meet me in the vestibule but Seeley? Less and less often -do I find my way to Cambridge, and I hesitated about addressing him, -although I used to know him so well. He was buried in a reverie, -and slowly moving to the steps. I suppose I involuntarily slackened -my speed also, and he looked up. He was most cordial, and almost -immediately began to talk to me about those notes on the commercial -relations of the Woodshire ports with Poland which I printed in the -_English Historical_ two (or perhaps three) years ago. I daresay you -never heard of them. I promised to send him some transcripts I have -since made of the harbour laws of Luxilian itself--most important. -I longed to ask Seeley whether we might be sure of his support for -Gardiner, but I hardly liked to do so, he seemed so much more absorbed -in the past. I took for granted it was all right, and when we parted, -as he left the Club, he said, "We meet later on this evening, I -suppose?" and that was his only reference to the election. - -I am hardly at home yet at the Athenæum, and I was therefore delighted -to put myself under Lecky's wing. I soon saw that quite a muster of -Academicians was preparing to dine, for when we entered the Coffee Room -we found Mr. Walter Besant already seated, and before we could join him -Mr. Black and Mr. Herbert Spencer came in together and approached us. -We had two small tables placed together, and just as we were sitting -down, Lord Lytton, who was so extremely kind to me in Paris last autumn -when I left my umbrella in the Eiffel Tower, made his appearance. We -all seemed studiously to make no reference, at first, to the great -event of the day, while Mr. Spencer diverted us with several anecdotes -which he had just brought from a family in the country--not at all, of -course, of a puerile description, but throwing a singular light upon -the development of infant mind. After this the conversation flagged a -little. I suppose we were all thinking of the same thing. I was quite -relieved when a remark of Lecky's introduced the general topic. - -Our discussion began by Lord Lytton's giving us some very interesting -particulars of the election of Pierre Loti (M. Viaud) into the French -Academy last week, and of the social impression produced by these -contests. I had no idea of the pushing, the intriguing, the unworthy -anxiety which are shown by some people in Paris who wish to be of the -Forty. Lord Lytton says that there is a story by M. Daudet which, -although it is petulant and exaggerated, gives a very graphic picture -of the seamy side of the French Academy. I must read this novel, for I -feel that we, as a new body destined to wield a vast influence in this -country, ought to be forewarned. I ventured to say that I did not think -that English people, with our honest and wholesome traditions, and the -blessings of a Protestant religion, would be in any danger of falling -into these excesses. Nobody responded to this; I am afraid the London -writers are dreadfully cynical, and Black remarked that we six, at all -events, were poachers turned inside out. They laughed at this, and I -was quite glad when the subject was changed. - -Lord Lytton asked Mr. Besant whether he was still as eager as ever -about his Club of Authors, or whether he considered that the English -Academy covered the ground. He replied that he had wholly relinquished -that project for the present. His only wish had been to advocate union -among authors, on a basis of mutual esteem and encouragement, and -he thought that the Academy would be quite enough to do that, if it -secured for itself the building which is now being talked about, as -a central point for consultation on all matters connected with the -literary life and profession. But this notion did not seem to command -itself to Mr. Spencer, who said that it seemed to him that the Forty -were precisely those whom success or the indulgence of the public had -raised above the need or the desire of consultation. "I am very glad -to have the pleasure of playing a game of billiards with you, Mr. -Besant, but why should I consult you about my writings? I conceive that -the duty of our Academy is solely to insist on a public recognition of -the dignity of literature, and that if we go a step beyond that aim, we -prepare nothing but snares for our feet." - -"Whom, then, do you propose," continued Lecky to Besant, "to summon to -your consultations?" - -"Surely," was the reply, "any respectable authors." - -"Outsiders, then," said Mr. Spencer, "a few possible and a multitude of -impossible candidates?" - -"Female writers as well as male?" asked Black; "are we to have the -literary Daphne at our conversaziones-- - - - _With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits,_ - _Vouchsafing audience to contending wits?_ - - -How do you like that prospect, Lecky?" - -"But poorly, I must confess. We have tiresome institutions enough -in London without adding to them a sort of Ptolemaic Mouseion, for -us to strut about on the steps of, in our palm-costume, attended by -dialectical ladies and troops of intriguing pupils. Though that, -I am sure," he added courteously, "is the last thing our friend -Besant desires, yet I conceive it would tend to be the result of such -consultation." - -"What then," said the novelist, "is to be the practical service of the -English Academy to life and literature?" - -At this we all put on a grave and yet animated expression, for -certainly, to each of us, this was a very important consideration. - -"Putting on one side," began Mr. Spencer, "the social advantage, the -unquestionable dignity and importance given to individual literary -accomplishment at a time when the purer parts of writing--I mean no -disrespect to you novelists--are greatly neglected in the general -hurly-burly; putting on one side this function of the English Academy, -there remains, of course----" - -But, at this precise moment, when I was literally hanging on the lips -of our eminent philosopher, the door opened with a considerable noise -of gaiety, and Mr. Arthur Balfour entered, in company with a gentleman, -who was introduced to me presently as Mr. Andrew Lang. - -"Two more Academicians, and this time neither novelists nor -philosophers," said Black. - -They sat down close to us, so that the conversation was still general. - -"We were discussing the Academy," said Lord Lytton. "And we," replied -Mr. Balfour, "were comparing notes about rackets. Lang tells me he has -found a complete description of the game in one of the Icelandic sagas." - -"Played with a shuttlecock," said Mr. Lang, throwing himself back -with a gesture of intense fatigue. "By the way, when we get to B in -our Academy dictionary, I will write the article _battledore_. It is -Provençal, I believe; but one must look up Skeat." - -"We shall be very old, I am afraid, before we reach letter B," I -remarked, "shall we not?" - -"Oh! no," said Mr. Lang, "we shall fire away like fun. All we have to -do is to crib our definitions out of Murray." - -"I hardly think that," said Mr. Besant; "we seem to have precious -little to occupy ourselves with, but our dictionary at least you must -leave us." - -We talked this over a little, and the general opinion seemed to be that -it would turn out to be more an alphabetical series of monographs on -the history of our language than a dictionary in the ordinary sense. -And who was to have the courage to start it, no one seemed able to -guess. - -A general conversation then began, which was of not a little interest -to me. The merits of our two candidates were warmly, but temperately -discussed. Everybody seemed to feel that we ought to have them both -among us; that our company would still be incomplete if one was -elected. Black suggested that some public-spirited Academician should -perform the Happy Despatch, so as to supply the convenience of two -vacancies. Lord Lytton reminded us that we were doing, on a small -scale, what the French Academy itself did for a few years,--from the -election of Guizot to that of Labiche--namely, meeting in private to -wrangle over the merits of the candidates. We laughed, and set to with -greater zeal, I painting Gardiner in rosier colours as Besant advanced -the genius of Hardy. - -While this was going on Sir Frederick Leighton joined us, listening -and leaning in one of his Olympian attitudes. "I find," he said at -last, "that I am able to surprise you. You are not aware that there is -a third candidate." "A third candidate?" we all exclaimed. "Yes," he -said; "before the hour was too far advanced yesterday, our secretary -received the due notice from his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury." -"Ah! you mean for your own Academy," some one said; "as chaplain in the -room of the poor Archbishop of York?" "No," Sir Frederick answered, -smiling, "as a candidate for _our_ Academy, the English Academy." (And, -indeed, I recollected that Leighton was one of our original members. I -cannot quite recall upon what literary grounds, but he is a charming -person, and a great social acquisition.) - -There was a pause at this unexpected announcement. "I am sorry," said -Mr. Balfour at last, "that the Archbishop, whom I greatly esteem and -admire, should have laid himself open to this rebuff. We cannot admit -him, and yet how extremely painful to reject him. He has scarcely more -claim to belong to this Academy than I have, and----" At this we all, -very sincerely, murmured our expostulation, and Lord Lytton, leaning -across, said: "My dear Arthur, you are our Haussonville!" "I am afraid -I am more likely," he replied, "to be your Audriffet-Pasquier. But -here I am, and it was none of my seeking. I am, at least, determined -not to use what fortieth-power I have for the election of any but the -best purely literary candidates." There was no direct reply to this, -and presently we all got up and separated to prepare for the election, -each of us manifestly disturbed by this unexpected news. - -As I was going out of the Club, I met Jebb, whom I was very glad to -greet. I used to know him well, but I go so seldom to Cambridge in -these days that I can scarcely have seen him since he took his doctor's -degree in letters, which must be seven or eight years ago, when I -came up to see my own boy get his B.A. He was quite unchanged, and as -cordial as ever. The night was so clear that we decided to walk, and, -as we passed into Pall Mall, the moonlight suddenly flooded the street. - -"How the nightingales must be singing at Luxilian," I cried. - -"And that nest of singing-birds with whom I saw you dining," said Jebb, -"how did they entertain you?" - -"The best company in the world," I replied; "and yet----! Perhaps -Academicians talk better in twos and ones than _en masse_. I thought -the dinner might have been more brilliant, and it certainly might have -been more instructive." - -"They were afraid of one another, no doubt," said the Professor; "they -were afraid of you. But how could it have been more instructive?" - -"I was in hopes that I should hear from all these accomplished men -something definite about the aims of the Academy, its functions in -practical life--what the use of it is to be, in fact." - -"Had they no ideas to exchange on that subject? Did they not dwell on -the social advantages it gives to literature? Why, my dear friend, -between ourselves, the election of a new member to an Academy -constituted as ours is, so restricted in numbers, so carefully weeded -of all questionable elements, is in itself the highest distinction ever -yet placed within the reach of English literature. In fact, it is the -Garter." - -"But," I pursued, "are we not in danger of thinking too much of the -social matter? Are we not framing a tradition which, if it had existed -for three hundred years, would have excluded Defoe, Bunyan, Keats, and -perhaps Shakespeare himself?" - -"Doubtless," Jebb answered, "but we are protected against such folly -by the high standard of our candidates. Hardy, Gardiner--who could be -more unexceptionable? who could more eminently combine the qualities we -seek?" - -"You are not aware, then," I said, "that a third candidate is before -us?" - -"No! Who?" - -"The Archbishop of Canterbury." - -"Ah!" he exclaimed, and we walked on together in silence. - -At the door of the Academy Jebb left me, "for a moment or two," -he said, and proceeded up Piccadilly. I ascended the steps of our -new building, and passed into the robing-room. Whom should I meet -there, putting on his green palm-shoots, but Mr. Leslie Stephen. I -was particularly glad to have a moment's interview with him, for I -wanted to tell him of my great discovery, a fifth Nicodemus, Abbot -of Luxilian, in the twelfth century. Extraordinary thing! Of course, -I imagined that he would be delighted about it, although he has not -quite reached N yet, but I can't say that he seemed exhilarated. "Five -successive Nicodemuses," I said, "what do you think of that?" He -murmured something about "all standing naked in the open air." I fancy -he is losing his interest in the mediæval biographies. However, before -I could impress upon him what a "find" it is, Mr. Gladstone came in -with the Bishop of Oxford, and just then Sala called me out to repeat -a story to me which he had just heard at some club. I thought it good -at the time--something about "Manipur" and "many poor"--but I have -forgotten how it went. - -Upstairs, in the great reception-room, the company was now rapidly -gathering. You may imagine how interesting I found it. Everywhere knots -of men were forming, less, I felt, to discuss the relative claims of -Hardy and Gardiner than to deplore the descent of the Archbishop into -the lists. The Duke of Argyll, who courteously recognised me, deigned -to refer to this topic of universal interest. "I would have done much," -he said, "to protect him from the annoyance of this defeat. A prince of -the Anglican Church, whom we all respect and admire! I fear he will not -have more than--than--perhaps _one_ vote. Alas! alas!" - -Various little incidents caught my eye. Poor Professor Freeman, -bursting very hastily into the room, bounced violently against Mr. -Froude, who happened to be standing near the door. I don't think Mr. -Freeman can have realised how roughly he struck him, for he did not -turn or stop, but rushed across the room to the Bishop of Oxford, with -whom he was soon in deep consultation about Gardiner, no doubt; I did -not disturb them. Lord Salisbury, with pendant arms, gently majestic, -stood on the hearth-rug talking to an elderly gentleman of pleasing -aspect, in spectacles. I heard some one say something about "the other -uncrowned king of Brentford," but I did not understand the allusion. I -suppose the gentleman was some supporter of the Ministry, but I did not -catch his name. - -Lecky was so kind as to present me to Professors Huxley and Tyndall, -neither of whom, I believe, ought to have been out on so fresh a spring -night; neither, I hope to hear this evening, is the worse for such -imprudence. A curious incident now occurred, for as we were chatting, -Huxley suddenly said, in a low voice: "Gladstone has his eye upon you, -Tyndall." The professor flounced about at this in a great agitation, -and replied, so loudly that I feared it would be generally heard--"He -had better not attempt to address me. I should utter six withering -syllables, and then turn my back upon him. Gladstone, indeed, the old -----." But at this moment, to my horror, Mr. Gladstone glided across -the floor with his most courtly and dignified air, and held out his -hand. "Ah! Professor Tyndall, how long it seems since those beautiful -days on the Bel Alp." There was a little bridling and hesitating, and -then Tyndall took the proffered hand. "I was wandering," said the -Grand Old Man, "without a guide, and now I have found one, the best -possible. I am----" "Oh!" broke in the professor, "I thought it would -be so. I am more delighted than----" "Pardon me," interrupted Mr. -Gladstone with an exquisite deprecation, "I am mainly interested at the -moment in the Sirens. I am lost, as I said, without a guide, and I have -found one. Your experiments with the sirens on the North Foreland-- - - - [Greek: hieisai opa kallimon],--" - - -and then, arm in arm, the amicable and animated pair retired to a -corner of the room. - -Impossible to describe to you all the incidents of this delightful -gathering. In one corner the veteran Dr. Martineau was seated, -conversing with Mr. Henry Irving. I was about to join them when I was -attracted by a sharp and elastic step on the stairs, and saw that -Lord Wolseley, entering the room, and glancing quickly round, walked -straight to a group at my left hand, which was formed around Mr. George -Meredith. - -"For whom must I vote, Mr. Meredith?" he said. "I place myself in your -hands. Is it to be the Archbishop of Canterbury?" - -"Nay," replied Mr. Meredith, smiling, "for the prelate I shake you out -a positive negative. The customary guests at our academic feast--well; -poet, historian, essayist, say novelist or journalist, all welcome -on grounds of merit royally acknowledged and distinguished. But this -portent of a crozier, nodding familiarly to us with its floriated tin -summit, a gilt commodity, definitely hostile to literature--never -in the world. How Europe will boom with cachinnation when it learns -that we have invented the Academy of English Letters for the more -excellent glorification of mere material episcopacy, a radiant excess -of iridescence thrown by poetry upon prelacy, heart's blood of books -shed merely to stain more rosily the _infulæ_ and _vittæ_ of a mitre. I -shall be tempted into some colloquial extravagance if I dwell on this -theme, however; I must chisel on Blackmore yonder for floral wit, and -so will, with permission, float out of your orbit by a bowshot." - -Dr. Jowett now made his appearance, in company with Mr. Swinburne; -and they were followed by a gentleman in a rough coat and picturesque -blue shirt, who attracted my attention by this odd costume, and by his -very fine head, with flowing beard and hair. I was told it was the -poet Morris; not at all how I had pictured the author of _The Epic of -Hades_. And finally, to our infinite delight, Lord Tennyson himself -came in, leaning on Jebb's arm, and we felt that our company was -complete. - -We clustered at last into our inner council-room, at the door of which -the usher makes us sign our names. What a page last night's will be -for the enjoyment of posterity! We gradually settled into our places; -Lord Tennyson in his presidential chair, Lecky in his post of permanent -secretary; our excellent paid secretary hurrying about with papers, -and explaining to us the routine. It seemed more like a club than ever -at that moment, our charming Academy, with the best of all possible -society. As I sat waiting for business to begin, my thoughts ran -more and more upon the unfortunate candidature of the Archbishop. I -reflected on what the Duke of Argyll had said, the wretchedness of the -_one_ vote. He should, at least, have two, I determined; and I asked -my neighbour, Mr. Frederic Harrison, if he knew what Dr. Benson had -published. "I have an idea," he replied, "that he is the author of a -work entitled _The Cathedral: its Necessary Place in the Life and Work -of an Academy_." - -Our proceedings were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of -Cardinal Manning, who desired to be permitted, before the election -began, to add to the names of the candidates that of Mr. W. T. Stead. -At this there was a general murmur, and Mr. Lang muttered: "If it comes -to that, I propose Bridge" (or "Brydges"--I could not catch the name). -The Cardinal continued: "I know I have a seconder for him in my eminent -friend opposite." We all looked across at Archdeacon Farrar, who -objected, with considerable embarrassment: "No, no; when I said that, -I did not understand what the final list of candidates was to be. I -must really decline." The Cardinal then turned to Mr. John Morley, who -shook his head. "The Academy will have more need of Mr. Stead ten years -hence, perhaps, than it has now." And with that the incident terminated. - -The moment had at last arrived, and we expected a prolonged session. -By a system of successive ballotings, we have to work on until one -candidate has a positive majority; this may take a long time, and may -even fail to be accomplished. The President rang his bell, and the -names were pronounced by the secretary: - - - EDWARD WHITE BENSON, Archbishop of Canterbury, - - SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER, and - - THOMAS HARDY. - - -As soon as he had recorded his vote, our venerable President left us; -the remainder of the company awaited the result with eager curiosity. -The general opinion seemed to be that the votes for Gardiner and Hardy -would prove pretty equal, and I began to feel a little qualm at having -thrown mine away. But when Mr. Gladstone, taking the President's chair, -rang his bell, and announced the result of the voting, it is not too -much to say that we were stupefied. The votes were thus divided: - - - The Archbishop of Canterbury 19 - Gardiner 8 - Hardy 7 - Blank votes 3 - - -There was, accordingly, no need for a second ballot, since the -Archbishop had secured a positive majority of the votes. I felt a -little uncomfortable when I reflected that my vote, if loyally given -to Gardiner, would have necessitated a reopening of the matter. Never -mind. Better as it is. The election is a very good one, from a social -point of view particularly. - -The company dispersed rather hurriedly. On the stairs, where Mr. Arthur -Balfour was offering his arm to Lord Selborne, I heard the latter say, -"We may congratulate ourselves on a most excellent evening's work, may -we not?" Mr. Balfour shook his head, but I did not catch his reply; he -seemed to have lost something of his previous good spirits. - -This morning the daily papers are in raptures, the Gladstonians as much -as the Unionists. A great honour, they all say, done to the profession -of literature. "Quite a social triumph," the _Morning Post_ remarks; -"a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"--rather happy, is it -not? But one of those young men of the _National Observer_, who was -waiting for me outside the Academy last night, and kindly volunteered -to see me home to the hotel--where he was even good enough to partake -of refreshment--was rather severe. "Not a single _writer_ in the d----d -gang of you," he said. A little coarse, I thought; and not positively -final, as criticism. - -I am, - -Yours very faithfully, - ---------------------- - -_1891._ - -FOOTNOTE: - -[2] MY DEAR SIR,--What in the Devil's name should I do at your -assemblage of notorieties? I neither care nor wish to care whom you -elect. The only _Gardiner_ I ever heard of was Henry's Bloody Bishop. -If "Kiss me _Hardy_" came before us, it would be worth while for the -only true Tory left in England to vote for him; but he has been with -God this good half century. My £100 a year as Academician--recoverable, -they tell me, in case of lapsed payment, from Her Majesty herself--I -spend in perfecting my collection of the palates of molluscs, who keep -their inward economy as clean as the deck of a ship of the line with -stratagems beautiful and manifold exceedingly. Few of your Academicians -show an apparatus half so handsome when they open their mouths. How -unlike am I, by the way, in my retirement, from Bismarck across -the waters, who squeaks like a puppy-dog on his road to the final -parliamentary sausage-making machine of these poor times. Would it not -be well for your English Academy, instead of these election follies, -to bestir itself with a copy of _The Crown of Wild Olive_ for his -heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold my Dorian.--Ever -faithfully yours, JOHN RUSKIN. - - - - -APPENDICES - - -I - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER? - -When this essay first appeared in _The New Review_, the scepticism it -expressed with regard to the universal appreciation of the poet was -severely censured in one or two newspapers. On the other hand, the -accomplished author of _Thyrza_ and _New Grub Street_ obliged me with -a letter of very great interest, which fully confirmed my doubts. Mr. -Gissing has kindly permitted me to print his letter here. His wide -experience among the poor makes his opinion on this matter one which -cannot lightly be passed by: - - - "_Nov. 20, 1892._ - - "SIR,--Will you pardon me if I venture to say with what - satisfaction I have read your remarks about Tennyson in _The New - Review_, which has only just come into my hands? - - "The popular mind is my study, and I know that Tennyson's song - no more reached it than it reached the young-eyed cherubim. Nor - does _any_ song reach the populace, rich and poor, unless, as you - suggest, it be such as appears in _The Referee_. - - "After fifteen years' observation of the poorer classes of - English folk, chiefly in London and the south, I am pretty well - assured that, whatever civilising agencies may be at work among - the democracy, poetry is not one of them. Reading, of one kind - or another, is universal; study, serious and progressive, is no - longer confined to the ranks that enjoy a liberal education; but - the populace, the industrial and trading masses, not merely remain - without interest in poetry, but do not so much as understand what - the term poetry means. In other intellectual points, the grades of - unlettered life are numerous; as regards appreciation of verse, - the People are one. From the work-girl, with her penny novelette, - to the artisan who has collected a little library, the natural - inclination of all who represent their class is to neglect verse - as something exotic, something without appeal to their instincts. - They either do not read it at all--the common case--or (with - an exception to be noticed) they take it as a quaint variety - of prose, which custom has consecrated to religion, to the - affections, and to certain phases of facetiousness. - - "In London, through all orders of society below the liberally - educated, it is a most exceptional thing to meet with a person who - seeks for verse as verse; who recognises the name of any greater - poet not hackneyed in the newspapers, or who even distantly - apprehends the nature of the poet's art. In the north of England, - where more native melody is found, self-taught readers of poetry - are, I believe, not so rare; but they must still be greatly the - exception. As to the influence of board-schools, one cannot doubt - that the younger generation are even less inclined to a taste for - poetry than their fathers. Some elderly people, in Sunday languor, - take up a book of verse with which they have been familiar since - early days (Mrs. Hemans, Eliza Cook, Montgomery, Longfellow); - whereas their children cannot endure printed matter cut into - rhythmic lengths, unless the oddity solicit them in the columns of - a paper specially addressed to their intelligence. - - "At the instigation of those zealous persons who impress upon - shopkeepers, clerks and artisans, the duty of 'self-culture - in leisure hours,' there undoubtedly goes on some systematic - reading of verse--the exceptional case to which I alluded. It - is undertaken in a resolute spirit by pallid men, who study the - poet just as they study the historian, the economist, the master - of physical science, and their pathetic endeavour is directed by - that species of criticism which demands--exclusively--from poetry - its 'message for our time.' Hence, no doubt, the conviction of - many who go down to the great democratic deep that multitudes - are hungering for the poet's word. Here, as in other kindred - matters, the hope of such enthusiasts arises from imperfect - understanding. Not in lecture-hall and classroom can the mind of - the people be discovered. Optimism has made a fancy picture of - the representative working-man, ludicrous beyond expression to - those who know him in his habitat; and the supremely ludicrous - touch is that which attributes to him a capacity for enjoying pure - literature. - - "I have in mind a typical artisan family, occupying a house - to themselves, the younger members grown up and, in their own - opinion, very far above those who are called 'the poor.' They - possess perhaps a dozen volumes: a novel or two, some bound - magazines, a few musty works of popular instruction or amusement; - all casually acquired and held in no value. Of these people I am - able confidently to assert (as the result of specific inquiry) - that they have in their abode no book of verse--that they never - read verse when they can avoid it--that among their intimates - is no person who reads or wishes to read verse--that they never - knew of any one buying a book of verse--and that not one of them, - from childhood upwards, ever heard a piece of verse read aloud - at the fireside. In this respect, as in many others, the family - beyond doubt is typical. They stand between the brutal and the - intelligent of working-folk. There must be an overwhelming number - of such households through the land, representing a vast populace - absolutely irresponsive to the word of any poet. - - "The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me - that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over - his counter; that the exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or - Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman'; and that an - offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is - invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it.' - - "What else could one have anticipated? To love poetry is a boon of - nature, most sparingly bestowed; appreciation of the poet's art is - an outcome of studious leisure. Even an honest liking for verse, - without discernment, depends upon complex conditions of birth, - breeding, education. No one seeks to disparage the laborious - masses on the ground of their incapacity for delights necessarily - the privilege of a few. It was needless folly to pretend that, - because one or two of Tennyson's poems became largely known - through popular recitation, therefore Tennyson was dear to the - heart of the people, a subject of their pride whilst he lived, of - their mourning when he departed. My point is that _no_ poet holds - this place in the esteem of the English lower orders. - - "Tennyson? The mere price of his works is prohibitive to people - who think a shilling a very large outlay for printed paper. Half - a dozen of his poems at most would obtain a hearing from the - average uneducated person. We know very well the kind of home in - which Tennyson is really beloved for the sake of perhaps half his - work--and that not the better half. Between such households and - the best discoverable in the world of which I speak, lies a chasm - of utter severance. In default of other tests, Tennyson might be - used as a touch-stone to distinguish the last of gentle-folk from - the first of the unprivileged. - - "On the day of his funeral, I spoke of the dead poet to a live - schoolmaster, a teacher of poor children, and he avowed to me, - quite simply, that he 'couldn't stand poetry--except a few hymns;' - that he had thoroughly disliked it ever since the day, when as a - schoolboy, he had to learn by heart portions of _The Lady of the - Lake_. I doubt whether this person could have named three pieces - of Tennyson's writing. He spoke with the consciousness of being - supported by general opinion in his own world. - - "Some days before, I was sitting in a public room, where two men, - retired shopkeepers, exchanged an occasional word as they read - the morning's news. 'A great deal here about Lord Tennyson,' said - one. The 'Lord' was significant; I listened anxiously for his - companion's reply. 'Ah--yes.' The man moved uneasily, and added - at once: 'What do you think about this long-distance ride?' In - that room (I frequented it on successive days with this object) - not a syllable did I hear regarding Tennyson save the sentence - faithfully recorded. This was in the south of England; perhaps it - could not have happened in the north. - - "As a boy, I at one time went daily to school by train. It - happened once that I was alone in the carriage with a commercial - traveller; my Horace was open before me, and it elicited a remark - from the man of samples, who spoke with the accent of that - northern county, and certainly did not belong to the educated - class. After a word or two, he opened his bag, and took out an - ancient copy, battered, thumbed, pencilled, of--Horatius Flaccus. - Without this, he told me, he never travelled. From a bare - smattering obtained at school, he had pursued the study of Latin; - Horace was dear to him; he indicated favourite odes---- - - "Everywhere there are the many and the few. What of the multitude - in higher spheres? Their leisure is ample; literature lies thick - about them. It would be amusing to know how many give one hour a - month to the greater poets.... - - "Believe me, Sir, yours faithfully, - - "GEORGE GISSING. - - "To Edmund Gosse, Esq." - - -II - -M. MALLARMÉ AND SYMBOLISM - -It was with not a little hesitation that I undertook to unravel a -corner of the mystic web, woven of sunbeams and electrical threads, -in which the poet of _L'Après-Midi d'un Faune_ conceals himself from -curious apprehension. There were a dozen chances of my interpretation -being wrong, and scarcely one of its being right. My delight therefore -may be conceived when I received a most gracious letter from the mage -himself; Apollonius was not more surprised when, by a fortunate chance, -one of his prophecies came true. I quote from this charming paper of -credentials, which proceeds to add some precious details:-- - -"Votre étude est un miracle de divination.... Les poëtes seuls ont le -droit de parler; parce qu'avant coup, ils savent. Il y a, entre toutes, -une phrase, où vous écartez tous voiles et désignez la chose avec une -clairvoyance de diamant, le voici: 'His aim ... is to use words in -such harmonious combination as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition _which is not mentioned in the text_, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition.' - -"Tout est là. Je fais de la Musique, et appelle ainsi non celle qu'on -peut tirer du rapprochement euphonique des mots, cette première -condition va de soi; mais l'au delà magiquement produit par certaines -dispositions de la parole, où celle-ci ne reste qu'à l'êtat de moyen de -communication matérielle avec le lecteur comme les touches du piano. -Vraiment entre les lignes et au-dessus du regard cela se passe, en -toute pureté, sans l'entremise de cordes à boyaux et de pistons comme -à l'orchestre, qui est déjà industriel; mais c'est la même chose que -l'orchestre, sauf que littérairement ou silencieusement. Les poëtes -de tous les temps n'ont jamais fait autrement et il est aujourd'hui, -voilà tout, amusant d'en avoir conscience. Employez Musique dans le -sens grec, au fond signifiant Idée au rythme entre les rapports; là, -plus divine que dans son expression publique ou Symphonique. Très mal -dit, en causant, mais vous saisissez ou plutôt aviez saisi toute au -long de cette belle étude qu'il faut garder telle quelle et intacte. -Je ne vous chicane que sur l'obscurité: non, cher poëte, excepté par -maladresse ou gaucherie je ne suis pas obscur, du moment qu'on me lit -pour y chercher ce que j'énonce plus haut, ou la manifestation d'un -art qui se sert--mettons incidemment, j'en sais la cause profonde--du -langage: et le deviens, bien sûr! si l'on se trompe et croit ouvrir le -journal....--Votre - -STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ. - - -_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. _London and Edinburgh_ - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR. - - -_In one volume, crown 8vo, red buckram, gilt top, 7s. 6d._ - -GOSSIP IN A LIBRARY. - -SECOND EDITION. - -_Also large paper edition, limited to 100 copies, price -25s. net._ - -"There is a touch of Leigh Hunt in this picture of the book-lover among -his books, and the volume is one that Leigh Hunt would have delighted -in."--_Athenæum._ - - -_In one volume, crown 8vo, grey buckram, 5s._ - -THE SECRET OF NARCISSE, - -A ROMANCE. - -"This story, with its peaceful, almost idyllic prelude, and its cruel -catastrophe, is told with faultless taste and precision, and with its -mellow colouring and faithful attention to accessories, is fully worthy -of the author's reputation."--_Times._ - - -LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -One unpaired double quotation mark could not be corrected with -confidence. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE*** - - -******* This file should be named 61313-8.txt or 61313-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/3/1/61313 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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 <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: Questions at Issue</p> -<p>Author: Edmund Gosse</p> -<p>Release Date: February 3, 2020 [eBook #61313]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="credit">E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/questionsatissue00gossuoft"> - https://archive.org/details/questionsatissue00gossuoft</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> - -<h1>QUESTIONS AT ISSUE</h1> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/works.jpg" alt="Other Works by Mr Edmund Gosse" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="Title Page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2"><span class="smcap">Questions at Issue</span></p> - -<p class="bold space-above">BY</p> - -<p class="bold2">EDMUND GOSSE</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="Logo" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">LONDON<br />WILLIAM HEINEMANN<br />1893</p> - -<p class="bold">[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>TO</i><br /><br /> -<i>JOSEPH HENRY SHORTHOUSE</i><br /><br /> -This Volume is Dedicated<br /><br /><i>BY</i><br /><br /><i>HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND</i><br /> -<br /><i>THE AUTHOR</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Preface</h2> - -<p>To the essays which are here collected I have given a name which at -once, I hope, describes them accurately and distinguishes them from -criticism of a more positive order. When a writer speaks to us of the -works of the dead masters, of the literary life of the past, we demand -from him the authoritative attitude. That Homer is a great poet, and -that the verse of Milton is exquisite, are not Questions at Issue. In -dealing with such subjects the critic must persuade himself that he -is capable of forming an opinion, and must then give us his opinion -definitely. But in the continent of literary criticism, where all else -is imperial, there is a province which is still republican, and that is -the analysis of contemporary literature, the frank examination of the -literary life of to-day.</p> - -<p>In speaking of what is proceeding around us no one can be trusted to be -authoritative. The wisest, clearest, and most experienced of critics -have notoriously been wrong about the phenomena of their own day. -Ben Jonson selected the moment when <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Othello</i> had just -been performed to talk of raising "the despised head of poetry again, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> stripping her of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times -have adulterated her form." Neither Hazlitt nor Sainte Beuve could be -trusted to give as valuable a judgment on the work of a man younger -than themselves as they could of any past production, be it what it -might. To map the ground around his feet is a task that the most -skilful geographer is not certain to carry out with success.</p> - -<p>The insecurity of contemporary criticism is no reason, however, why -it should not be seriously and sincerely attempted. On the contrary, -the critic who has been accustomed to follow paths where the laws -and criteria of literature are paramount, may be glad to slip away -sometimes to a freer country, where the art he tries to practise is -more instinctive, more emotional, and more controversial. In the -schools of antiquity, when the set discourse was over, the lecturer -mingled with his audience under the portico of the Museum, and then, I -suppose, it was not any longer of the ancients that they talked, but of -the poet of last night, and of the rhetorician of to-morrow.</p> - -<p>The critic may enjoy the sense of having abandoned the lecturing desk -or the tribune, and of mingling in easy conversation with men who are -not bound to preserve any decorum in listening to his opinions. In -the criticism of the floating literature of the day an opportunity is -offered for sensibility, for the personal note, even for a certain -indulgence in levity or irony. The questions of our own age are not yet -settled by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span> tradition, nor hedged about with logical deductions; they -are still open to discussion; they are still Questions at Issue. Such -are all the aspects of the literary life which I endeavour to discuss -in this volume of essays.</p> - -<p>There can, nevertheless, be no reason why, although the dress and -attitude be different, the critic should not be as true to his radical -conceptions of right and wrong in literature, when he discusses the -shifts and movements about him, as when he "bears in memory what has -tamed great nations." The attention of a literary man of character may -be diverted to a hundred dissimilar branches of his subject, but in -dealing with them all he should be the servant of the same ideas, the -defender of the same principles, the protector of the same interests. -The battle rages hither and thither, but none of the issues of it -are immaterial to him, and his attitude towards what he regards as -the enemies of his cause should never radically alter. His functions -should rather become more active and more militant when he feels that -his temporary position deprives him of accidental authority; and even -when he admits that the questions he discusses are matters of open -controversy, he should, in bringing his ideas to bear upon them, be -peculiarly careful to obey the orders of fundamental principles. -All this is quite compatible, I hope, with the sauntering step, the -conversational tone, the absence of all pedagogic assertion, which seem -to me indispensable in the treatment of contemporary themes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span></p> - -<p>Of the essays here reprinted, nearly half are practically new to -English readers, having been written for an American review, and having -been quoted only in fragments on this side of the Atlantic. At the -close of the volume I have added a Lucianic sketch, which, when it -appeared anonymously in the <i>Fortnightly Review</i>, enjoyed the singular -and embarrassing distinction of being attributed, in succession, to -four amusing writers, each of whom is deservedly a greater favourite -of the public than I am. I have seen this little extravaganza ticketed -with such eminent names that I almost hesitate to have to claim it at -last as my own. I hope there was none but very innocent fooling in it, -and that not a word in it can give anybody pain. I think it was not -an unfair representation of what literature in England, from a social -point of view, consisted two years ago. Already death has been busy -with my ideal Academy, and no dreamer of 1893 could summon together -quite so admirable a company as was still citable in 1891.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">London</span>, <i>April 1893</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Contents</h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Tyranny of the Novel</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Influence of Democracy on Literature</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Has America Produced a Poet?</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">What is a Great Poet?</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Making a Name in Literature</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Limits of Realism in Fiction</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Is Verse in Danger?</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Tennyson—and After</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Shelley in 1892</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Symbolism and M. Stéphane Mallarmé</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Two Pastels</span>:—</td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"> I. <span class="smcap">Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson as a Poet</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"> II. <span class="smcap">Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Short Stories</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">An Election at the English Academy</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_295">295</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Appendices</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_323">323</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span></p> - -<blockquote><p><i>The following Essays originally appeared in 'The Contemporary -Review,' 'The Fortnightly Review,' 'The National Review,' 'The New -Review,' 'The Forum,' 'The Century Magazine,' 'Longman's Magazine,' and -'The Academy.'</i></p></blockquote> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">THE TYRANNY OF THE NOVEL</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<h2>The Tyranny of the Novel</h2> - -<p>A Parisian Hebraist has been attracting a moment's attention to his -paradoxical and learned self by announcing that strong-hearted and -strong-brained nations do not produce novels. This gentleman's soul -goes back, no doubt in longing and despair, to the heart of Babylon and -the brain of Gath. But if he looks for a modern nation that does not -cultivate the novel, he must, I am afraid, go far afield. Finland and -Roumania are certainly tainted; Bohemia lies in the bond of naturalism. -Probably Montenegro is the one European nation which this criterion -would leave strong in heart and brain. The amusing absurdity of this -whim of a pedant may serve to remind us how universal is now the -reign of prose fiction. In Scandinavia the drama may demand an equal -prominence, but no more. In all other countries the novel takes the -largest place, claims and obtains the widest popular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> attention, is the -admitted tyrant of the whole family of literature.</p> - -<p>This is so universally acknowledged now-a-days that we scarcely stop -to ask ourselves whether it is a heaven-appointed condition of things, -existing from the earliest times, or whether it is an innovation. -As a matter of fact, the predominance of the novel is a very recent -affair. Most other classes of literature are as old as the art of -verbal expression: lyrical and narrative poetry, drama, history, -philosophy—all these have flourished since the sunrise of the world's -intelligence. But the novel is a creation of the late afternoon of -civilisation. In the true sense, though not in the pedantic one, the -novel began in France with <i>La Princesse de Clèves</i>, and in England -with <i>Pamela</i>—that is to say, in 1677 and in 1740 respectively. -Compared with the dates of the beginning of philosophy and of poetry, -these are as yesterday and the day before yesterday. Once started, -however, the sapling of prose fiction grew and spread mightily. It took -but a few generations to overshadow all the ancient oaks and cedars -around it, and with its monstrous foliage to dominate the forest.</p> - -<p>It would not be uninteresting, if we had space to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> do so here, to -mark in detail the progress of this astonishing growth. It would -be found that, in England at least, it has not been by any means -regularly sustained. The original magnificent outburst of the English -novel lasted for exactly a quarter of a century, and closed with the -publication of <i>Humphrey Clinker</i>. During this period of excessive -fertility in a field hitherto unworked, the novel produced one -masterpiece after another, positively pushing itself to the front and -securing the best attention of the public at a moment when such men -as Gray, Butler, Hume, and Warburton were putting forth contributions -to the old and long-established sections of literature. Nay: such was -the force of the new kind of writing that the gravity of Johnson and -the grace of Goldsmith were seduced into participating in its facile -triumphs.</p> - -<p>But, at the very moment when the novel seemed about to sweep everything -before it, the wave subsided and almost disappeared. For nearly forty -years, only one novel of the very highest class was produced in -England; and it might well seem as though prose fiction, after its -brief victory, had exhausted its resources, and had sunken for ever -into obscurity. During the close of the eighteenth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> century and the -first decade of the nineteenth, no novel, except <i>Evelina</i>, could -pretend to disturb the laurels of Burke, of Gibbon, of Cowper, of -Crabbe. The publication of <i>Caleb Williams</i> is a poor event to set -against that of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>; even <i>Thalaba the Destroyer</i> -seemed a more impressive phenomenon than the <i>Monk</i>. But the second -great burgeoning of the novel was at hand. Like the tender ash, it -delayed to clothe itself when all the woods of romanticism were green. -But in 1811 came <i>Sense and Sensibility</i>, in 1814 <i>Waverley</i>; and the -novel was once more at the head of the literary movement of the time.</p> - -<p>It cannot be said to have stayed there very long. Miss Austen's brief -and brilliant career closed in 1817. Sir Walter Scott continued to be -not far below his best until about ten years later. But a period of two -decades included not only the work of these two great novelists, but -the best books also of Galt, of Mary Ferrier, of Maturin, of Lockhart, -of Banim. It saw the publication of <i>Hajji Baba</i>, of <i>Frankenstein</i>, -of <i>Anastatius</i>. Then, for the second time, prose fiction ceased for -a while to hold a position of high predominance. But Bulwer Lytton -was already at hand; and five or six years of comparative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> obscurity -prepared the way for Dickens, Lever, and Lover. Since the memorable -year 1837 the novel has reigned in English literature; and its tyranny -was never more irresistible than it is to-day. The Victorian has been -peculiarly the age of the triumph of fiction.</p> - -<p>In the history of France something of the same fluctuation might be -perceived, although the production of novels of a certain literary -pretension has been a feature of French much longer and more steadily -than of English life. As Mr. Saintsbury has pointed out, "it is -particularly noteworthy that every one of the eight names which have -been set at the head" of the nineteenth-century literature of France -"is the name of a novelist." Since the days of Flaubert—for the last -thirty years, that is to say—the novel has assumed a still higher -literary function than it held even in the hands of George Sand and -Balzac. It has cast aside the pretence of merely amusing, and has -affected the airs of guide, philosopher, and friend. M. Zola, justified -to some extent by the amazing vogue of his own writings, and the vast -area covered by their prestige, has said that the various classes of -literary production are being merged in the novel, and are ultimately -to disappear within it:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i5"><i>Apollo, Pan, and Love,</i></div> -<div class="i5"><i>And even Olympian Jove</i></div> -<div><i>Grow faint, for killing Truth hath glared on them;</i></div> -<div class="i5"><i>Our hills, and seas, and streams,</i></div> -<div class="i5"><i>Dispeopled of their dreams,</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>become the mere primary material for an endless series of naturalistic -stories. And even to-day, when the young David of symbolism rises to -smite the Goliath Zola, the smooth stones he takes out of his scrip are -works of fiction by Maurice Barrès and Edouard Rod. The schools pass -and nicknames alter; but the novel rules in France as it does elsewhere.</p> - -<p>We have but to look around us at this very moment to see how complete -the tyranny of the novel is. If one hundred educated and grown -men—not, of course, themselves the authors of other books—were to -be asked which are the three most notable works published in London -during the season of 1892, would not ninety-and-nine be constrained to -answer, with a parrot uniformity, <i>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</i>, <i>David -Grieve</i>, <i>The Little Minister</i>? These are the books which have been -most widely discussed, most largely bought, most vehemently praised, -most venomously attacked. These are the books in which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> "trade" -has taken most interest, the vitality of which is most obvious and -indubitable. It may be said that the conditions of the winter of 1892 -were exceptional—that no books of the first class in other branches -were produced. This may be true; and yet Mr. Jebb issued a volume of -his Sophocles, Mr. William Morris a collection of the lyric poems of -years, Mr. Froude his <i>Divorce of Catherine of Aragon</i>, and Mr. Tyndall -his <i>New Fragments</i>. If the poets in chorus had blown their silver -trumpets and the philosophers their bold bassoons, the result would -have been the same: they would have won some respect and a little -notice for their performances; but the novelists would have carried -away the money and the real human curiosity. Who shall say that Mr. -Freeman was not a better historian than Robertson was? yet did he make -£4,500 by his <i>History of Sicily</i>? I wish I could believe it. To-day -Mr. Swinburne may publish a new epic, Mr. Gardiner discover to us the -head of Charles I. on the scaffold, Mr. Herbert Spencer explore a fresh -province of sociology, or Mr. Pater analyse devils in the accents -of an angel—none of these important occurrences will successfully -compete, for more than a few moments, among educated people, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> the -publication of what is called, in publishers' advertisements, "the -new popular and original novel of the hour." We are accustomed to -this state of things, and we bow to it. But we may, perhaps, remind -ourselves that it is a comparatively recent condition. It was not so in -1730, nor in 1800, nor even in 1835.</p> - -<p>Momentary aberrations of fashion must not deceive us as to the general -tendency of taste. Mr. Hall Caine would have us believe that the public -has suddenly gone crazy for stage-plays. "Novels of great strength and -originality," says the author of <i>The Scapegoat</i>, "occasionally appear -without creating more than a flutter of interest, and, meanwhile, -plays of one-tenth their power and novelty are making something like -a profound impression." What plays are these? Not the Ollendorfian -attitudinisings of M. Maeterlinck, surely! The fact is that two years -ago it would have been impossible for any one to pen that sentence of -Mr. Caine's, and it is now possible merely because a passion for the -literary drama has been flogged into existence by certain able critics. -With a limited class, the same class which appreciates poetry, the -literary drama may find a welcome; but to suppose that it competes, or -can, in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> country, even pretend to compete, with the novel is a -delusion, and Mr. Caine may safely abandon his locusts and wild honey.</p> - -<p>That we see around us a great interest in the drama is, of course, a -commonplace. But how much of that is literary? When the delights of -the eye are removed from the sum of pleasure, what is left? Our public -is interested in the actors and their art, in the scenery and the -furniture, in the notion of large sums of money expended, lost, or won. -When all these incidental interests are extracted from the curiosity -excited by a play, not very much is left for the purely literary -portion of it—not nearly so much, at all events, as is awakened by -a great novel. After all that has been said about the publication of -plays, I expect that the sale of dramatic contemporary literature -remains small and uncertain. Mr. Pinero is read; but one swallow does -not make a summer. Where are the dramatic works of Mr. Sydney Grundy, -which ought—if Mr. Caine be correct—to be seen on every book-shelf -beside the stories of Mr. Hawley Smart?</p> - -<p>If, however, I venture to emphasise the fact of the tyranny of the -novel in our current literature, it is without a murmur that I do so. -Like the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>harmless bard in <i>Lady Geraldine's Courtship</i>, I "write no -satire," and, what is more, I mean none. It appears to me natural and -rational that this particular form of writing should attract more -readers than any other. It is so broad and flexible, includes so vast -a variety of appeals to the emotions, makes so few painful demands -upon an overstrained attention, that it obviously lays itself out to -please the greatest number. For the appreciation of a fine poem, of -a learned critical treatise, of a contribution to exact knowledge, -peculiar aptitudes are required: the novel is within everybody's range. -Experience, moreover, proves that the gentle stimulus of reading about -the cares, passions, and adventures of imaginary personages, and their -relations to one another—a mild and irresponsible mirroring of real -life on a surface undisturbed by responsibility, or memory, or personal -feeling of any kind—is the most restful, the most refreshing, of all -excitements which literature produces.</p> - -<p>It is commonly said, in all countries, that women are the chief readers -of novels. It may well be that they are the most numerous, and that -they read more exhaustively than men, and with less selection. They -have, as a rule, more time. The general notion seems to be that girls -of from <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>sixteen to twenty form the main audience of the novelist. But -I am inclined to think that the real audience consists of young married -women, sitting at home in the first year of their marriage. They find -themselves without any constraint upon their reading: they choose what -they will, and they read incessantly. The advent of the first-born -baby is awaited in silent drawing-rooms, where through long hours the -novelists supply the sole distraction. These young matrons form a much -better audience than those timorous circles of flaxen-haired girls, -watched by an Argus-eyed mamma, which the English novelist seems to -consider himself doomed to cater for. I cannot believe that it is -anything but a fallacy that young girls do read. They are far too busy -with parties and shopping, chatting and walking, the eternal music and -the eternal tennis. Middle-aged people in the country, who are cut -off from much society, and elderly ladies, whose activities are past, -and who like to resume the illusions of youth, are far more assiduous -novel-readers than girls.</p> - -<p>But, if we take these and all other married and unmarried women into -consideration, there is still apparently an exaggeration in saying -that it is they who make the novelist's reputation. Men read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> novels -a great deal more than is supposed, and it is probably from men that -the first-class novel receives its <i>imprimatur</i>. Men have made Mr. -Thomas Hardy, who owes nothing to the fair sex; if women read him now, -it is because the men have told them that they must. Occasionally we -see a very original writer who decidedly owes his fame to the plaudits -of the ladies. M. Paul Bourget is the most illustrious example that -occurs to the memory. But such instances are rare, and it is usually to -the approval of male readers that eminent novelists owe that prestige -which ultimately makes them the favourites of the women. Not all men -are pressed by the excessive agitations of business life which are -habitually attributed to their sex. Even those who are most busy -find time to read, and we were lately informed that among the most -constant and assiduous students of new novels were Lord Tennyson and -Mr. Gladstone. Every story-teller, I think, ought to write as though he -believed himself addressing such conspicuous veterans.</p> - -<p>As I say, I do not revolt against the supremacy of the novel. I -acknowledge too heavy a debt of gratitude to my great contemporaries -to assume any but a thankful attitude towards them. In my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> dull and -weary hours each has come like the angel Israfel, and has invited me -to listen to the beating of his heart, be it lyre or guitar, a solemn -instrument or a gay one. I should be instantly bankrupt if I sought -to repay to Mr. Meredith or Mr. Besant, Mr. Hardy or Mr. Norris, Mr. -Stevenson or Mr. Kipling—to name no others—one-tenth part of the -pleasure which, in varied quantity and quality, the stories of each -have given me. I admit (for which I shall be torn in pieces) that the -ladies please me less, with some exceptions; but that is because, since -the days of the divine Mrs. Gaskell, they have been so apt to be either -too serious or not serious enough. I suppose that the composition of -<i>The Daisy Chain</i> and of <i>Donovan</i> serves some excellent purpose; -doubtless these books are useful to great growing girls. But it is not -to such stories as these that I owe any gratitude, and it is not to -their authors that I address the presumptuous remarks which follow.</p> - -<p>A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: Having secured -the practical monopoly of literature, having concentrated public -attention on their wares, what do the novelists propose to do next? To -what use will they put the unprecedented opportunity thrown in their -way? It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> quite plain that to a certain extent the material out of -which the English novel has been constructed is in danger of becoming -exhausted. Why do the American novelists inveigh against plots? Not, -we may be sure, through any inherent tenderness of conscience, as -they would have us believe; but because their eminently sane and -somewhat timid natures revolt against the effort of inventing what is -extravagant. But all the obvious plots, all the stories which are not -in some degree extravagant, seem to have been told already, and for a -writer with the temperament of Mr. Howells there is nothing left but -the careful portraiture of a small portion of the limitless field of -ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, this also may -amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of work it seems -as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed thus for -centuries, acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little while -suffices to show that in this direction also the material is promptly -exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought for at -all hazards, and where can they be found?</p> - -<p>The novelists hope many things from that happy system of nature which -supplies them, year by year, with fresh generations of the ingenuous -young.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> The procession of adolescence moves on and on, and the front -rank of it, for a month or a year, is duped by the novelist's report -of that astonishing phenomenon, the passion of love. In a certain -sense, we might expect to be tired of love-stories as soon as, and -not before, we grow tired of the ever-recurring March mystery of -primroses and daffodils. Each generation takes its tale of love under -the hawthorn-tree as something quite new, peculiar to itself, not to be -comprehended by its elders; and the novelist pipes as he will to this -idyllic audience, sure of pleasing, if he adapt himself never so little -to their habits and the idiosyncrasies of their time.</p> - -<p>That theory would work well enough if the novelist held the chair of -Erotics at the University of Life, and might blamelessly repeat the -same (or very slightly modified) lectures to none but the students -of each successive year. But, unfortunately, we who long ago took -our degree, who took it, perhaps, when the Professor was himself in -pinafores, also continue to attend his classes. We are hardly to be -put off with the old, old commonplaces about hearts and darts. Yet our -adult acquiescence is necessary for the support of the Professor. How -is he to freshen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> up his oft-repeated course of lectures to suit our -jaded appetites?</p> - -<p>It would be curious to calculate how many tales of love must have been -told since the vogue of the modern story began. Three hundred novels a -year is, I believe, the average product of the English press. In each -of these there has been at least one pair of lovers, and generally -there have been several pairs. It would be a good question to set -in a mathematical examination: What is the probable number of young -persons who have conducted one another to the altar in English fiction -during the last hundred years? It is almost terrible to think of this -multitude of fictitious love-makings:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>For the lovers of years meet and gather;</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>The sound of them all grows like thunder:</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>O into what bosom, I wonder,</i></div> -<div><i>Is poured the whole passion of years!</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>One would be very sorry to have the three hundred of one year poured -into one's own mature bosom. But how curious is the absolute unanimity -of it all! Thousands and thousands of books, every one of them, without -exception, turning upon the attraction of Edwin to Angelina,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> exactly -as though no other subject on earth interested a single human being! -The novels in which love has not formed a central feature are so few -that I suspect that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. -At this moment, I can but recall a single famous novel in which love -has no place. This is, of course, <i>L'Abbé Tigrane</i>, that delightful -story in which all the interest revolves around the intrigues of two -priestly factions in a provincial cathedral. But, although M. Ferdinand -Fabre achieved so great a success in this book, and produced an -acknowledged masterpiece, he never ventured to repeat the experiment. -Eros revels in the pages of all his other stories.</p> - -<p>This would be the opportunity to fight the battle of the novelists -against Mrs. Grundy. But I am not inclined to waste ink on that -conceded cause. After the reception of books like <i>Tess of the -D'Urbervilles</i> and even <i>David Grieve</i>, it is plain that the English -novelist, who cares and dares, may say almost anything he or she likes -without calling flame out of heaven upon his head. There has been a -great reform in this respect since the days when our family friend Mr. -Punch hazarded his very existence by referring, in grimmest irony,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> -to the sufferings of "the gay." We do not want to claim the right, -which the French have so recklessly abused, of describing at will, and -secure against all censure, the brutal, the abnormal and the horrible. -No doubt a silly prudishness yet exists. There are still clergymen's -wives who write up indignantly from The Vicarage, Little Pedlington. I -have just received an epistle from such an one, telling me that certain -poor productions I am editing "make young hearts acquainted with vice, -and put hell-fire in their hearts." "Woe unto you in your evil work," -says this lady, doubtless a most sincere and conscientious creature, -but a little behind the times. Of her and her race individually, I wish -to say nothing but what is kind; but I confess I am glad to know that -the unreflecting spirit they represent is passing away. It is passing -away so rapidly that there is really no need to hearten the novelists -against it. I am weary to death of the gentleman who is always telling -us what a splendid novel he would write, if the publishers would only -allow him to be naughty. Let him be bold and naughty, and we will see. -If he is so poor-spirited as to be afraid to say what he feels he -ought to say because of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> kind of criticism, his exposition of the -verities is not likely to be of very high value.</p> - -<p>But I should like to ask our friends the leading novelists whether -they do not see their way to enlarging a little the sphere of their -labours. What is the use of this tyranny which they wield, if it -does not enable them to treat life broadly and to treat it whole? -The varieties of amatory intrigue form a fascinating subject, which -is not even yet exhausted. But, surely, all life is not love-making. -Even the youngest have to deal with other interests, although this may -be the dominant one; while, as we advance in years, Venus ceases to -be even the ruling divinity. Why should there not be novels written -for middle-aged persons? Has the struggle for existence a charm only -in its reproductive aspects? If every one of us regards his or her -life seriously, with an absolute and unflinching frankness, it will -be admitted that love, extended so as to include all its forms—its -sympathetic, its imaginative, its repressed, as well as its fulfilled -and acknowledged, forms—takes a place far more restricted than the -formulæ of the novelist would lead the inhabitant of some other planet -to conjecture.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> - -<p>Unless the novelists do contrive to enlarge their borders, and take -in more of life, that misfortune awaits them which befell their -ancestors just before the death of Scott. About the year 1830 there -was a sudden crash of the novel. The public found itself abandoned -to Lady Blessington and Mr. Plumer Ward, and it abruptly closed its -account with the novelists. The large prices which had been, for twenty -years past, paid for novels were no longer offered. The book-clubs -throughout the kingdom collapsed, or else excluded novels. When fiction -re-appeared, after this singular epoch of eclipse, it had learned its -lesson, and the new writers were men who put into their work their best -observation and ripest experience.</p> - -<p>It does not appear that in the thirties any one understood what was -happening. The stuff produced by the novelists was so ridiculous -and ignoble that "the nonsinse of that divil of a Bullwig" seemed -absolutely unrivalled in its comparative sublimity, although these were -the days of <i>Ernest Maltravers</i>. It never occurred to the authors when -the public suddenly declined to read their books (it read "Bullwig's," -in the lack of anything else) that the fault was theirs. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> same -excuses were made that are made now,—"necessary to write down to a -wide audience;" "obliged to supply the kind of article demanded;" -"women the only readers to be catered for;" "mammas so solicitous for -the purity of what is laid before their daughters." And the crash came.</p> - -<p>The crash will come again, if the novelists do not take care. -The same silly piping of the loves of the drawing-room, the same -obsequious attitude towards a supposititious public clamouring for -the commonplace, inspire the majority of the novel-writers of to-day. -Happily, we have, what our fathers in 1835 had not, half a dozen -careful and vigorous men of letters who write, not what the foolish -publishers ask for, but what they themselves choose to give. The -future rests with these few recognised masters of fiction, and with -their successors, the vigorous younger men who are preparing to take -their place. What are these novelists going to do? They were set down -to farm the one hundred acres of an estate called Life, and because -one corner of it—the two or three acres hedged about, and called the -kitchen-garden of Love—offered peculiar attractions, and was very easy -to cultivate, they have neglected the other ninety-seven acres. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> -result is that by over-pressing their garden, and forcing crop after -crop out of it, it is well-nigh exhausted, and will soon refuse to -respond to the incessant hoe and spade; while, all the time, the rest -of the estate, rich and almost virgin soil, is left to cover itself -with the weeds of newspaper police-reports.</p> - -<p>It is supposed that to describe one of the positive employments of -life,—a business or a profession, for example,—would alienate the -tender reader, and check that circulation about which novelists talk -as nervously as if they were delicate invalids. But what evidence is -there to show that an attention to real things does frighten away the -novel reader? The experiments which have been made in this country to -widen the field of fiction in one direction, that of religious and -moral speculation, have not proved unfortunate. What was the source -of the great popular success of <i>John Inglesant</i> and then of <i>Robert -Elsmere</i>, if not the intense delight of readers in being admitted, -in a story, to a wider analysis of the interior workings of the mind -than is compatible with the mere record of the billing and cooing of -the callow young? We are afraid of words and titles. We are afraid of -the word "psychology,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> and, indeed, we have seen follies committed in -its name. But the success of the books I have just mentioned was due -to their psychology, to their analysis of the effect of associations -and sentiments on a growing mind. To make such studies of the soul -even partially interesting, a great deal of knowledge, intuition, -and workmanlike care must be expended. The novelist must himself be -acquainted with something of the general life of man.</p> - -<p>But the interior life of the soul is, after all, a very much less -interesting study to an ordinarily healthy person than the exterior. -It is surprising how little our recent novelists have taken this into -consideration. One reason, I cannot doubt, is that they write too -early and they write too fast. Fielding began with <i>Joseph Andrews</i>, -when he was thirty-five; seven years later he published <i>Tom Jones</i>; -during the remainder of his life, which closed when he was forty-seven, -he composed one more novel. The consequence is that into these three -books he was able to pour the ripe knowledge of an all-accomplished -student of human nature. But our successful novelist of to-day begins -when he is two- or three-and-twenty. He "catches on," as they say, and -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> becomes a laborious professional writer. He toils at his novels as -if he were the manager of a bank or the captain of an ocean steamer. -In one narrow groove he slides up and down, up and down, growing -infinitely skilful at his task of making bricks out of straw. He -finishes the last page of "The Writhing Victim" in the morning, lunches -at his club, has a nap; and, after dinner, writes the first page of -"The Swart Sombrero." He cannot describe a trade or a profession, for -he knows none but his own. He has no time to look at life, and he goes -on weaving fancies out of the ever-dwindling stores of his childish and -boyish memories. As these grow exhausted, his works get more and more -shadowy, till at last even the long-suffering public that once loved -his merits, and then grew tolerant of his tricks, can endure him no -longer.</p> - -<p>The one living novelist who has striven to give a large, competent, -and profound view of the movement of life is M. Zola. When we have -said the worst of the <i>Rougon-Macquart</i> series, when we have admitted -the obvious faults of these books—their romantic fallacies on the one -hand, their cold brutalities on the other—it must be admitted that -they present the results of a most laudable attempt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> to cultivate the -estate outside the kitchen-garden. Hardly one of the main interests of -the modern man has been neglected by M. Zola, and there is no doubt -at all that to the future student of nineteenth-century manners his -books will have an interest outweighing that of all other contemporary -novels. An astonishing series of panoramas he has unrolled before us. -Here is <i>Le Ventre de Paris</i>, describing the whole system by which a -vast modern city is daily supplied with food; here is <i>Au Bonheur des -Dames</i>, the romance of a shop, which is pushed upwards and outwards by -the energy of a single ambitious tradesman, until it swamps all its -neighbours, and governs the trade of a district; here is <i>L'Argent</i>, -in which, with infinite pains and on a colossal scale, the passions -which move in <i>la haute finance</i> are analysed, and a great battle -of the money-world chronicled; here, above all, is <i>Germinal</i>, that -unapproachable picture of the agony and stress of life in a great -mining community, with a description of the processes so minute and so -technical that this novel is quoted by experts as the best existing -record of conditions which are already obsolete.</p> - -<p>In these books of M. Zola's, as everyone knows, successive members -of a certain family stand out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> against a background of human masses -in incessant movement. The peculiar characteristic of this novelist -is that he enables us to see why these masses are moved, and in what -direction. Other writers vaguely tell us that the hero "proceeded to -his daily occupation," if, indeed, they deign to allow that he had an -occupation. M. Zola tells us what that occupation was, and describes -the nature of it carefully and minutely. More than this: he shows us -how it affected the hero's character, how it brought him into contact -with others, in what way it represented his share of the universal -struggle for existence. So far from the employment being a thing -to be slurred over or dimly alluded to, M. Zola loves to make that -the very hero of his piece, a blind and vast commercial monster, a -huge all-embracing machine, in whose progress the human persons are -hurried helplessly along, in whose iron wheels their passions and -their hopes are crushed. He is enabled to do this by the exceptional -character of his genius, which is realistic to excess in its power of -retaining and repeating details, and romantic, also to an extreme, -in its power of massing these details on a huge scale, in vast and -harmoniously-balanced compositions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> - -<p>I would not be misunderstood, even by the most hasty reader, -to recommend an imitation of M. Zola. What suits his -peculiarly-constituted genius might ill accord with the characteristics -of another. Nor do I mean to say that we are entirely without something -analogous in the writings of the more intelligent of our later -novelists. The study of the Dorsetshire dairy-farms in Mr. Hardy's -superb <i>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</i> is of the highest value, and more -thorough and intelligible than what we enjoyed in <i>The Woodlanders</i>, -the details of the apple-culture in the same county. To turn to a -totally different school: Mr. Hall Caine's <i>Scapegoat</i> is a very -interesting experiment in fresh fields of thought and experience, more -happily conceived, if I may be permitted to say so, than fortunately -executed, though even in execution far above the ruck of popular -novels. A new Cornish story, called <i>Inconsequent Lives</i>, by that very -promising young story-teller, Mr. Pearce, seemed, when it opened, -to be about to give us just the vivid information we want about the -Newlyn pilchard-fishery; but the novelist grew timid, and forebore to -fill in his sketch. The experiments of Mr. George Gissing and of Mr. -George Moore deserve sympathetic acknowledgment. These are instances<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> -in which, occasionally, or fantastically, or imperfectly, the real -facts of life have been dwelt upon in recent fiction. But when we have -mentioned or thought of a few exceptions, to what inanities do we not -presently descend!</p> - -<p>If we could suddenly arrive from another planet, and read a cluster -of novels from Mudie's, without any previous knowledge of the class, -we should be astonished at the conventionality, the narrowness, the -monotony. All I ask for is a larger study of life. Have the stress -and turmoil of a successful political career no charm? Why, if novels -of the shop and the counting-house be considered sordid, can our -novelists not describe the life of a sailor, of a gamekeeper, of a -railway-porter, of a civil engineer? What capital central figures -for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the foreman of a -colliery, the master of a fishing smack, or a speculator on the Stock -Exchange! It will be suggested that persons engaged in one or other -of these professions are commonly introduced into current fiction, -and that I am proposing as a novelty what is amply done already. My -reply is that our novelists may indeed present to us a personage who -is called a stoker or a groom, a secretary of state or a pin-maker, -but that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> practically, they merely write these denominations clearly -on the breasts of lay-figures. For all the enlightenment we get into -the habits of action and habits of thought entailed by the occupation -of each, the fisherman might be the groom and the pin-maker the -stock-broker. It is more than this that I ask for. I want to see -the man in his life. I am tired of the novelist's portrait of a -gentleman, with gloves and hat, leaning against a pillar, upon a -vague landscape background. I want the gentleman as he appears in a -snap-shot photograph, with his every-day expression on his face, and -the localities in which he spends his days accurately visible around -him. I cannot think that the commercial and professional aspects of -life are unworthy of the careful attention of the novelist, or that he -would fail to be rewarded by a larger and more interested audience for -his courage in dealing closely with them. At all events, if it is too -late to ask our accepted tyrants of the novel to enlarge their borders, -may we not, at all events, entreat their heirs-apparent to do so?</p> - -<p><i>1892</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY ON LITERATURE</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<h2>The Influence of Democracy on Literature</h2> - -<p>It is not desirable to bring the element of party politics into the -world of books. But it is difficult to discuss the influence of -democracy on literature without borrowing from the Radicals one of the -wisest and truest of their watchwords. It is of no use, as they remind -us, to be afraid of the people. We have this huge mass of individuals -around us, each item in the coagulation struggling to retain and to -exercise its liberty; and, while we are perfectly free to like or -dislike the condition of things which has produced this phenomenon, -to be alarmed, to utter shrieks of fright at it, is to resign all -pretension to be listened to. We may believe that the whole concern is -going to the dogs, or we may be amusing ourselves by printing Cook's -tickets for a monster excursion to Boothia Felix or other provinces of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> -Utopia; to be frightened at it, or to think that we can do any good -by scolding it or binding it with chains of tow, is simply silly. It -moves, and it carries the Superior Person with it and in it, like a -mote of dust.</p> - -<p>In considering, therefore, the influence of democracy on literature, -it seems worse than useless to exhort or persuade. All that can in any -degree be interesting must be to study, without prejudice, the signs of -the times, to compare notes about the weather, and cheerfully tap the -intellectual barometer. This form of inquiry is rarely attempted in a -perfectly open spirit, partly, no doubt, because it is unquestionably -one which it is difficult to carry through. It is wonderfully easy to -proclaim the advent of a literary Ragnarok, to say that poetry is dead, -the novel sunken into its dotage, all good writing obsolete, and the -reign of darkness begun. There are writers who do this, and who round -off their periods by attributing the whole condition to the democratic -spirit, like the sailor in that delightful old piece played at the -Strand Theatre, who used to sum up the misfortunes of a lifetime with -the recurrent refrain, "It's all on account of Eliza."</p> - -<p>The "uncreating words" of these pessimists are dispiriting for the -moment, but they mean nothing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> Those of the optimist do not mean much -either. A little more effort is required to produce his rose-coloured -picture, but we are not really persuaded that because the brown marries -the blonde all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Nor -is much gained by prophecy. We have been listening to a gentleman, -himself a biographer and an historian, who predicts, with babe-like -<i>naïveté</i>, that all literary persons will presently be sent by the -democracy to split wood and draw water, except, perhaps, "the historian -or biographer." In this universal splitting of wood, some heads, which -now think themselves mighty clever, may come to be rather disastrously -cracked. It was not Camille Desmoulins whom Fate selected to enter into -his own Promised Land of emancipated literature.</p> - -<p>We gain little by a comparison of our modern situation with that of the -ancient commonwealths. The parallel between the state of literature in -our world and that in Athens or Florence is purely academic. Whatever -the form of government, literature has always been aristocratic, or at -least oligarchic. It has been encouraged or else tolerated; even when -it has been independent, its self-congratulations on its independence -have shown how temporary that liberty was, and how imminent the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> -relapse into bondage. The peculiar protection given to the arts by -enlightened commonwealths surrounded by barbaric tyrannies was often of -a most valuable character, but it resembled nothing which can recur in -the modern world. The stimulus it gave to the creative temperament was -due in great measure to its exclusiveness, to the fact that the world -was shut out, and the appeal for sympathy made within a restricted -circle. The Republic was a family of highly trained intelligences, -barred and bolted against the vast and stupid world outside. Never can -this condition be re-established. The essence of democracy is that it -knows no narrower bonds than those of the globe, and its success is -marked by the destruction of those very ramparts which protected and -inspirited the old intellectual free States.</p> - -<p>The purest and most elevated form of literature, the rarest and, at -its best, the most valuable, is poetry. If it could be shown that the -influence of the popular advance in power has been favourable to the -growth of great verse, then all the rest might be taken for granted. -Unfortunately, there are many circumstances which interfere with our -vision, and make it exceedingly difficult to give an opinion on this -point. Victor Hugo never questioned that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> the poetical element was -needed, but he had occasional qualms about its being properly demanded.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Peuples! écoutez, le poète,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Écoutez le rêveur sacré;</i></div> -<div><i>Dans votre nuit, sans lui complète,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Lui seul a le front éclairé!</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>he shouted, but the very energy of the exclamation suggests a doubt -in his own mind as to its complete acceptability. In this country, -the democracy has certainly crowded around one poet. It has always -appeared to me to be one of the most singular, as it is one of the most -encouraging features of our recent literary history, that Tennyson -should have held the extraordinary place in the affections of our -people which has now been his for nearly half a century. That it -should be so delicate and so Æolian a music, so little affected by -contemporary passion, so disdainful of adventitious aids to popularity, -which above all others has attracted the universal ear, and held it -without producing weariness or satiety; this, I confess, appears to me -very marvellous. Some of the Laureate's best-loved lyrics have been -before the public for more than sixty years. Cowley is one of the few -English poets who have been, during<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> their lifetime, praised as much as -Tennyson has been, yet where in 1720 was the fame of Cowley? Where in -the France of to-day are the <i>Méditations</i> and <i>Harmonies</i> of Lamartine?</p> - -<p>If, then, we might take Tennyson as an example of the result of the -action of democracy upon literature, we might indeed congratulate -ourselves. But a moment's reflection shows that to do so is to put -the cart before the horse. The wide appreciation of such delicate -and penetrating poetry is, indeed, an example of the influence of -literature on democracy, but hardly of democracy on literature. We -may examine the series of Tennyson's volumes with care, and scarcely -discover a copy of verses in which he can be detected as directly -urged to expression by the popular taste. This prime favourite of the -educated masses never courted the public, nor strove to serve it. He -wrote to please himself, to win the applause of the "little clan," -and each round of salvos from the world outside seemed to startle him -in his obstinate retirement. If it grew easier and easier for him to -consent to please the masses, it was because he familiarised them more -and more with his peculiar accent. He led literary taste, he did not -dream of following it.</p> - -<p>What is true of Tennyson is true of most of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> recent poets. There is -one exception, however, and that a very curious one. The single English -poet of high rank whose works seem to me to be distinctly affected by -the democratic spirit, nay, to be the direct outcome of the influence -of democracy, is Robert Browning. It has scarcely been sufficiently -noted by those who criticise the style of that great writer that the -entire tone of his writings introduces something hitherto unobserved -in British poetry. That something is the repudiation of the recognised -oligarchic attitude of the poet in his address to the public. It is not -that he writes or does not write of the poor. It is a curious mistake -to expect the democratic spirit to be always on its knees adoring the -proletariat. To the true democracy all are veritably of equal interest, -and even a belted earl may be a man and a brother. In his poems Robert -Browning spoke as though he felt himself to be walking through a world -of equals, all interesting to him, all worthy of study. This is the -secret of his abrupt familiar appeal, his "Dare I trust the same to -you?" "Look out, see the gipsy!" "You would fain be kinglier, say, -than I am?" the incessant confidential aside to a cloud of unnamed -witnesses, the conversational tone, things all of which were before his -time unknown in serious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> verse. Browning is hail-fellow-well-met with -all the world, from queen to peasant, and half of what is called his -dramatic faculty is merely the result of his genius for making friends -with every species of mankind.</p> - -<p>With this exception, however, the principal poetical writers of our -time seem to be unaffected by the pressure of the masses around them. -They select their themes, remain true to the principles of composition -which they prefer, concern themselves with the execution of their -verses, and regard the opinion of the millions as little or even less -than their great forerunners did that of emperor or prince-bishop. -Being born with quick intelligences into an age burdened by social -difficulties, these latter occasionally interest them very acutely, and -they write about them, not, I think, pressed into that service by the -democratic spirit, but yielding to the attraction of what is moving -and picturesque. A wit has lately said of the most popular, the most -democratic of living French poets, M. François Coppée, that his blazon -is "des rimes riches sur la blouse prolétaire." But the central fact to -a critic about M. Coppée's verse is, not the accident that he writes -about poor people, but the essential point that his rhymes are richer -and his verse more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> faultless than those of any of his contemporaries. -We may depend upon it that democracy has had no effect on his prosody, -and the rest is a mere matter of selection.</p> - -<p>The fact seems to be that the more closely we examine the highest -examples of the noblest class of literature the more we become -persuaded that democracy has scarcely had any effect upon them at all. -It has not interfered with the poets, least of all has it dictated to -them. It has listened to them with respect; it has even contemplated -their eccentricities with admiration; it had tried, with its millions -of untrained feet, to walk in step with them. And when we turn from -poetry to the best science, the best history, the best fiction, we find -the same phenomenon. Democracy has been stirred to its depths by the -writings of Darwin; but who can trace in those writings the smallest -concession to the judgment or desire of the masses? Darwin became -convinced of certain theories. To the vast mass of the public these -theories were incredible, unpalatable, impious. With immense patience, -without emphasis of any kind, he proceeded to substantiate his views, -to enlarge his exposition; and gradually the cold body of democratic -opposition melted around that fervent atom of heat, and, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> response -to its unbroken radiation, became warm itself. All that can be said -is that the new democratic condition is a better conductor than the -old oligarchical one was. Darwin produces his effect more steadily and -rapidly than Galileo or Spinoza, but not more surely, with exactly as -little aid from without.</p> - -<p>As far, then, as the summits of literature are concerned—the great -masters of style, the great discoverers, the great intellectual -illuminators—it may be said that the influence of democracy upon -them is almost <i>nil</i>. It affords them a wider hearing, and therefore -a prompter recognition. It gives them more readers, and therefore -a more direct arrival at that degree of material comfort necessary -for the proper conduct of their investigations, or the full polish -of their periods. It may spoil them with its flatteries, or diminish -their merit by seducing them to over-production; but this is a question -between themselves and their own souls. A syndicate of newspapers, -or the editor of a magazine may tempt a writer of to-day, as Villon -was tempted with the wine-shop, or Coleridge with laudanum; but that -is not the fault of the democracy. Nor, if a writer of real power is -neglected, are people more or less to blame in 1892 than they were for -letting Otway starve two hundred years<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> ago. Some people, beloved of -the gods, cannot be explained to mankind by king or caucus.</p> - -<p>So far, therefore, as our present experience goes, we may relinquish -the common fear that the summits of literature will be submerged -by democracy. When the new spirit first began to be studied, many -whose judgment on other points was sound enough were confident that -the instinctive programme of the democratic spirit was to prevent -intellectual capacity of every kind from developing, for fear of the -ascendency which it would exercise. This is communism, and means -democracy pushed to an impossible extremity, to a point from which it -must rebound. No doubt, there is always a chance that a disturbance of -the masses may for a moment wash over and destroy some phase of real -intellectual distinction, just as it may sweep away, also for a moment, -other personal conditions. But it looks as though the individuality -would always reassert itself. The crowd that smashed the porcelain -in the White House to celebrate the election of President Andrew -Jackson had to buy more to take its place. The White House did not -continue, even under Jackson, to subsist without porcelain. In the same -way, edicts may be passed by communal councils forbidding citizens -to worship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> the idols which the booksellers set up, and even that -consummation may be reached, to which a prophet of our own day looks -forward, when we shall all be forced by the police to walk hand in hand -with "the craziest sot in the village" as our friend and equal; none -the less will human nature, at the earliest opportunity, throw off the -bondage, and openly prefer Darwin and Tennyson to that engaging rustic. -Indeed, all the signs of the times go to suggest that the completer the -democracy becomes, the vaster the gap will be in popular honour between -the great men of letters and "the craziest sot in the village." It is -quite possible that the tyranny of extreme intellectual popularity may -prove as tiresome as other and older tyrannies were. But that's another -story, as the new catchword tells us.</p> - -<p>Literature, however, as a profession or a calling, is not confined to -the writings of the five or six men who, in each generation, represent -what is most brilliant and most independent. From the leaders, in -their indisputable greatness, the intellectual hierarchy descends to -the lowest and broadest class of workers who in any measure hang on -to the skirts of literature, and eke out a living by writing. It is -in the middle ranks of this vast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> pyramid that we should look to see -most distinctly the signs of the influence of democracy. We shall not -find them in the broad and featureless residuum any more than in the -strongly individualised summits. But we ought to discover them in the -writers who have talent enough to keep them aloft, yet not enough to -make them indifferent to outer support. Here, where all is lost or -gained by a successful appeal to the crowd as it hastens by, we might -expect to see very distinctly the effects of democracy, and here, -perhaps, if we look closely, we may see them.</p> - -<p>It appears to me that even here it is not so easy as one would -imagine that it would be to pin distinct charges to the sleeve of -the much-abused democracy. Let us take the bad points first. The -enlargement of the possible circle of an author's readers may awaken -in the breast of a man who has gained a little success, the desire -to arrive at a greater one in another field, for which he is really -not so well equipped. An author may have a positive talent for church -history, and turning from it, through cupidity, to fiction, may, by -addressing a vastly extended public, make a little more money by his -bad stories than he was able to make by his good hagiology, and so act -to the detriment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> of literature. Again, an author who has made a hit -with a certain theme, or a certain treatment of that theme, may be held -nailed down to it by the public long after he has exhausted it and -it has exhausted him. Again, the complaisance of the public, and the -loyal eagerness with which it cries "Give, give," to a writer that has -pleased it, may induce that writer to go on talking long after he has -anything to say, and so conduce to the watering of the milk of wit. -Or—and this is more subtle and by no means so easy to observe—the -pressure of commonplace opinion, constantly checking a writer when he -shelves away towards either edge of the trodden path of mediocrity, may -keep him from ever adding to the splendid originalities of literature. -This shows itself in the disease which we may call Mudieitis, the -inflammation produced by the fear that what you are inspired to say, -and know you ought to say, will be unpalatable to the circulating -libraries, that "the wife of a country incumbent," that terror before -which Messrs. Smith fall prone upon their faces, may write up to -headquarters and expostulate. In all these cases, without doubt, we -have instances of the direct influence of democracy upon literature, -and that of a deleterious kind. Not one of them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> however, can produce -a bad effect upon any but persons of weak or faulty character, and -these would probably err in some other direction, even at the court of -a grand duke.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, the benefits of democratic surroundings are felt in -these middle walks of literature. The appeal to a very wide audience -has the effect of giving a writer whose work is sound but not of -universal interest, an opportunity of collecting, piecemeal, individual -readers enough to support him. The average sanity of a democracy, and -the habit it encourages of immediate, full, and candid discussion, -preserves the writer whose snare is eccentricity from going too far in -his folly. The celebrated eccentrics of past literature, the Lycophrons -and the Gongoras, the Donnes and the Gombrevilles, were the spokesmen -of small and pedantic circles, disdainful of the human herd, "sets" -whose members rejoiced in the conceits and extravagance of their -respective favourites, and encouraged these talented personages to make -mountebanks of themselves. These leaders were in most cases excessively -clever, and we find their work, or a little of it, very entertaining -as we cross the history of <i>belles-lettres</i>. But it is impossible -not to see that, for instance, each of the mysterious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> writers I -have mentioned would, in a democratic age, and healthily confronted -with public criticism, have been able to make a much wholesomer and -broader use of his cleverness. The democratic spirit, moreover, may be -supposed to encourage directness of utterance, simplicity, vividness, -and lucidity. I say it may be supposed to do so, because I cannot -perceive that with all our liberty the nineteenth century has proceeded -any farther in this direction than the hide-bound eighteenth century -was able to do. On the whole, indeed, I find it very difficult to -discover that democracy, as such, is affecting the quality of such good -literature as we possess in any very general or obvious way. It may be -that we are still under the oligarchic tradition, and that a social -revolution, introducing a sudden breach in our habits, and perhaps -paralysing the profession of letters for a few years, would be followed -by a new literature of a decidedly democratic class. We are speaking of -what we actually see, and not of vague visions which may seem to flit -across the spectral mirror of the future.</p> - -<p>But when we pass from the quality of the best literature to the -quantity of it, then it is impossible to preserve so indifferent or -so optimistic an attitude. The democratic habit does not, if I am -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>correct, make much difference in the way in which good authors write, -but it very much affects the amount of circulation which their writings -obtain. The literature of which I have hitherto spoken is that of which -analysis can take cognisance, the writing which possesses a measure, -at least, of distinction, of accomplishment, that which, in every -class, belongs to the tradition of good work. It is very easy to draw -a rough line, not too high, above which all may fairly be treated as -literature in <i>posse</i> if not in <i>esse</i>. In former ages, almost all -that was published, certainly all that attracted public attention and -secured readers, was of this sort. The baldest and most grotesque -Elizabethan drama, the sickliest romance that lay with Bibles and with -<i>billets-doux</i> on Belinda's toilet-table, the most effete didactic -poem of the Hayley and Seward age, had this quality of belonging to -the literary camp. It was a miserable object, no doubt, and wholly -without value, but it wore the king's uniform. If it could have been -better written, it would have been well written. But, as a result -of democracy, what is still looked upon as the field of literature -has been invaded by camp-followers of every kind, so active and so -numerous, that they threaten to oust the soldiery themselves; persons -in every variety of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> costume, from court-clothes to rags, but agreeing -only in this, that they are not dressed as soldiers of literature.</p> - -<p>These amateurs and specialists, these writers of books that are not -books, and essays that are not essays, are peculiarly the product of a -democratic age. A love for the distinguished parts of literature, and -even a conception that such parts exist, is not common among men, and -it is not obvious that democracy has led to its encouragement. Hitherto -the tradition of style has commonly been respected; no very open voice -having been as yet raised against it. But with the vast majority of -persons it remains nothing but a mystery, and one which they secretly -regard with suspicion. The enlargement of the circle of readers merely -means an increase of persons who, without an ear, are admitted to -the concert of literature. At present they listen to the traditional -sonatas and mazurkas with bored respect, but they are really longing -for music-hall ditties on the concertina. To this ever-increasing -congregation of the unmusical comes the technical amateur, with his dry -facts and exact knowledge; the flippant amateur, with his comic "bits" -and laughable miscellanies; the didactic and religious amateur, anxious -to mend our manners and save our souls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> These people, whose power -must not be slighted, and whose value, perhaps, can only relatively be -denied, have something definite, something serviceable to give in the -form of a paper or a magazine or a book. What wonder that they should -form dangerous rivals to the writer who is assiduous about the way in -which a thing is said, and careful to produce a solid and harmonious -effect by characteristic language?</p> - -<p>It was mainly during the close of the seventeenth and the beginning of -the eighteenth century that this body of technical, professional, and -non-literary writing began to develop. We owe it, without doubt, to the -spread of exact knowledge and the emancipation of speculative thought. -It was from the law first, then from divinity, then from science, and -last from philosophy that the studied graces were excluded—a sacrifice -on the altar of positive expression. If a writer on precise themes -were to adopt to-day the balanced elegance of Evelyn or Shaftesbury's -stately and harmonious periods, he would either be read for his style -and his sentiment or not at all. People would go for their information -elsewhere. No doubt, in a certain sense, this change is due to the -democracy; it is due to the quickening and rarefying of public<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> life, -to the creation of rapid needs, to a breaking down of barriers. But so -long as the books and papers which deal with professional matters do -not utterly absorb the field, so long as they leave time and space for -pure literature, there is no reason why they should positively injure -the latter, though they must form a constant danger to it. At times of -public ferment, when great constitutional or social problems occupy -universal attention, there can be no doubt that the danger ripens into -real injury. When newspapers are full of current events in political -and social life, the graver kind of books are slackly bought, and a -"the higher criticism" disappears from the Reviews.</p> - -<p>We can imagine a state of things in which such a crowding out should -become chronic, when the nervous system of the public should crave such -incessant shocks of actuality, that no time should be left for thought -or sentiment. We might arrive at the condition in which Wordsworth -pictured the France of ninety years ago:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!</i></div> -<div><i>No single volume paramount, no code,</i></div> -<div><i>No master spirit, no determined road;</i></div> -<div><i>But equally a want of books and men!</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>When we feel inclined to forebode such a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>shocking lapse into -barbarism, it may help us if we reflect how soon France, in spite of, -or by the aid of, democracy, threw off the burden of emptiness. A -recollection of the intellectual destitution of that country at the -beginning of the century and of the passionate avidity with which, on -the return of political tranquillity, France threw herself back on -literary and artistic avocations, should strengthen the nerves of those -pessimists who, at the slightest approach to a similar condition in -modern England, declare that our intellectual prestige is sunken, never -to revive. There is a great elasticity in the tastes of the average -man, and when they have been pushed violently in one direction they -do not remain fixed there, but swing with equal force to the opposite -side. The æsthetic part of mankind may be obscured, it cannot be -obliterated.</p> - -<p>The present moment appears to me to be a particularly unhappy one for -indulging in gloomy diatribes against the democracy. Books, although -they constitute the most durable part of literature, are not, in -this day, by any means its sole channel. Periodical literature has -certainly been becoming more and more democratic; and if the editors -of our newspapers gauge in any degree the taste of their readers, -that taste must be becoming more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> and more inclined to the formal and -distinctive parts of writing. A few years ago, the London newspapers -were singularly indifferent to the claims of books and of the men who -wrote them. An occasional stately column of the <i>Times</i> represented -almost all the notice which a daily paper would take of a volume. The -provincial press was still worse provided; it afforded no light at all -for such of its clients as were groping their way in the darkness of -the book-market.</p> - -<p>All this is now changed. One or two of the evening newspapers of -London deserve great commendation for having dared to treat literary -subjects, in distinction from mere reviews of books, as of immediate -public interest. Their example has at length quickened some of the -morning papers, and has spread into the provinces to such a signal -degree that several of the great newspapers of the North of England -are now served with literary matter of a quality and a fulness not -to be matched in a single London daily twenty years ago. When an -eminent man of letters dies, the comments which the London and country -press make upon his career and the nature of his work are often quite -astonishing in their fulness; space being dedicated to these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> notices -such as, but a few years ago, would have been grudged to a politician -or to a prize-fighter. The newspapers are the most democratic of all -vehicles of thought, and the prominence of literary discussion in their -columns does not look as though the democracy was anxious to be thought -indifferent or hostile to literature.</p> - -<p>In all this bustle and reverberation, however, it may be said that -there is not much place for those who desire, like Jean Chapelain, -to live in innocence, with Apollo and with their books. There can be -no question, that the tendency of modern life is not favourable to -sequestered literary scholarship. At the same time, it is a singular -fact that, even in the present day, when a Thomas Love Peacock or an -Edward FitzGerald hides himself in a careful seclusion, like some rare -aquatic bird in a backwater, his work slowly becomes manifest, and -receives due recognition and honour. Such authors do not enjoy great -sales, even when they become famous, but, in spite of their opposition -to the temper of their time, in spite of all obstacles imposed by their -own peculiarities of temperament, they receive, in the long run, a fair -measure of success. They have their hour, sooner or later. More than -that no author of their type could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> under any form of political -government, or at any period of history. They should not, and, in -fairness it must be said they rarely do, complain. They know that "Dieu -paie," as Alphonse Karr said, "mais il ne paie pas tous les samedis."</p> - -<p>It is the writers who want to be paid every Saturday upon whom -democracy produces the worst effect. It is not the neglect of the -public, it is the facility with which the money can be wheedled out -of the pockets of the public on trifling occasions that constitutes -a danger to literature. There is an enormous quantity of almost -unmitigated shoddy now produced and sold, and the peril is that -authors who are capable of doing better things will be seduced into -adding to this wretched product for the sake of the money. We are -highly solicitous nowadays, and it is most proper that we should be, -about adequate payment for the literary worker. But as long as that -payment is in no sort of degree proportioned to the merit of the -article he produces, the question of its scale of payment must remain -one rather for his solicitor than for the critics. The importance of -our own Society of Authors, for instance, lies, it appears to me, -in its constituting a sort of firm of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> solicitors acting solely for -literary clients. But the moment we go further than this, we get into -difficulties. The money standard tends to become the standard of merit. -At a recent public meeting, while one of the most distinguished of -living technical writers was speaking for the literary profession, -one of those purveyors of tenth-rate fiction, who supply stories, as -they might supply vegetables, to a regular market, was heard to say -with scorn, "Call <i>him</i> an author?" "Why, yes!" her neighbour replied, -"don't you know he has written so and so, and so and so?" "Well," said -the other, "I should like to know what his sales are before I allowed -he was an author."</p> - -<p>It would be highly inopportune to call for a return of the <i>bonâ fide</i> -sales of those of our leading authors who are not novelists. It is to -be hoped that no such indulgence to the idlest curiosity will ever be -conceded. But if such a thing were done, it would probably reveal some -startling statistics. It would be found that many of those whose names -are only next to the highest in public esteem do not receive more than -the barest pittance from their writings, even from those which are -most commonly in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> the mouths of their contemporaries. To mention only -two writers, but these of singular eminence and prominence, it was -not until the later years of their lives that either Robert Browning -or Matthew Arnold began to be sure of even a very moderate pecuniary -return on their books. The curious point was that both of them achieved -fame of a wide and brilliant nature long before their books began to -"move," as publishers call it. It is not easy to think of an example -of this curious fact more surprising than this, that <i>Friendship's -Garland</i> during many years did not pass out of one moderate edition. -This book, published when Arnold was filling the mouths of men with his -paradoxical utterances, lighted up all through with such wit and charm -of style as can hardly, of its kind, be paralleled in recent prose; a -masterpiece, not dealing with remote or abstruse questions, but with -burning matters of the day—this entertaining and admirably modern -volume enjoyed a sale which would mean deplorable failure in the case -of a female novelist of a perfectly subterranean order. This case could -be paralleled, no doubt, by a dozen others, equally striking. I have -just taken up a volume of humour, the production of a "funny man" of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> -the moment, and I see on its title-page the statement that it is in -its one hundred and nineteenth edition. Of this book, 119,000 copies -have been bought during a space of time equal to that in which Matthew -Arnold sold probably about 119 copies of <i>Friendship's Garland</i>. In the -face of these facts it is not possible to say that, though it may buy -well, the democracy buys wisely.</p> - -<p>It is this which makes me fear that, as I have said, the democratic -spirit is influencing disadvantageously the quantity rather than the -quality of good literature. It seems to be starving its best men, and -helping its coarsest Jeshuruns to wax fat. The good authors write as -they would have written under any circumstances, valuing their work for -its own sake, and enjoying that state of happiness of which Mr. William -Morris has been speaking, "the happiness only possible to artists and -thieves." But while they produce in this happy mood, the democracy, -which honours their names and displays an inexplicable curiosity about -their persons, is gradually exterminating them by borrowing their books -instead of buying them, and so reducing them to a level just below<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> the -possibility of living by pure literature. The result is, as any list of -the most illustrious living authors (not novelists) will suggest, that -scarcely a single man or woman of them has lived by the production of -books. An amiable poet of the older school, whose name is everywhere -mentioned with honour, used to say that he published books instead -of keeping a carriage, as his fortune would not permit him to afford -both of those luxuries. When we think of the prizes which literature -occasionally offered to serious work in the eighteenth century, it -seems as though there had been a very distinct retrogression in this -respect.</p> - -<p>The novel, in short, tends more and more to become the only -professional branch of literature; and this is unfortunate, because the -novel is the branch which shelters the worst work. In other sections -of pure letters, if work is not in any way good, it is cast forth and -no more heard of. But a novel may be utterly silly, be condemned by -every canon of taste, be ignored by the press, and yet may enjoy a -mysterious success, pass through tens of editions, and start its author -on a career which may lead to opulence. It would be interesting to know -what it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> is that attracts the masses to books of this kind. How do they -hear of them in the first instance? Why does one vapid and lady-like -novel speed on its way, while eleven others, apparently just like unto -it, sink and disappear? How is the public appetite for this insipidity -to be reconciled with the partiality of the same readers for stories -by writers of real excellence? Why do those who have once pleased the -public continue to please it, whatever lapses into carelessness and -levity they permit themselves? I have put these questions over and -over again to those whose business it is to observe and take advantage -of the fluctuations of the book-market, but they give no intelligible -reply. If the Sphinx had asked Œdipus to explain the position of -"Edna Lyall," he would have had to throw himself from the rock.</p> - -<p>If the novelists, bad or good, showed in their work the influence of -democracy, they would reward study. But it is difficult to perceive -that they do. The good ones, from Mr. George Meredith downwards, write -to please themselves, in their own manner, just as do the poets, the -critics, and the historians, leaving it to the crowd to take their -books or let them lie. The commonplace ones write<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> blindly, following -the dictates of their ignorance and their inexperience, waiting for the -chance that the capricious public may select a favourite from their -ranks. Almost the only direct influence which the democracy, as at -present constituted in England, seems to bring to bear on novels, is -the narrowing of the sphere of incident and emotion within which they -may disport themselves. It would be too complicated and dangerous a -question to ask here, at the end of an essay, whether that restriction -is a good thing or a bad. The undeniable fact is that whenever an -English novelist has risen to protest against it, the weight of the -democracy has been exercised to crush him. He has been voted "not -quite nice," a phrase of hideous import, as fatal to a modern writer -as the inverted thumb of a Roman matron was to a gladiator. But all -we want now is a very young man strong enough, sincere enough, and -popular enough to insist on being listened to when he speaks of real -things—and perhaps we have found him.</p> - -<p>One great novelist our race has however produced, who seems not only to -write under the influence of democracy, but to be absolutely inspired -by the democratic spirit. This is Mr. W. D. Howells, and it is only -by admitting this isolation of his, I think,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> that we can arrive at -any just comprehension of his place in contemporary literature. It is -the secret of his extreme popularity in America, except in a certain -Europeanised clique; it is the secret of the instinctive dislike of -him, amounting to a blind hereditary prejudice, which is so widely -felt in this country. Mr. Howells is the most exotic, perhaps the only -truly exotic writer of great distinction whom America has produced. -Emerson, and the school of Emerson in its widest sense, being too -self-consciously in revolt against the English oligarchy, out of which -they sprang, to be truly distinguished from it. But England, with -its aristocratic traditions and codes, does not seem to weigh with -Mr. Howells. His books suggest no rebellion against, nor subjection -to, what simply does not exist for him or for his readers. He is -superficially irritated at European pretensions, but essentially, and -when he becomes absorbed in his work as a creative artist, he ignores -everything but that vast level of middle-class of American society out -of which he sprang, which he faithfully represents, and which adores -him. To English readers, the novels of Mr. Howells must always be -something of a puzzle, even if they partly like them, and as a rule -they hate them. But to the average educated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> American who has not been -to Europe, these novels appear the most deeply experienced and ripely -sympathetic product of modern literature.</p> - -<p>When we review the whole field of which some slight outline has here -been attempted, we see much that may cheer and encourage us, and -something, too, that may cause grave apprehension. The alertness and -receptivity of the enormous crowd which a writer may now hope to -address is a pleasant feature. The hammering away at an idea without -inducing it to enter anybody's ears is now a thing of the past. What -was whispered in London yesterday afternoon was known in New York -this morning, and we have the comments of America upon it with our -five o'clock tea to-day. But this is not an unmixed benefit, for if -an impression is now quickly made, it is as quickly lost, and there -is little profit in seeing people receive an idea which they will -immediately forget. Moreover, for those who write what the millions -read, there is something disturbing and unwholesome in this public -roar that is ever rising in their ears. They ensconce themselves in -their study, they draw the curtains, light the lamp, and plunge into -their books, but from the darkness outside comes that distracting and -agitating cry of the public that demands their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> presence. This is a new -temptation, and indicates a serious danger. But the popular writers -will get used to it, and when they realise how little it really means -it may cease to disturb them. In the meantime, let no man needlessly -dishearten his brethren in this world of disillusions, by losing faith -in the ultimate survival and continuance of literature.</p> - -<p><i>1891.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">HAS AMERICA PRODUCED A POET?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Has America Produced a Poet?</h2> - -<p>For the audacious query which stands at the head of this essay, it is -not I, but an American editor, who must bear the blame, if blame there -be. It would never have occurred to me to tie such a firebrand to the -tail of any of my little foxes. He gave it to me, just as Mr. Pepys -gave <i>Gaze not on Swans</i> to ingenious Mr. Birkenshaw, to make the best -I could of a bad argument. On the face of it the question is absurd. -There lies on my table a manual of American poetry by Mr. Stedman, -in which the meed of immortality is awarded to about one hundred of -Columbia's sons and daughters. No one who has a right to express an -opinion is likely to deny that the learning, fidelity, and catholic -taste which are displayed in this book are probably at this time of -day shared, in the same degree, with its author, by no other living -Anglo-Saxon writer. Why, then, should not Mr. Stedman's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> admirable -volume be taken as a complete and satisfactory answer to our editor's -query? Simply because everything is relative, and because it may be -amusing to apply to the subject of Mr. Stedman's criticism a standard -more cosmopolitan and much less indulgent than his. Mr. Stedman has -mapped out the heavens with a telescope; what can an observer detect -with the naked eye?</p> - -<p>There is an obvious, and yet a very stringent, sense in which no good -critic could for a moment question that America has produced poets. -A poet is a maker, a man or woman who expresses some mood of vital -passion in a new manner and with adequate art. Turning to the accepted -ranks of English literature, Tickell is a poet on the score of his one -great elegy on Addison, and Wolfe, a century later, by his <i>Burial -of Sir John Moore</i>. Those poems were wholly new and impassioned, and -time has no effect upon the fame of their writers. So long as English -poetry continues to be studied a little closely, Tickell and Wolfe -will be visible as diminutive fixed stars in our poetical firmament. -But in a rapid and superficial glance, Wolfe and Tickell disappear. -Let the glance be more and more rapid, and only a few planets<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> of the -first magnitude are seen. In the age before Elizabeth, Chaucer alone -remains; of the Elizabethan galaxy, so glittering and rich, we see at -length only Spenser and Shakespeare; then come successive splendours of -Milton, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns; then a cluster again of Wordsworth, -Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats. Last of all, still too low on the -horizon to be definitely measured, Tennyson and Browning. Fifteen names -in all, a sum which might be reduced to ten, perhaps, but never to -fewer than ten, nor expanded, on the same scale, beyond eighteen or -twenty at the outside. These fifteen are the great English poets, the -selected glory and pride of five centuries, the consummation of the -noblest dynasty of verse which the world has ever seen. What I take to -be the problem is, Has America hitherto produced a poet equal to the -least of these, raised as high above any possible vacillation of the -tide of fashion? What an invidious question!</p> - -<p>In the first place, I will have nothing to do with the living. They -do not enter into our discussion. There was never a time, in my -opinion, when America possessed among her citizens so various and so -accomplished singers, gifted in so many provinces of song, as in 1888. -But the time has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> not arrived, and long may it delay, when we shall be -called upon to discuss the ultimate <i>status</i> of the now living poets of -America. From the most aged of them we have not yet, we hope, received -"sad autumn's last chrysanthemum." Those who have departed will alone -be glanced at in these few words. Death is the great solution of -critical continuity, and the bard whom we knew so well, and who died -last night, is nearer already to Chaucer than to us. I shall endeavour -to state quite candidly what my own poor opinion is with regard to the -claim of any dead American to be classed with those fourteen or fifteen -English inheritors of unassailed renown.</p> - -<p>One word more in starting. If we admit into our criticism any -patriotic or political prejudice, we may as well cease to wrangle on -the threshold of our discussion. I cannot think that American current -criticism is quite free from this taint of prejudice. In this, if I -am right, Americans sin no more nor less than the rest of us English, -and French; but in America, I confess, the error seems to me to be -occasionally more serious than in Europe. In England we are not -guiltless of permitting the most puerile disputes to embitter our -literary arena, and because a certain historian is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> home-ruler or a -certain novelist a Tory, each is anathema to the literary tribunal on -the other side. Such judgments are as pitiable as they are ludicrous; -but when I have watched a polite American smile to encounter such -vagaries of taste in our clubs or drawing-rooms, I have sometimes -wondered how the error which prefers the non-political books of a -Gladstonian to those of a Unionist, on political grounds alone, differs -from that which thinks an American writer must have the advantage, or -some advantage, over an English writer. Each prejudice is natural and -amiable, but neither the one nor the other is exempt from the charge of -puerility. Patriotism is a meaningless term in literary criticism. To -prefer what has been written in our own city, or state, or country, for -that reason alone, is simply to drop the balance and to relinquish all -claims to form a judgment. The true and reasonable lover of literature -refuses to be constrained by any meaner or homelier bond than that of -good writing. His brain and his taste persist in being independent of -his heart, like those of the German soldier who fought through the -campaign before Paris, and who was shot at last with an Alfred de -Musset, thumbed and scored, in his pocket.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> - -<p>One instance of the patriotic fallacy has so often annoyed me that I -will take this opportunity of denouncing it. A commonplace of American -criticism is to compare Keats with a certain Joseph Rodman Drake. -They both died at twenty-five and they both wrote verse. The parallel -ends there. Keats was one of the great writers of the world. Drake -was a gentle imitative bard of the fourth or fifth order, whose gifts -culminated in a piece of pretty fancy called <i>The Culprit Fay</i>. Every -principle of proportion is outraged in a conjunction of the names of -Drake and Keats. To compare them is like comparing a graceful shrub -in your garden with the tallest pine that fronts the tempest on the -forehead of Rhodopé.</p> - -<p>When the element of prejudice is entirely withdrawn, we have next -to bear in mind the fluctuations of taste in respect to popular -favourites, and the uncertainty that what has pleased us may ever -contrive to please the world again. I have been reminded of the -insecurity of contemporary judgments, and of the process of natural -selection which goes on imperceptibly in criticism, by referring to a -compendium of literature published thirty years ago, and remarkable in -its own time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> for knowledge, acumen, and candour. In these volumes the -late Robert Carruthers, an excellent scholar in his day and generation, -gives a certain space to the department of American poetry. It is -amusing to think how differently a man of Carruthers's stamp would -cover the same ground to-day. He gives great prominence to Halleck -and Bryant, he treats Longfellow and Poe not inadequately, he spares -brief commendation to Willis and Holmes, and a bare mention to Dana -and Emerson (as a poet). He alludes to no one else; and apart from his -omissions, which are significant enough, nothing can be more curious -than his giving equal <i>status</i> respectively to Halleck and Bryant, -to Willis and Holmes, to Dana and Emerson. Thirty years have passed, -and each of these pairs contains one who has been taken and one who -has been left. Bryant, Holmes, and Emerson exist, and were never more -prominent than to-day; but where are Halleck, Willis, and Dana? Under -the microscope of Mr. Stedman, these latter three together occupy but -half of one page out of four hundred, nor is there the slightest chance -that these writers will ever recover the prominence which they held, -and seemed to hold so securely, little more than a generation ago. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> -moral is too obvious to need appending to this suggestive little story.</p> - -<p>It is not in America only that a figure which is not really a great -one gets accidentally raised on a pedestal from which it presently has -to be ignominiously withdrawn. But in America, where the interest in -intellectual problems is so keen, and where the dull wholesome bondage -of tradition is unknown, these sudden exaltations are particularly -frequent. When I was in Baltimore (and I have no happier memories of -travel than my recollections of Baltimore) the only crumple in my -rose-leaf was the difficulty of preserving a correct attitude toward -the local deity. When you enter the gates of Johns Hopkins, the -question that is asked is, "What think you of Lanier"? The writer of -the <i>Marshes of Glynn</i> had passed away before I visited Baltimore, -but I heard so much about him that I feel as though I had seen him. -The delicately-moulded ivory features, the profuse and silken beard, -the wonderful eyes waxing and waning during the feverish action -of lecturing, surely I have witnessed the fascination which these -exercised? Baltimore would not have been Baltimore, would have been -untrue to its graceful, generous, and hospitable instincts, if it -had not welcomed with enthusiasm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> this beautiful, pathetic Southern -stranger. But I am amazed to find that this pardonable idolatry is -still on the increase, although I think it must surely have found its -climax in a little book which my friend, President Gilman, has been -kind enough to send me this year. In this volume I read that Shelley -and Keats, "before disconsolate," now possess a mate; that "God's -touch set the starry splendour of genius upon Lanier's soul"; and that -all sorts of persons, in all sorts of language, exalt him as one of -the greatest poets that ever lived. I notice, however, with a certain -sly pleasure, that on the occasion of this burst of Lanierolatry a -letter was received from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "of too private a -character to read." No wonder, for Dr. Holmes is the dupe of no local -enthusiasm, and very well indeed distinguishes between good verse and -bad.</p> - -<p>From Baltimore drunk with loyalty and pity I appeal to Baltimore sober. -What are really the characteristics of this amazing and unparalleled -poetry of Lanier? Reading it again, and with every possible inclination -to be pleased, I find a painful effort, a strain and rage, the most -prominent qualities in everything he wrote. Never simple, never easy, -never in one single lyric natural and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> spontaneous for more than one -stanza, always forcing the note, always concealing his barrenness and -tameness by grotesque violence of image and preposterous storm of -sound, Lanier appears to me to be as conclusively not a poet of genius -as any ambitious man who ever lived, laboured, and failed. I will judge -him by nothing less than those poems which his warmest admirers point -to as his masterpieces; I take <i>Corn</i>, <i>Sunrise</i>, and <i>The Marshes of -Glynn</i>. I persist in thinking that these are elaborate and learned -experiments by an exceedingly clever man, and one who had read so -much and felt so much that he could simulate poetical expression with -extraordinary skill. But of the real thing, of the genuine traditional -article, not a trace.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green</i></div> -<div><i>Dying to silent hints of kisses keen</i></div> -<div><i>As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This exemplifies the sort of English, the sort of imagination, the sort -of style which are to make Keats and Shelley—who have found Bryant and -Landor, Rossetti and Emerson, unworthy of their company—comfortable -with a mate at last. If these vapid and eccentric lines were -exceptional, if they were even supported by a minority of sane and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> -original verse, if Lanier were ever simple or genuine, I would seize -on those exceptions and gladly forget the rest; but I find him on -all occasions substituting vague, cloudy rhetoric for passion, and -tortured fancy for imagination, always striving, against the grain, to -say something prophetic and unparalleled, always grinding away with -infinite labour and the sweat of his brow to get that expressed which a -real poet murmurs, almost unconsciously, between a sigh and a whisper.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Wheresoe'er I turn my view,</i></div> -<div><i>All is strange, yet nothing new;</i></div> -<div><i>Endless labour all along,</i></div> -<div><i>Endless labour to be wrong.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Lanier must have been a charming man, and one who exercised a great -fascination over those who knew him. But no reasonable critic can turn -from what has been written about Lanier to what Lanier actually wrote, -and still assert that he was the Great American Poet.</p> - -<p>It is not likely to be seriously contended that there were in 1888 -more than four of the deceased poets of America who need to have their -claims discussed in connection with the highest honours in the art. -These are Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Poe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> There is one other name -which, it may seem to some of my readers, ought to be added to this -list. But originality was so entirely lacking in the composition of -that versatile and mellifluous talent to which I allude, that I will -not even mention here the fifth name. I ask permission rapidly to -inquire whether Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson and Poe are worthy of a -rank beside the greatest English twelve.</p> - -<p>In the first place, what are we to say of Longfellow? I am very far -from being one of those who reject the accomplished and delicate work -of this highly-trained artist. If I may say so, no chapter of Mr. -Stedman's book seems to me to surpass in skill that in which he deals -with the works of Longfellow, and steers with infinite tact through -the difficulties of the subject. In the face of those impatient -youngsters who dare to speak of Longfellow and of Tupper in a breath, -I assert that the former was, within his limitations, as true a poet -as ever breathed. His skill in narrative was second only to that of -Prior and of Lafontaine. His sonnets, the best of them, are among the -most pleasing objective sonnets in the language. Although his early, -and comparatively poor, work was exaggeratedly praised, his head was -not turned, but, like a conscientious artist, he rose to better and -better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> things, even at the risk of sacrificing his popularity. It -is a pleasure to say this at the present day, when Longfellow's fame -has unduly declined; but it is needless, of course, to dwell on the -reverse of the medal, and disprove what nobody now advances, that he -was a great or original poet. Originality and greatness were just the -qualities he lacked. I have pointed out elsewhere that Longfellow -was singularly under Swedish influences, and that his real place is -in Swedish literature, chronologically between Tegnér and Runeberg. -Doubtless he seemed at first to his own people more original than he -was, through his habit of reproducing an exotic tone very exactly.</p> - -<p>Bryant appears to me to be a poet of a less attractive but somewhat -higher class than Longfellow. His versification is mannered, and -his expressions are directly formed on European models, but his -sense of style was so consistent that his careful work came to be -recognisable. His poetry is a hybrid of two English stocks, closely -related; he belongs partly to the Wordsworth of <i>Tintern Abbey</i>, -partly to the Coleridge of <i>Mont Blanc</i>. The imaginative formula is -Wordsworth's, the verse is the verse of Coleridge, and having in very -early youth produced this dignified and novel flower,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> Bryant did -not try to blossom into anything different, but went on cultivating -the Coleridge-Wordsworth hybrid down to the days of Rossetti and of -Villanelles. But Wordsworth and Coleridge had not stayed at the <i>Mont -Blanc</i> and <i>Tintern Abbey</i> point. They went on advancing, developing, -altering, and declining to the end of their days. The consequence is -that the specimens of the Bryant variety do not strike us as remarkably -like the general work of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. As I have said, -although he borrowed definitely and almost boldly, in the first -instance, the very persistence of Bryant's style, the fact that he -was influenced once by a very exquisite and noble kind of poetry, and -then never any more, through a long life, by any other verse, combined -with his splendid command of those restricted harmonies the secret of -which he had conquered, made Bryant a very interesting and valuable -poet. But in discussing his comparative position, it appears to me to -be impossible to avoid seeing that his want of positive novelty—the -derived character of his sentiment, his verse, and his description—is -absolutely fatal to his claim to a place in the foremost rank. He -is exquisitely polished, full of noble suavity and music, but his -irreparable fault is to be secondary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> to remind us always of his -masters first, and only on reflection of himself. In this he contrasts -to a disadvantage with one who is somewhat akin to him in temperament, -Walter Savage Landor. We may admit that Byrant is more refined, more -uniformly exquisite than Landor, but the latter has a flavour of his -own, something quite original and Landorian, which makes him continue -to live, while Byrant's reputation slowly fades away, like the stately -crystal gables of an iceberg in summer. The "Water-Fowl" pursues its -steady flight through the anthologies, but Bryant is not with the great -masters of poetry.</p> - -<p>We ascend, I think, into a sphere where neither Bryant nor Longfellow, -with all their art, have power to wing their way, when we read such -verses as</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Musketaquit, a goblin strong,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;</i></div> -<div><i>They lose their grief who hear his song,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And where he winds is the day of day.</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>So forth and brighter fares my stream;</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Who drinks it shall not thirst again;</i></div> -<div><i>No darkness stains its equal gleam,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And ages drop in it like rain.</i></div> -</div></div></div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> -<p>If Emerson had been frequently sustained at the heights he was -capable of reaching, he would unquestionably have been one of the -sovereign poets of the world. At its very best his phrase is so new -and so magical, includes in its easy felicity such a wealth of fresh -suggestion and flashes with such a multitude of side-lights, that we -cannot suppose that it will ever be superseded or will lose its charm. -He seems to me like a very daring but purblind diver, who flings -himself headlong into the ocean, and comes up bearing, as a rule, -nothing but sand and common shells, yet who every now and then rises -grasping some wonderful and unique treasure. In his prose, of course, -Emerson was far more a master of the medium than in poetry. He never -became an easy versifier; there seems to have been always a difficulty -to him, although an irresistible attraction, in the conduct of a piece -of work confined within rhyme and rhythm. He starts with a burst of -inspiration; the wind drops and his sails flap the mast before he is -out of port; a fresh puff of breeze carries him round the corner; for -another page, the lyrical <i>afflatus</i> wholly gone, he labours with the -oar of logic; when suddenly the wind springs up again, and he dances -into a harbour. We are so pleased to find the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> voyage successfully -accomplished that we do not trouble to inquire whether or no this -particular port was the goal he had before him at starting. I think -there is hardly one of Emerson's octosyllabic poems of which this will -not be found to be more or less an accurate allegorical description. -This is not quite the manner of Milton or Shelley, although it may -possess its incidental advantages.</p> - -<p>It cannot be in candour denied that we obtain a very strange impression -by turning from what has been written about Emerson to his own poetry. -All his biographers and critics unite, and it is very sagacious of -them to do so, in giving us little anthologies of his best lines and -stanzas, just as writers on <i>Hudibras</i> extract miscellanies of the -fragmentary wit of Butler. Judged by a chain of these selected jewels, -Emerson gives us the impression of high imagination and great poetical -splendour. But the volume of his verse, left to produce its own effect, -does not fail to weaken this effect. I have before me at this moment -his first collected <i>Poems</i>, published, as he said, at "the solstice -of the stars of his intellectual firmament." It holds the brilliant -fragments that we know so well, but it holds them as a mass of dull -quartz may sparkle with gold dust. It has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> odes about Contocook and -Agischook and the Over-God, long nebulous addresses to no one knows -whom, about no one knows what; for pages upon pages it wanders away -into mere cacophonous eccentricity. It is Emerson's misfortune as a -poet that his technical shortcomings are for ever being more severely -reproved by his own taste and censorship than we should dare to -reprove them. To the author of <i>The World-Soul</i>, in shocking verses, -we silently commend his own postulate in exquisite prose, that "Poetry -requires that splendour of expression which carries with it the proof -of great thoughts." Emerson, as a verse-writer, is so fragmentary and -uncertain that we cannot place him among the great poets; and yet his -best lines and stanzas seem as good as theirs. Perhaps we ought to -consider him, in relation to Wordsworth and Shelley, as an asteroid -among the planets.</p> - -<p>It is understood that Edgar Allen Poe is still unforgiven in New -England. "Those singularly valueless verses of Poe," was the now -celebrated <i>dictum</i> of a Boston prophet. It is true that, if "that most -beguiling of all little divinities, Miss Walters of the <i>Transcript</i>," -is to be implicitly believed, Edgar Poe was very rude and naughty at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> -the Boston Lyceum in the spring of 1845. But surely bygones should be -bygones, and Massachusetts might now pardon the <i>Al Aaraaf</i> incident. -It is not difficult to understand that there were many sides on which -Poe was likely to be long distasteful to Boston, Cambridge, and -Concord. The intellectual weight of the man, though unduly minimised -in New England, was inconsiderable by the side of that of Emerson. But -in poetry, as one has to be always insisting, the battle is not to the -strong; and apart from all faults, weaknesses, and shortcomings of Poe, -we feel more and more clearly, or we ought to feel, the perennial charm -of his verses. The posy of his still fresh and fragrant poems is larger -than that of any other deceased American writer, although Emerson may -have one or two single blossoms to show which are more brilliant than -any of his. If the range of the Baltimore poet had been wider, if Poe -had not harped so persistently on his one theme of remorseful passion -for the irrecoverable dead, if he had employed his extraordinary, -his unparalleled gifts of melodious invention, with equal skill, in -illustrating a variety of human themes, he must have been with the -greatest poets. For in Poe, in pieces like <i>The Haunted Palace</i>, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span><i>The -Conqueror Worm</i>, <i>The City in the Sea</i>, and <i>For Annie</i>, we find two -qualities which are as rare as they are invaluable, a new and haunting -music, which constrains the hearer to follow and imitate, and a command -of evolution in lyrical work so absolute that the poet is able to do -what hardly any other lyrist has dared to attempt, namely, as in <i>To -One in Paradise</i>, to take a normal stanzaic form, and play with it as a -great pianist plays with an air.</p> - -<p>So far as the first of these attributes is concerned, Poe has proved -himself to be the Piper of Hamelin to all later English poets. From -Tennyson to Austin Dobson there is hardly one whose verse-music does -not show traces of Poe's influence. To impress the stamp of one's -personality on a succeeding generation of artists, to be an almost -(although not wholly) flawless technical artist one's self, to charm -within a narrow circle to a degree that shows no sign, after forty -years, of lessening, is this to prove a claim to rank with the Great -Poets? No, perhaps not quite; but at all events it is surely to have -deserved great honour from the country of one's birthright.</p> - -<p><i>1889.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">WHAT IS A GREAT POET?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> - -<h2>What is a Great Poet?</h2> - -<p>The answer to the question, "Has America produced a Poet?" which -was published in the <i>Forum</i>, called forth a surprising amount of -attention from the press in England as well as in America. It was quite -impossible, and I did not expect, that such an expression of personal -opinion would pass without being challenged. In America, particularly, -it could not but disturb some traditions and wound some prejudices. But -in the present instance, as always before, it has been my particular -fortune to find that where criticism—by which I mean, not censure, but -analysis—is candid and sincere, it meets in America with sincere and -candid readers. In parenthesis, I may add, that when literary criticism -of this kind is ill received in America, the fault usually lies with -that unhappy system of newspaper reverberation by which "scraps" or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> -"items," removed from their context and slightly altered at each fresh -removal, go the round of the press, and are presently commented upon -by journalists who have never seen what the critic originally wrote. -In reading some of the principal articles which my essay called forth, -I find one point dwelt upon, in various ways, in almost all of them. I -find a fresh query started as to the standard which we are to take as a -measurement for imaginative writers; and it seems to me that it may be -interesting to carry our original inquiry a step further back, and to -ask, What is a great poet?</p> - -<p>If we are to limit the number of the most illustrious and commanding -names, as I attempted to do, it is plain that we must also confine -the historical range of our inquiry. Some of my reviewers objected to -my selection being made among English poets only, and several of them -attempted lists which included the poets of Europe or of the world. -Yet, without exception, those critics displayed their national bias by -the large proportion of Anglo-Saxon worthies whom they could not bring -themselves to exclude from their dozen. Shakespeare must be there, -and Milton, Chaucer, Wordsworth, and Shelley;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> already a third of the -majestic company is English. One reviewer, who had been lately studying -the Anthology, could not persuade himself to omit several of those -dying dolphins of Byzantine song that drew the shallop of Agathias up -into the Golden Horn; and this when the whole tale of bards was not to -exceed fifteen at most. One reviewer went to Iceland for a name, and -another to Persia—charming excursions both of them, but calculated to -exhaust our resources prematurely. The least reflection will remind -us that the complexity and excessive fulness of modern interests have -invaded literature also, and the history of literature; to select from -all time a dozen greatest names is a task of doubtful propriety, and -certainly not to be lightly undertaken. It was all very well, in the -morning of time, for the ancient critics to regulate their body-guards -of Apollo by the numbers of the Muses or the Graces. Nothing could be -pleasanter than that tale of the great lyrical poets of the world which -we find so often repeated in slightly varying form:</p> - -<p>"The mighty voice of Pindar has thundered out of Thebes. The lyre of -Simonides modulates a song of delicate melody. What brilliancy in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> -Ibycus and Stesichorus! What sweetness in Alcman! From the mouth of -Bacchylides there breathe delicious accents. Persuasion exhales from -the lips of Anacreon. In the Æolian voice of Alcæus we hear once more -the Lesbian swan; and as for Sappho, that ninth great lyric poet, is -not her place, rather, tenth among the Muses?"</p> - -<p>If we are contributing lists of a dozen great poets, here are -three-fourths of the company already summoned; yet splendid as are -these names, and doubtless of irreproachable genius, the roll is, for -modern purposes, awkwardly overweighted. Even if for those whose works -Time has overwhelmed, we substitute the Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, -Theocritus, whom he has spared, the list is still impracticable and -one-sided. Yet who shall say that these were not great poets in every -possible sense of the word? From each of several modern European -nations, from Italy and from France at least, a magnificent list of -twelve could be selected, not one of whom their compatriots could -afford to lose. Nay, even Sweden or Holland would present us with a -list of twelve which should seem indisputably great to a Dutchman or -a Swede. It is not possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> to spread the net so wide as to catch -whales from all the ancient and all the modern languages at once. Let -us restrain our ambition and see what criterion we have for measuring -those of our own tongue and race.</p> - -<p>Passing in review, then, the whole five centuries which divide us from -the youth of Chaucer, we would seek to discover what qualities have -raised a limited number of the poetical writers of those successive -ages of English thought to a station permanently and splendidly -exalted. Among the almost innumerable genuine poets of those five -hundred years, are there ten or twelve who are manifestly greater than -the rest, and if so, in what does their greatness consist?</p> - -<p>We are not here occupied with the old threadbare question, "What is -a poet"? but we may reply to it so far as to insist that when we are -speaking and thinking in English the term excludes all writers, however -pathetic and fanciful, who do not employ the metrical form. In many -modern languages the word poet, <i>dichter</i>, includes novelists and -all other authors of prose fiction. I once learned this to my cost, -for having published a short summary of the writings of the living -"poets" of a certain continental country,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> one of the leading (if not -the leading) novelist of that country, exclusively a writer in prose, -indignantly upbraided me for the obviously personal slight I had shown -him in leaving him entirely unmentioned. In English we possess and -should carefully maintain the advantage which accrues from having a -word so distinct in its meaning; and we may recollect that there is no -trick in literary criticism more lax and silly than that of talking -about "prose poetry" (a contradiction in terms), or about such men as -Carlyle, Mr. Ruskin, or Jefferies as "poets." The greatness we are -discussing to-day is a quality wholly confined to those who have made -it their chief duty to speak to us in verse.</p> - -<p>On these lines, perhaps, the main elements of poetical greatness will -be found to be originality in the treatment of themes, perennial -charm, exquisite finish in execution, and distinction of individual -manner. The great poet, in other words, will be seen, through the -perspectives of history, to have been fresher, stronger, more skilful, -and more personal than his unsuccessful or less successful rival. -When the latter begins to recede into obscurity it will be because -prejudices that blinded criticism are being removed, and because the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> -candidate for immortality is being found to be lacking in one or all of -these peculiar qualities. And here, of course, comes in the disputed -question of the existence of genius. I confess that that controversy -seems to me to rest on a mere metaphysical quibble. Robert McTavish -is a plough-boy, and ends at the plough's tail. Robert Burns is a -plough-boy, and ends by being set up, like Berenice's hair, as a glory -and a portent in the intellectual zenith of all time. Are they the same -to start with? Is it merely a question of taking pains, of a happy -accident—of luck, in short? A fiddlestick's end for such a theory! -Just as well might we say that a young vine that is to produce, in its -season, a bottle of corton, is the same as a similar stick that will -issue in a wretched draught of <i>vin bleu</i>. That which, from its very -cotyledons, has distinguished the corton plant from its base brother, -that is genius.</p> - -<p>But even thus the discussion is vain and empty. What we have to deal -with is the work and not the man. So long as we all feel that there -is some quality of charm, vigour, and brightness which exists in Pope -and is absent in Eusden, is discoverable in a tragedy of Shakespeare -and is wanting in a transpontine melodrama, so long,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> whether we call -this quality by the good old name of genius, or explain it away in the -jargon of some new-fangled sociography, we shall have basis enough for -the conduct of our particular inquiry.</p> - -<p>Perhaps I may now be permitted to recapitulate the list of a dozen -English poets whom I ventured to quote as the manifest immortals of -our British Parnassus. They are Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, -Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, -Keats. It will be noticed that there are thirteen names here, and my -reviewers have not failed to remind me that it is notoriously difficult -to count the stars. The fact is that Gray, the real thirteenth, was an -after-thought; and I will admit that, although Gray is the author of -what is perhaps the most imposing single short poem in the language, -and although he has charm, skill, and distinction to a marvellous -degree, his originality, his force of production, were so rigidly -limited that he may scarcely be admitted to the first rank. When he -published his collected poems Gray confessed himself "but a shrimp of -an author," and conjectured that the book would be mistaken for "the -works of a flea or a pismire." No doubt the explosive force which eggs -a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> great writer on to constant expression was lacking in the -case of Gray, and I yield him—a tender babe, and the only one of my -interesting family which I will consent to throw to the wolves. The -rest are inviolable, and I will defend them to the last; but I can only -put a lance in rest here for two of them.</p> - -<p>The absence of a truly catholic taste, and the survival of an exclusive -devotion to the romantic ideals of the early part of the present -century, must, I suppose, be the cause of a tendency, on the part of -some of those who have replied to me, to question the right of Dryden -and Pope to appear on my list of great poets. It appears that Dryden is -very poorly thought of at Crawfordsville, Indiana, and even at busier -centres of American taste he is reported as being not much of a power. -"Dryden is not read in America," says one of my critics, with jaunty -confidence. They say that we in England are sometimes harsh in our -estimates of America; but I confess I do not know the Englishman bold -enough to have charged America with the shocking want of taste which -these children of her own have so lightly volunteered to attribute to -her. Dryden not read in America! It makes one wonder what is read. -Probably Miss Amélie Rives?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> - -<p>But to be serious, I can conceive nothing more sinister for the future -of English literature than that to any great extent, or among any -influential circle of reading and writing men, the majesty and sinewy -force of the most masculine of all the English poets should be despised -and rejected. Something of a temper less hurried than that of the man -who runs and reads is no doubt required for the appreciation of that -somewhat heavy-footed and sombre giant of tragic and of narrative song, -John Dryden, warring with dunces, marching with sunken head—"a down -look," as Pope described it—through the unappreciative flat places of -our second Charles and James. Prosaic at times he is, slow, fatigued, -unstimulating; but, at his best, how full of the true sublime, how -uplifted by the wind of tragic passion, how stirred to the depths by -the noblest intellectual and moral enthusiasm! For my own part, there -are moments and moods in which nothing satisfies my ear and my brain -as do the great accents of Dryden, while he marches down the page, -with his elephants and his standards and his kettledrums, "in the full -vintage of his flowing honours."</p> - -<p>There must be something effeminate and feeble in the nervous system of -a generation which cannot bear this grandiose music, this virile tramp -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> Dryden's soldiers and camp-followers; something singularly dull and -timid in a spirit that rejects this robust intellectual companion. And, -with all his russet suit of homespun, Dryden is imbued to the core with -the truest and richest blood of poetry. His vehemence is positively -Homeric; we would not give <i>Mac Flecknoe</i> in exchange even for the lost -<i>Margites</i>. He possesses in a high degree all the qualities which we -have marked as needed for the attribution of greatness. He is original -to that extent that mainly by his efforts the entire stream of English -poetry was diverted for a century and a half into an unfamiliar -channel; he has an executive skill eminently his own, and is able to -amaze us to-day after so many subsequent triumphs of verse-power; he -has distinction such as an emperor might envy; and after all the poets -of the eighteenth century have, as Mr. Lowell says, had their hands in -his pockets, his best lines are as fresh and as magical as ever.</p> - -<p>Pope I will not defend so warmly, and yet Pope also was a great poet. -Two of my American critics, bent on refuting me, have severally availed -themselves of a somewhat unexpected weapon. Each of them reminds me -that Mr. Lang, in some recent number of a magazine, has said that -Pope is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> not a poet at all. Research might prove that this heresy is -not entirely unparalleled, yet I am unconvinced. I yield to no one in -respect and affection for Mr. Lang, but in criticising that with which -he feels no personal sympathy, he is merely a "young light-hearted -master of the oar" of temperament. When Mr. Lang blesses, the object is -blest; when he curses, he may bless to-morrow. Some day he will find -himself alone in a country-house with a Horace; old chords will be -touched, the mystery of Pope will reveal itself to him, and we shall -have a panegyric that will make Lady Mary writhe in her grave. Let no -transatlantic, or cisatlantic, infidel of letters be profane at the -expense of a classic by way of pleasing Mr. Lang; his next emotion is -likely to be "<i>un sentiment obscur d'avoir embrassé la Chimère</i>."</p> - -<p>To justify one's confidence in the great poetic importance of Pope is -somewhat difficult. It needs a fuller commentary and a longer series -of references than can be given here. But let us recollect that the -nature-worship and nature-study of to-day may grow to seem a complete -fallacy, a sheer persistence in affectation, and that then, to readers -of new tastes and passions, Wordsworth and Shelley will be as Pope is -now, that is to say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> supported entirely by their individual merits. -At this moment, to the crowd, he is doubtless less attractive than -they are; he is on the shady side, they on the sunny side of fashion. -But the author of the end of the second book of <i>The Rape of the -Lock</i>, of the close of <i>The New Dunciad</i>, of the Sporus portrait, and -of the <i>Third Moral Essay</i>, has qualities of imagination, applied -to human character, and of distinction, applied to a formal and -delicately-elaborated style, which are unsurpassed, even perhaps by -Horace himself. Satirist after satirist has chirped like a wren from -the head of Pope; where are they now? Where is the great, the terrific, -the cloud-compelling Churchill? Meanwhile, in the midst of a generation -persistently turned away from all his ideas and all his models, the -clear voice of Pope still rings from the arena of Queen Anne.</p> - -<p>After all, this is mere assertion, and what am I that I should pretend -to lay down the law? If we seek, on the authority of whomsoever, to -raise an infallible standard of taste, and to arrange the poets in -classes, like schoolboys, then our inquiry is futile indeed, and worse -than futile. But the interest which this controversy has undoubtedly -called forth seems to prove that there is a side on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> which such -questions as have been started are not unwelcome nor unworthy of -careful study. It is not useless, I fancy, to remind ourselves now and -then of the very high standard which literature has a right to demand -from its more earnest votaries. In the hurry of life, in the glare of -passing interests, we are apt to lose breadth of sympathy, and to make -our own personal and temporary enjoyment of a book the criterion of its -value. I may take up Selden's <i>Titles of Honour</i>, turn over a page or -two, and lay it down in favour of the new number of <i>Punch</i>. I must not -for this reason pledge myself to placing the comic paper of to-day in a -niche above the best work of a great Elizabethan prose writer. But when -a modern American says that he finds better poetry in Longfellow than -in Chaucer, he is doing, to a less exaggerated degree, precisely this -very thing. He feels his contemporary sympathies and limited experience -soothed and entertained by the facile numbers of <i>Evangeline</i>, and he -does not extract an equal amount of amusement and pleasure from <i>The -Knight's Tale</i>.</p> - -<p>From one point of view it is very natural that this should be so, and -a critic would be priggish indeed who should gravely reprove such a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>preference. The result would be, not to force the reader to Chaucer, -but to drive him away from poetry altogether. The ordinary man reads -what he finds gives him the pure and wholesome stimulus he needs. But -if such a reader, in the pride of his heart, should take upon himself -to dogmatise, and to tell us that Longfellow's poetry is better than -Chaucer's, we should be obliged to remind him that there are several -factors to be taken into account before he can carry us away with him -on the neck of such a theory. He has to consider how long the charm of -Chaucer has endured, and how short a time the world has had to make -up its mind about Longfellow; he has to appreciate the relation of -Chaucer to his own contemporaries, the boldness of his invasion into -realms until his day unconquered, the inevitable influence of time in -fretting, wasting, and blanching the surface of the masterpieces of the -past. To be just, he has to consider the whirligig of literature, and -to ask himself whether, in the year 2289, after successive revolutions -of taste and repetitions of performance, the works of Longfellow are -reasonably likely to possess the positive value which scholars, at all -events, still find in those of Chaucer. Not until all these, and still -more, irregularities of relative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> position are taken into account, can -the value of the elder and the later poet be lightly laid in opposite -balances.</p> - -<p>There has been no great disposition to produce English candidates for -the places of any of my original dozen. The <i>Saturday Review</i> thinks -that I ought to have included Walter Scott, and the <i>St. James's -Gazette</i> suggests Marlowe. There is much to be said for the claims of -each of these poets, and I am surprised that no one has put in a plea -for Herrick or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Of Marlowe, indeed, we can -to this day write nothing better than Michael Drayton wrote:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i3"><i>Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs,</i></div> -<div><i>Had in him those brave translunary things</i></div> -<div><i>That our first poets had; his raptures were</i></div> -<div><i>All air and fire, which made his verses clear;</i></div> -<div><i>For that fine madness still he did retain,</i></div> -<div><i>Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>He had the freshness and splendour of Heosphoros, the bearer of light, -the kindler of morning; as the dawn-star of our drama, he ascended the -heavens, in the auroral flush of youth, to announce the approaching -majesty of Shakespeare. But his early death, and the unexampled -character of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> genius who superseded him, have for centuries -obscured the name of Marlowe, which scintillated half-extinguished -in the blaze of <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Othello</i>. His reputation has, however, -increased during the last generation with greater rapidity than that -of any other of our elder poets, and a time may yet come when we shall -have popularly isolated him from Shakespeare to such a degree as to -enforce a recognition of his individual greatness. At the present -moment to give him a place among the twelve might savour of affectation.</p> - -<p>In the case of Scott, I must still be firm in positively excluding -him, although his name is one of the most beloved in literature. The -<i>Waverley Novels</i> form Scott's great claim to our reverence, and, save -for the songs scattered through them, have nothing to say to us here. -Scott's long narrative poems are really Waverley Novels told in easy, -ambling verse, and to a great measure, I must confess, spoiled, I -think, by such telling. For old memory's sake we enjoy them still,</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And frighten'd as a child might be</i></div> -<div><i>At the wild yell and visage strange,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And the dark words of gramarye</i>;</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>but the stuff is rather threadbare, surely. The best<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> passages are -those in which, with skill not less than that of Milton, Scott marshals -heroic lists of Highland proper names. Scott was a very genuine poet -"within his own limitations," as has been said of another favourite, -whose name I will not here repeat. His lyrics, of very unequal merit, -are occasionally of wondrous beauty. I think it will be found, upon -very careful study of his writings, that he published eight absolutely -perfect lyrical pieces, and about as many more that were very good -indeed. This is much, and to how few can so high a tribute be paid! Yet -this is not quite sufficient claim to a place on the summits of English -song. Scott was essentially a great prose-writer, with a singular -facility in verse.</p> - -<p>If this amiable controversy, started in the first instance at the -request of the Editor of the <i>Forum</i>, has led us to examine a little -more closely the basis of our literary convictions, and, above all, if -it has led any of us to turn again to the fountain-heads of English -literature, it has not been without its importance. One danger which -I have long foreseen from the spread of the democratic sentiment, is -that of the traditions of literary taste, the canons of literature, -being reversed with success by a popular vote. Up to the present time, -in all parts of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> world, the masses of uneducated or semi-educated -persons, who form the vast majority of readers, though they cannot -and do not appreciate the classics of their race, have been content -to acknowledge their traditional supremacy. Of late there have seemed -to me to be certain signs, especially in America, of a revolt of the -mob against our literary masters. In the less distinguished American -newspapers which reach me, I am sometimes startled by the boldness with -which a great name, like Wordsworth's or Dryden's, will be treated -with indignity. If literature is to be judged by a <i>plébiscite</i> and if -the <i>plebs</i> recognises its power, it will certainly by degrees cease -to support reputations which give it no pleasure and which it cannot -comprehend. The revolution against taste, once begun, will land us in -irreparable chaos. It is, therefore, high time that those who recognise -that there is no help for us in literature outside the ancient laws and -precepts of our profession, should vigorously support the fame of those -fountains of inspiration, the impeccable masters of English.</p> - -<p><i>1889.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">MAKING A NAME IN LITERATURE</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Making a Name in Literature</h2> - -<p>An American editor has asked me to say how a literary reputation is -formed. It is like asking one how wood is turned into gold, or how -real diamonds can be manufactured. If I knew the answer, it is not in -the pages of a review that I should print it. I should bury myself in -a cottage in the woods, exercise my secret arts, and wait for Fame -to turn her trumpet into a hunting-horn, and wake the forest-echoes -with my praises. In one of Mr. Stockton's stories a princess sets all -the wise men of her dominions searching for the lost secret of what -root-beer should be made of. The philosophers fail to discover it, and -the magicians exhaust their arts in vain. Not the slightest light is -thrown on the abstruse problem, until at last an old woman is persuaded -to reveal that it ought to be made of roots. In the same way, the only -quite <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>obvious answer to the query, How should a literary reputation -be formed? is to reply, By thinking nothing at all about reputation, -but by writing earnestly and carefully on the subjects and in the -style most congenial to your habits of mind. But this is too obvious, -and leads to no further result. Besides, I see that the question is -not, how should be, but how is, a literary reputation formed. I will -endeavour, then, to give expression to such observations as I may have -formed on this latter subject.</p> - -<p>A literary reputation, as here intended, is obviously not the eternal -fame of a Shakespeare, which appears likely to last for ever, nor -even that of a Dickens, which must endure till there comes a complete -revolution of taste, but the inferior form of repute which is enjoyed -by some dozens of literary people in each generation, and makes a -centre for the admiration or envy of the more enthusiastic or idler -portion of their contemporaries. There is as much cant in denying the -attractiveness of such temporary glory as there is in exaggerating its -weight and importance. To stimulate the minds of those who surround -him, to captivate their attention and excite their curiosity, is -pleasing to the natural man. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> look with suspicion on the author -who protests too loudly that he does not care whether he is admired -or not. We shrewdly surmise that inwardly he cares very much indeed. -This instinctive wish for reputation is one of the great incentives to -literary exertion.</p> - -<p>Fame and money—these are the two chief spurs which drive the author -on. The statement may sound ignoble, and the writers of every -generation persist in avowing that they write only to amuse themselves -and to do good in their generation. The noble lady in <i>Lothair</i> -wished that she might never eat, or if at all, only a little fruit by -moonlight on a bank. She, nevertheless, was always punctual at her -dinner; and the author who protests his utter indifference to money and -reputation is commonly excessively sensitive when an attack is made on -his claims in either direction. Literary reputation is relative, of -course. There may be a village fame which does not burn very brightly -in the country town, and provincial stars that look very pale in a -great city. The circumstances, however, under which all the various -degrees of fame are reached, are, I think, closely analogous, and what -is true of the local celebrity is true, relatively, of a Victor Hugo -or of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> Tennyson. The importance of the reputation is shown by the -expanse of the area it covers, not by the curve of its advance. The -circle of a great man's fame is extremely wide, but it only repeats on -a vast scale the phenomena attending on the fame of a small man.</p> - -<p>The three principal ways in which a literary reputation is formed -appear to be these: reviews, private conversation among the leaders -of opinion, and the instinctive attraction which leads the general -public to discover for itself what is calculated to give it pleasure. -I will briefly indicate the manner in which these three seem to act -at the present moment on the formation of notoriety and its attendant -success, in the case of English authors. First of all, it is not -unworthy of note that reputation, or fame, and monetary success, are -not identical, although the latter is frequently the satellite of the -former. One extraordinary example of their occasional remoteness, which -may be mentioned without impertinence on the authority of the author -himself, is the position of Mr. Herbert Spencer. In any list of living -Englishmen eminently distinguished for the originality and importance -of their books, Mr. Spencer cannot fail to be ranked high. Yet, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> -every student of his later work knows, he stated in the preface of -one of those bald and inexpensive volumes in which he enshrines his -thought, that up to a comparatively recent date the sale of his books -did not cover the cost of their publication. This was the case of a man -famous, it is not too much to say, in every civilised country in the -globe.</p> - -<p>In pure literature there is probably no second existing instance so -flagrant as this. But, to take only a few of the most illustrious -Englishmen of letters, it is matter of common notoriety that the sale -of the books of, say, Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Leslie Stephen, the Bishop -of Oxford (Dr. Stubbs) and Mr. Lecky, considerable as it may now have -become, for a long time by no means responded to the lofty rank which -each of these authors has taken in the esteem of educated people -throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. The reverse is still more curious and -unaccountable. Why is it that there are writers of no merit at all, -who sell their books in thousands where people of genius sell theirs -in scores, yet without ever making a reputation? At the time when -Tupper was far more popular than Tennyson, and Eliza Cook enjoyed ten -times<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> the commercial success of Browning, even the votaries of these -poetasters did not claim a higher place for them, or even a high place -at all. They bought their books because they liked them, but the buyers -evidently did not imagine that purchase gave their temporary favourites -any rank in the hierarchy of fame. These things are a mystery, but the -distinction between commercial success and fame is one which must be -drawn. We are speaking here of reputation, whether attended by vast -sales or only by barren honour.</p> - -<p>Reviews have no longer the power which they enjoyed seventy years ago, -of making or even of marring the fortunes of a book. When there existed -hundreds of private book clubs throughout the country, each one of -which proceeded to buy a copy of whatever the <i>Edinburgh</i> recommended, -then the reviewer was a great personage in the land. We may see in -Lockhart's <i>Life of Scott</i> that Sir Walter, even at the height of his -success, and when, as Ellis said, he was "the greatest elephant in the -world" except himself, was seriously agitated by Jeffrey's cold review -of <i>Marmion</i>, not through irritable peevishness, which was wholly -foreign to Scott's magnanimous nature, but because a slighting review -was enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> cripple a book, and a slashing review to destroy it. -There is nothing of this kind now. No newspaper exists in Great Britain -which is able to sell an edition of a book by praising it. I doubt if -any review, under the most favourable circumstances and coming from the -most influential quarter, causes two hundred copies of a book to be -bought. A signed article by Mr. Gladstone is, of course, an exception; -yet some have doubted of late whether a book may not be found so inept -and so heavy as not to stir even at the summons of that voice.</p> - -<p>The reviews in the professional literary papers are still understood -to be useful in the case of unknown writers. A young author without a -friend, if he has merit, and above all if he has striking originality, -is almost sure to attract the notice of some beneficent reviewer, and -be praised in the columns of one or other of the leading weeklies. -These are the circumstances under which the native kindliness of the -irritable race is displayed most freely. The envy which sees merit in -a new man and determines to crush it with silence or malignant attack, -is inhuman, and practically, I fancy, scarcely exists. The entirely -unheard-of writer wounds no susceptibilities,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> awakens no suspicions, -and even excites a pleasurable warmth of patronage. It is a little -later on, when the new man is quite new no longer, but is becoming a -formidable rival, that evil passions are aroused, or sometimes seem to -have been aroused, in pure literary bosoms. The most sincere reviews -are often those which treat the works of unknown writers, and this is -perhaps the reason why the shrewd public still permits itself to be -moved by these when they are strongly favourable. At any rate, every -new-comer must be introduced to our crowded public to be observed at -all, and to new-comers the review is still the indispensable master of -the ceremonies.</p> - -<p>But the power of reviews to create this form of literary reputation -has of late been greatly circumscribed. The public grows less and less -the dupe of an anonymous judgment, expressed in the columns of one of -the too-numerous organs of public opinion. A more <i>naïve</i> generation -than ours was overawed by the nameless authority which moved behind -a review. Ours, on the contrary, is apt to go too far, and pay no -notice, because it does not know the name of a writer. The author who -writhed under the humiliation of attack in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> famous paper, little -suspected that his critic was one Snooks, an inglorious creature whose -acquaintance with the matter under discussion was mainly taken from -the book he was reviewing. But, on the other hand, there is that story -of the writer of some compendium of Greek history severely handled -anonymously by the <i>Athenæum</i>, whose scorn of the nameless critic gave -way to horror and shame when he discovered him to have been no other -than Mr. Grote. On the whole, when we consider the careful, learned, -and judicial reviews which are still to be found, like grains of salt, -in the vast body of insipid criticism in the newspapers, it may be held -that the public pays less attention to the reviews than it should. -The fact seems to remain that, except in the case of entirely unknown -writers, periodical criticism possesses an ever-dwindling power of -recommendation.</p> - -<p>It is in conversation that the fame of the best books is made. There -are certain men and women in London who are on the outlook for new -merit, who are supposed to be hard to please, and whose praise is like -rubies. It is those people who, in the smoking-room of the club, or -across the dinner-table, create the fame of writers and the success -of new books. "Seen <i>Polyanthus</i>?" says one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> these peripatetic -oracles. "No," you answer; "I am afraid I don't know what <i>Polyanthus</i> -is." "Well, it's not half bad; it's this new realistic romance." -"Indeed! By whom is it written?" "Oh! a fellow called—called Binks, -I think—Binks or Bunks; quite a new man. You ought to see it, don't -you know." Some one far down the table ventures to say, "Oh! I think -it was the <i>Palladium</i> said on Saturday that it wasn't a good book -at all, awfully abnormal, or something of that kind." "Well, you -look at it; I think you'll agree with me that it's not half bad." -Such a conversation as this, if held in a fructifying spot among the -best people, does <i>Polyanthus</i> more good than a favourable review. -It excites curiosity, and echoes of the praise ("not half bad" is at -the present moment the most fulsome of existing expressions of London -enthusiasm) reverberate and reverberate until the fortune of the book -is made. At the same time, be it for ever remembered, there must be in -<i>Polyanthus</i> the genuine force and merit which appeal to an impartial -judge and convert reader after reader, or else vainly does the friendly -oracle try to raise the wind. He betrays himself, most likely, by using -the expression, "a very fine book," or "beautifully written." These -phrases have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> falsetto air, and lack the persuasive sincerity of the -true modern eulogium, "not half bad."</p> - -<p>But there are reputations formed in other places than in London -dining-rooms and the libraries of clubs. There are certain books which -are not welcomed by the reviews, and which fail to please or even to -meet the eye of experts in literature, which nevertheless, by some -strange and unaccountable attraction, become known to the outer public, -and are eagerly accepted by a very wide circle of readers. I am not -aware that the late Mr. Roe was ever a favourite with the writing or -speaking critics of America. He achieved his extraordinary success not -by the aid, but in spite of the neglect and disapproval of the lettered -classes. I have no close acquaintance with Mr. Roe's novels, but I know -them well enough to despair of discovering why they were found to be so -eminently welcome to thousands of readers. So far as I have examined -them, they have appeared to me to be—if I may speak frankly—neither -good enough nor bad enough to account for their popularity. It is not -that I am such a prig as to disdain Mr. Roe's honourable industry; -far from it. But his books are lukewarm; they have neither the heat -of a rich insight into character, nor the deathly coldness of false -or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> insincere fiction. They are not ill-constructed, although they -certainly are not well-constructed. It is their lack of salient -character that makes me wonder what enabled them to float where scores -and scores of works not appreciably worse or better than they have sunk.</p> - -<p>Most countries possess at any given moment an author of this class. -In England we have the lady who signs her eminently reputable novels -by the pseudonym of "Edna Lyall." I do not propose to say what the -lettered person thinks of the author of <i>Donovan</i>; I would only point -out that the organs of literary opinion do not recognise her existence. -I cannot recollect ever noticing a prominent review of one of her books -in any leading paper. I never heard them so much as mentioned by any -critical reader. To find out something about "Edna Lyall" I have just -consulted the latest edition of <i>Men of the Time</i>, but she is unknown -to that not excessively austere compendium. And now for the reverse -of the medal. I lately requested the mistress of a girls' school, a -friend of mine, to ask her elder classes to write down the name of the -greatest English author. The universal answer was "Shakespeare." What -could be more respectable? But the second<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> question was, "Who is your -favourite English author?" And this time, by a large majority, Edna -Lyall bore off the bell.</p> - -<p>I think this amiable lady may be consoled for the slight which <i>Men -of the Time</i> puts upon her. It seems plain that she is a very great -personage indeed to all the girls of the time. But if you ask me how -such a subterranean reputation as this is formed, what starts it, -how it is supported, I can only say I have failed, after some not -unindustrious search, to discover. I may but conjecture that, as I -have suggested, the public instinctively feels the attraction of the -article that satisfies its passing requirement. These illiterate -successes—if I may use the word "illiterate" in its plain meaning and -without offence—are exceedingly ephemeral, and sink into the ground as -silently and rapidly as they rose from it. What has become of Mrs. Gore -and Mrs. March? Who wrote <i>Emilia Wyndham</i>, and to what elegant pen did -the girls who are now grandmothers owe <i>Ellen Middleton</i>? Alas! it has -taken only forty years to strew the poppy of oblivion over these once -thrilling titles.</p> - -<p>For we have to face the fact that reputations are lost as well as -won. What destroys the fame of an accepted author? This, surely, is a -question<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> not less interesting than that with which we started, and -a necessary corollary to it. Not unfavourable reviews, certainly. An -unjust review may annoy and depress the author, it may cheer a certain -number of his enemies and cool the ardour of a few of his friends, -but in the long run it is sure to be innocuous in proportion to its -injustice. I have in my mind the mode in which Mr. Browning's poems -were treated in certain quarters twenty years ago. I remember more -than one instance in which critics were permitted, in newspapers which -ought to have known better, to exemplify that charge of needless -obscurity which it was then the fashion to bring against the poet, by -the quotation of mutilated fragments, and even by the introduction -of absurd mistakes into the transcription of the text. Now, in this -case, a few persons were possibly deterred from the further perusal -of a writer who appeared, by these excerpts, to be a lunatic; but I -think far more were roused into vehement sympathy for Mr. Browning by -comparing the quotations with the originals, and so finding out that -the reviewers had lied.</p> - -<p>It rests with the author, not the critic, to destroy his own -reputation. No one, as Bentley said, was ever written down except by -himself, and the public<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> is quite shrewd enough to do a rough sort -of justice to the critic who accuses as well as to the author who is -arraigned. As Dangle observes, "it certainly does hurt an author of -delicate feelings to see the liberties the reviews take" with his -writings; but if he is worth his salt at all, he will comfort himself -by thinking, with Sir Fretful, that "their abuse is, after all, the -best panegyric." To an author who is smarting under a more than common -infliction of this kind of peppering, one consolatory consideration may -be hinted—namely, that not to be spoken about at all is even worse -than being maligned.</p> - -<p>One of the most insidious perils that waylay the modern literary life -is an exaggerated success at the outset of a career. A very remarkable -instance of this has been seen in our time. Thirteen years ago a -satire was published, which, although essentially destructive, and -therefore not truly promising, was set forth with so much novelty -of execution, brightness of wit, and variety of knowledge that the -world was taken by storm. The author of that work was received with -plaudits of the most exaggerated kind, and his second book was looked -forward to with unbounded anticipation. It came, and though fresh and -witty, it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> less distinction, less vitality than the first. Book -after book has marked ever a further step in steady decline, and now -that once flattered and belaureled writer's name is one no more to -conjure with. This, surely, is a pathetic fate. I can imagine no form -of failure so desperately depressing as that which comes disguised in -excessive juvenile success. In literature, at least as much as in other -professions, the race is not to the swift, although the battle must -eventually be to the strong. There is a blossoming, like that of forced -annuals, which pays for its fulness and richness by a plague of early -sterility.</p> - -<p>What the young writer of wholesome ambition should pray for is, not -to flash like a meteor on the astonished world of fashion, but by -solid and admirable writing slowly to win a place which has a firm and -wide basis. There is such a fate as to suffer through life from the -top-heaviness of an initial success. Such a struggle as Thackeray's may -be painful at the time, and may call for the exercise of a great deal -of patience and good temper. It is, nevertheless, a better thing in the -long run to serve a novitiate in Grub Street, than, like Samuel Warren, -to be famous at thirty, and die almost forgotten at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> seventy. There -is a deadly tendency in the mind which too easily has found others -captivated by his effusions, to fancy that anything is good enough -for the public. A precocious favourite conceives that he has only to -whistle and the world will at any moment come back to him. The soldier -who meets with no resistance throws aside his armour and relaxes his -ambition. He forgets that, as Andrew Marvell says:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>The same art that did gain</i></div> -<div><i>A power, must it maintain.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Some danger to a partially established reputation is to be met with -from the fickleness of public taste and the easy satiety of readers. -If an imaginative writer has won the attention of the public by a -vigorous and original picture of some unhackneyed scene of life which -is thoroughly familiar to himself, he is apt to find himself on the -horns of a dilemma. If he turns to a new class of subjects, the public -which has already "placed" him as an authority on a particular subject, -will be disappointed; on the other hand, if he sticks to his last, he -runs the chance of fatiguing his readers and of exhausting his own -impressions. For such an author, ultimate success probably lies on the -side of courage. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> must reject the temptation to indulge the public -with what he knows it wants, and must boldly force it to like another -and still unrecognised phase of his talent. He ought, however, to make -very sure that he is right, and not his readers, before he insists -upon a change. It is not every one who possesses the versatility of -the first Lord Lytton, and can conquer new worlds under a pseudonym -at the age of fifty. There are plenty of instances of men of letters -who, weary of being praised for what they did well, have tried to -force down the throats of the public what everybody but themselves -could see was ill-done. I remember Hans Christian Andersen, in the -last year of his life, telling me that the books he should really be -remembered by were his dramas and his novels, not the fairy-stories -that everybody persisted in making so much fuss about. He had gone -through life without gaining the least skill in gauging his own -strength or weakness. Andersen, however, was exceptionally uncritical; -and the author who is not blinded by vanity can generally tell, before -he reaches middle life, in what his real power consists.</p> - -<p>Yet, when we sum up the whole question, we have to confess that we -know very little about the causes which lead to the distribution of -public praise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> The wind of fame bloweth where it listeth, and we -hear the sound of it without knowing whence it cometh. This, however, -appears to be certain, that, except in the case of those rare authors -of exceptionally sublime genius who conquer attention by their force -of originality, a great deal more than mere cleverness in writing is -needful to make a reputation. Sagacity in selection, tact in dealing -with other people, suppleness of character, rapidity in appreciation, -and adroitness in action—all these are qualities which go to the -formation of a broad literary reputation. In these days an author must -be wide awake, and he must take a vast deal of trouble. The age is gone -by when he could sit against the wall and let the gooseberries fall -into his mouth. The increased pressure of competition tells upon the -literary career as much as upon any other branch of professional life, -and the author who wishes to continue to succeed must keep his loins -girded.</p> - -<p><i>1889.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">THE LIMITS OF REALISM IN FICTION</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<h2>The Limits of Realism in Fiction</h2> - -<p>In the last new Parisian farce, by M. Sarcey's clever young son-in-law, -there is a conscientious painter of the realistic school who is -preparing for the Salon a very serious and abstruse production. The -young lady of his heart says, at length: "It's rather a melancholy -subject; I wonder you don't paint a sportsman, crossing a rustic -bridge, and meeting a pretty girl." This is the climax, and the artist -breaks off his relations with Young Lady No. 1. Toward the end of the -play, while he is still at work on his picture, Young Lady No. 2 says: -"If I were you, I should take another subject. Now, for instance, why -don't you paint a pretty girl, crossing a rustic bridge, and met by a -sportsman?"</p> - -<p>This is really an allegory, whether M. Gandillot intends it or not. -Thus have those charming, fresh, ingenuous, ignorant, and rather -stupid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> young ladies, the English and American publics, received the -attempts which novelists have made to introduce among them what is -called, outside the Anglo-Saxon world, the experimental novel. The -present writer is no defender of that class of fiction; least of all -is he an exclusive defender of it; but he is tired to death of the -criticism on both sides of the Atlantic, which refuses to see what the -realists are, whither they are tending, and what position they are -beginning to hold in the general evolution of imaginative literature. -He is no great lover of what they produce, and most certainly does not -delight in their excesses; but when they are advised to give up their -studies and paint pretty girls on rustic bridges, he is almost stung -into partisanship. The present essay will have no interest whatever for -persons who approve of no more stringent investigation into conduct -than Miss Yonge's, and enjoy no action nearer home than Zambeziland; -but to those who have perceived that in almost every country in the -world the novel of manners has been passing through a curious phase, it -may possibly not be uninteresting to be called upon to inquire what the -nature of that phase has been, and still more what is to be the outcome -of it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - -<p>So far as the Anglo-Saxon world is concerned, the experimental or -realistic novel is mainly to be studied in America, Russia, and France. -It exists now in all the countries of the European Continent, but -we know less about its manifestations there. It has had no direct -development in England, except in the clever but imperfect stories of -Mr. George Moore. Ten years ago the realistic novel, or at all events -the naturalist school, out of which it proceeded, was just beginning -to be talked about, and there was still a good deal of perplexity, -outside Paris, as to its scope and as to the meaning of its name. -Russia, still unexplored by the Vicomte de Vogüé and his disciples, was -represented to western readers solely by Turgéneff, who was a great -deal too romantic to be a pure naturalist. In America, where now almost -every new writer of merit seems to be a realist, there was but one, Mr. -Henry James, who, in 1877, had inaugurated the experimental novel in -the English language, with his <i>American</i>. Mr. Howells, tending more -and more in that direction, was to write on for several years before he -should produce a thoroughly realistic novel.</p> - -<p>Ten years ago, then, the very few people who take an interest in -literary questions were looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> with hope or apprehension, as the case -might be, to Paris, and chiefly to the study of M. Zola. It was from -the little villa at Médan that revelation on the subject of the coming -novel was to be awaited; and in the autumn of 1880 the long-expected -message came, in the shape of the grotesque, violent, and narrow, -but extremely able volume of destructive and constructive criticism -called <i>Le Roman Expérimental</i>. People had complained that they did -not know what M. Zola was driving at; that they could not recognise -a "naturalistic" or "realistic" book when they saw it; that the -"scientific method" in fiction, the "return to nature," "experimental -observation" as the basis of a story, were mere phrases to them, vague -and incomprehensible. The Sage of Médan determined to remove the -objection and explain everything. He put his speaking-trumpet to his -lips, and, disdaining to address the crassness of his countrymen, he -shouted his system of rules and formulas to the Russian public, that -all the world might hear.</p> - -<p>In 1880 he had himself proceeded far. He had published the -Rougon-Macquart series of his novels, as far as <i>Une Page d'Amour</i>. -He has added since then six or seven novels to the bulk of his works, -and he has published many forcible and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> fascinating and many repulsive -pages. But since 1880 he has not altered his method or pushed on to any -further development. He had already displayed his main qualities—his -extraordinary mixture of versatility and monotony, his enduring force, -his plentiful lack of taste, his cynical disdain for the weaknesses -of men, his admirable constructive power, his inability to select the -salient points in a vast mass of observations. He had already shown -himself what I must take the liberty of saying that he appears to me -to be—one of the leading men of genius in the second half of the -nineteenth century, one of the strongest novelists of the world; and -that in spite of faults so serious and so eradicable that they would -have hopelessly wrecked a writer a little less overwhelming in strength -and resource.</p> - -<p>Zola seems to me to be the Vulcan among our later gods, afflicted -with moral lameness from his birth, and coming to us sooty and brutal -from the forge, yet as indisputably divine as any Mercury-Hawthorne -or Apollo-Thackeray of the best of them. It is to Zola, and to Zola -only, that the concentration of the scattered tendencies of naturalism -is due. It is owing to him that the threads of Flaubert and Daudet, -Dostoiefsky and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> Tolstoi, Howells and Henry James can be drawn into -anything like a single system. It is Zola who discovered a common -measure for all these talents, and a formula wide enough and yet close -enough to distinguish them from the outside world and bind them to one -another. It is his doing that for ten years the experimental novel has -flowed in a definite channel, and has not spread itself abroad in a -thousand whimsical directions.</p> - -<p>To a serious critic, then, who is not a partisan, but who sees how -large a body of carefully composed fiction the naturalistic school -has produced, it is of great importance to know what is the formula -of M. Zola. He has defined it, one would think, clearly enough, but -to see it intelligently repeated is rare indeed. It starts from the -negation of fancy—not of imagination, as that word is used by the -best Anglo-Saxon critics, but of fancy—the romantic and rhetorical -elements that novelists have so largely used to embroider the home-spun -fabric of experience with. It starts with the exclusion of all that -is called "ideal," all that is not firmly based on the actual life of -human beings, all, in short, that is grotesque, unreal, nebulous, or -didactic. I do not understand Zola to condemn the romantic writers of -the past; I do not think he has spoken<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> of Dumas <i>pêre</i> or of George -Sand as Mr. Howells has allowed himself to speak of Dickens. He has a -phrase of contempt—richly deserved, it appears to me—for the childish -evolution of Victor Hugo's plots, and in particular of that of <i>Notre -Dame de Paris</i>; but, on the whole, his aim is rather to determine the -outlines of a new school than to attack the recognised masters of the -past. If it be not so, it should be so; there is room in the Temple of -Fame for all good writers, and it does not blast the laurels of Walter -Scott that we are deeply moved by Dostoiefsky.</p> - -<p>With Zola's theory of what the naturalistic novel should be, it seems -impossible at first sight to quarrel. It is to be contemporary; it is -to be founded on and limited by actual experience; it is to reject -all empirical modes of awakening sympathy and interest; its aim is to -place before its readers living beings, acting the comedy of life as -naturally as possible. It is to trust to principles of action and to -reject formulas of character; to cultivate the personal expression; -to be analytical rather than lyrical; to paint men as they are, not -as you think they should be. There is no harm in all this. There is -not a word here that does not apply to the chiefs of one of the two -great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> parallel schools of English fiction. It is hard to conceive of -a novelist whose work is more experimental than Richardson. Fielding -is personal and analytical above all things. If France counts George -Sand among its romanticists, we can point to a realist who is greater -than she, in Jane Austen. There is not a word to be found in M. Zola's -definitions of the experimental novel that is not fulfilled in the -pages of <i>Emma</i>; which is equivalent to saying that the most advanced -realism may be practised by the most innocent as well as the most -captivating of novelists. Miss Austen did not observe over a wide -area, but within the circle of her experience she disguised nothing, -neglected nothing, glossed over nothing. She is the perfection of the -realistic ideal, and there ought to be a statue of her in the vestibule -of the forthcoming Académie des Goncourts. Unfortunately, the lives of -her later brethren have not been so sequestered as hers, and they, too, -have thought it their duty to neglect nothing and to disguise nothing.</p> - -<p>It is not necessary to repeat here the rougher charges which have been -brought against the naturalist school in France—charges which in -mitigated form have assailed their brethren in Russia and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> America. On -a carefully reasoned page in the copy of M. Zola's essay <i>Du Roman</i> -which lies before me, one of those idiots who write in public books has -scribbled the remark, "They see nothing in life but filth and crime." -This ignoble wielder of the pencil but repeats what more ambitious -critics have been saying in solemn terms for the last fifteen years. -Even as regards Zola himself, as the author of the delicate comedy -of <i>La Conquête de Plassans</i>, and the moving tragedy of <i>Une Page -d'Amour</i>, this charge is utterly false, and in respect of the other -leaders it is simply preposterous. None the less, there are sides -upon which the naturalistic novelists are open to serious criticism -in practice. It is with no intention of underrating their eminent -qualities that I suggest certain points at which, as it appears to me, -their armour is conspicuously weak. There are limits to realism, and -they seem to have been readily discovered by the realists themselves. -These weak points are to be seen in the jointed harness of the -strongest book that the school has yet produced in any country, <i>Le -Crime et le Châtiment</i>.</p> - -<p>When the ideas of Zola were first warmly taken up, about ten years ago, -by the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> earnest and sympathetic writers who then were young, the -theory of the experimental novel seemed unassailable, and the range -within which it could be worked to advantage practically boundless. But -the fallacies of practice remained to be experienced, and looking back -upon what has been written by the leaders themselves, the places where -the theory has broken down are patent. It may not be uninteresting to -take up the leading dogmas of the naturalistic school, and to see what -elements of failure, or, rather, what limitations to success, they -contained. The outlook is very different in 1890 from what it was in -1880; and a vast number of exceedingly clever writers have laboured -to no avail, if we are not able at the latter date to gain a wider -perspective than could be obtained at the earlier one.</p> - -<p>Ten years ago, most ardent and generous young authors, outside the -frontiers of indifferent Albion, were fired with enthusiasm at the -results to be achieved by naturalism in fiction. It was to be the -Revealer and the Avenger. It was to display society as it is, and to -wipe out all the hypocrisies of convention. It was to proceed from -strength to strength. It was to place all imagination upon a scientific -basis, and to open boundless vistas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> to sincere and courageous young -novelists. We have seen with what ardent hope and confidence its -principles were accepted by Mr. Howells. We have seen all the Latin -races, in their coarser way, embrace and magnify the system. We -have seen Zola, like a heavy father in high comedy, bless a budding -generation of novel-writers, and prophesy that they will all proceed -further than he along the road of truth and experiment. Yet the -naturalistic school is really less advanced, less thorough, than it was -ten years ago. Why is this?</p> - -<p>It is doubtless because the strain and stress of production have -brought to light those weak places in the formula which were -not dreamed of. The first principle of the school was the exact -reproduction of life. But life is wide, and it is elusive. All that -the finest observer can do is to make a portrait of one corner of it. -By the confession of the master-spirit himself, this portrait is not -to be a photograph. It must be inspired by imagination, but sustained -and confined by the experience of reality. It does not appear at first -sight as though it should be difficult to attain this, but in point -of fact it is found almost impossible to approach this species of -perfection.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> The result of building up a long work on this principle -is, I hardly know why, to produce the effect of a reflection in a -convex mirror. The more accurately experimental some parts of the -picture are, the more will the want of balance and proportion in other -parts be felt. I will take at random two examples. No better work in -the naturalistic direction has been done than is to be found in the -beginning of M. Zola's <i>La Joie de Vivre</i>, or in the early part of -the middle of Mr. James's <i>Bostonians</i>. The life in the melancholy -Norman house upon the cliff, the life among the uncouth fanatic -philanthropists in the American city, these are given with a reality, -a brightness, a personal note which have an electrical effect upon the -reader. But the remainder of each of these remarkable books, built -up as they are with infinite toil by two of the most accomplished -architects of fiction now living, leaves on the mind a sense of a -strained reflection, of images blurred or malformed by a convexity of -the mirror. As I have said, it is difficult to account for this, which -is a feature of blight on almost every specimen of the experimental -novel; but perhaps it can in a measure be accounted for by the inherent -disproportion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> which exists between the small flat surface of a book -and the vast arch of life which it undertakes to mirror, those studies -being least liable to distortion which reflect the smallest section of -life, and those in which ambitious masters endeavour to make us feel -the mighty movements of populous cities and vast bodies of men being -the most inevitably misshapen.</p> - -<p>Another leading principle of the naturalists is the disinterested -attitude of the narrator. He who tells the story must not act the part -of Chorus, must not praise or blame, must have no favourites; in short, -must not be a moralist but an anatomist. This excellent and theoretical -law has been a snare in practice. The nations of continental Europe are -not bound down by conventional laws to the same extent as we English -are. The Anglo-Saxon race is now the only one that has not been touched -by that pessimism of which the writings of Schopenhauer are the most -prominent and popular exponent. This fact is too often overlooked when -we scornfully ask why the foreign nations allow themselves so great a -latitude in the discussion of moral subjects. It is partly, no doubt, -because of our beautiful Protestant institutions; because we go to -Sunday-schools and take a lively interest in the souls of other people; -because,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> in short, we are all so virtuous and godly, that our novels -are so prim and decent. But it is also partly because our hereditary -dulness in perceiving delicate ethical distinctions has given the -Anglo-Saxon race a tendency to slur over the dissonances between man -and nature. This tendency does not exist among the Latin races, who run -to the opposite extreme and exaggerate these discords. The consequence -has been that they have, almost without exception, being betrayed by -the disinterested attitude into a contemplation of crime and frailty -(notoriously more interesting than innocence and virtue) which has -given bystanders excuse for saying that these novelists are lovers -of that which is evil. In the same way they have been tempted by the -Rembrandtesque shadows of pain, dirt, and obloquy to overdash their -canvases with the subfusc hues of sentiment. In a word, in trying to -draw life evenly and draw it whole, they have introduced such a brutal -want of tone as to render the portrait a caricature. The American -realists, who were guarded by fashion from the Scylla of brutality, -have not wholly escaped, on their side and for the same reason, the -Charybdis of insipidity.</p> - -<p>It would take us too far, and would require a constant reference to -individual books, to trace the weaknesses of the realistic school of -our own day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> Human sentiment has revenged itself upon them for their -rigid regulations and scientific formulas, by betraying them into -faults the possibility of which they had not anticipated. But above -all other causes of their limited and temporary influence, the most -powerful has been the material character which their rules forced upon -them, and their excess of positivism and precision. In eliminating the -grotesque and the rhetorical they drove out more than they wished to -lose; they pushed away with their scientific pitchfork the fantastic -and intellectual elements. How utterly fatal this was may be seen, not -in the leaders, who have preserved something of the reflected colour -of the old romance, but in those earnest disciples who have pushed the -theory to its extremity. In their sombre, grimy, and dreary studies in -pathology, clinical bulletins of a soul dying of atrophy, we may see -what the limits of realism are, and how impossible it is that human -readers should much longer go on enjoying this sort of literary aliment.</p> - -<p>If I have dwelt upon these limitations, however, it has not been to -cast a stone at the naturalistic school. It has been rather with the -object of clearing away some critical misconceptions about the future -development of it. Anglo-Saxon criticism of the perambulating species -might, perhaps, be persuaded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> to consider the realists with calmer -judgment, if it looked upon them, not as a monstrous canker that was -slowly spreading its mortal influence over the whole of literature, -which it would presently overwhelm and destroy, but as a natural and -timely growth, taking its due place in the succession of products, and -bound, like other growths, to bud and blossom and decline. I venture -to put forth the view that the novel of experiment has had its day; -that it has been made the vehicle of some of the loftiest minds of our -age; that it has produced a huge body of fiction, none of it perfect, -perhaps, much of it bad, but much of it, also, exceedingly intelligent, -vivid, sincere, and durable; and that it is now declining, to leave -behind it a great memory, the prestige of persecution, and a library of -books which every highly educated man in the future will be obliged to -be familiar with.</p> - -<p>It would be difficult, I think, for any one but a realistic novelist -to overrate the good that realism in fiction has done. It has cleared -the air of a thousand follies, has pricked a whole fleet of oratorical -bubbles. Whatever comes next, we cannot return, in serious novels, to -the inanities and impossibilities of the old "well-made" plot, to the -children changed at nurse, to the madonna<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> heroine and the god-like -hero, to the impossible virtues and melodramatic vices. In future, -even those who sneer at realism and misrepresent it most wilfully, -will be obliged to put in their effects in ways more in accord with -veritable experience. The public has eaten of the apple of knowledge, -and will not be satisfied with mere marionettes. There will still be -novel-writers who address the gallery, and who will keep up the gaudy -old convention and the clumsy <i>Family Herald</i> evolution, but they will -no longer be distinguished people of genius. They will no longer sign -themselves George Sand and Charles Dickens.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, wherever I look I see the novel ripe for another -reaction. The old leaders will not change. It is not to be expected -that they will write otherwise than in the mode which has grown mature -with them. But in France, among the younger men, every one is escaping -from the realistic formula. The two young athletes for whom M. Zola -predicted ten years ago an "experimental" career more profoundly -scientific than his own, are realists no longer. M. Guy de Maupassant -has become a psychologist, and M. Huysmans a mystic. M. Bourget, who -set all the ladies dancing after his ingenious, musky books,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> never -has been a realist; nor has Pierre Loti, in whom, with a fascinating -freshness, the old exiled romanticism comes back with a laugh and a -song. All points to a reaction in France; and in Russia, too, if what -we hear is true, the next step will be one toward the mystical and -the introspective. In America it would be rash for a foreigner to say -what signs of change are evident. The time has hardly come when we -look to America for the symptoms of literary initiative. But it is my -conviction that the limits of realism have been reached; that no great -writer who has not already adapted the experimental system will do so; -and that we ought now to be on the outlook to welcome (and, of course, -to persecute) a school of novelists with a totally new aim, part of -whose formula must unquestionably be a concession to the human instinct -for mystery and beauty.</p> - -<p><i>1890.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">IS VERSE IN DANGER?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Is Verse in Danger?</h2> - -<p>We are passing through a period obviously unfavourable to the -development of the art of poetry. A little while ago there was an -outburst of popular appreciation of living verse, but this is now -replaced, for the moment, by an almost ostentatious indifference. These -alternations of curiosity and disdain deceive no one who looks at the -history of literature with an eye which is at all philosophical. It is -easy to say, as is commonly said, that they depend on the merit of the -poetry which is being produced. But this is not always, or even often, -the case. About twenty years ago a ferment of interest and enthusiasm -was called forth, all over the English-speaking world, by the early -writings of Mr. Swinburne and by those of the late Mr. Rossetti. This -was deserved by the merit of those productions; but the disdain which, -twenty years earlier,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> the verse of Mr. Robert Browning and Mr. Matthew -Arnold had met with, cannot be so accounted for. It is wiser to admit -that sons never look at life with their fathers' eyes, and that taste -is subject to incessant and almost regular fluctuations. At the present -moment, though men should sing with the voice of angels, the barbarian -public would not listen, and a new Milton would probably be less warmly -welcomed in 1890 than a Pomfret was two centuries ago or a Bowles was -in 1790. Literary history shows that a demand for poetry does not -always lead to a supply, and that a supply does not always command a -market. He who doubts this fact may compare the success of Herrick with -that of Erasmus Darwin.</p> - -<p>The only reason for preluding a speculation on the future of the art -of poetry with these remarks, is to clear the ground of any arguments -based on the merely momentary condition of things. The eagerness or -coldness of the public, the fertility or exhaustion of the poets, -at this particular juncture, are elements of no real importance. If -poetry is to continue to be one of the living arts of humanity, it -does not matter an iota whether poetry is looked upon with contempt by -the members of a single generation. If poetry is declining, and, as a -matter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> of fact, is now moribund, the immense vogue of Tennyson at a -slightly earlier period will take its place among the insignificant -phenomena of a momentary reaction. The problem is a more serious -one. It is this: Is poetry, in its very essence, an archaic and -rudimentary form of expression, still galvanised into motion, indeed, -by antiquarianism, but really obsolete and therefore to be cultivated -only at the risk of affectation and insincerity; or is it an art -capable of incessant renovation—a living organism which grows, on the -whole, with the expansion of modern life? In other words, is the art of -verse one which, like music or painting, delights and consoles us with -a species of expression which can never be superseded, because it is -in danger of no direct rivalry from a similar species; or was poetry -merely the undeveloped, though in itself the extremely beautiful, -infancy of a type which is now adult, and which has relinquished its -charming puerilities for a mode of expression infinitely wider and of -more practical utility? Sculptors, singers, painters must always exist; -but need we have poets any longer, since the world has discovered how -to say all it wants to say in prose? Will any one who has anything -of importance to communicate be likely in the future<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> to express it -through the medium of metrical language?</p> - -<p>These questions are not to be dismissed with a smile. A large number of -thoughtful persons at the present time are, undoubtedly, disposed to -answer them in the affirmative, although a certain decency forbids them -openly to say so. Plenty of clever people secretly regard the Muse as -a distinguished old lady, of good family, who has been a beauty and a -wit in her day, but who really rules only by sufferance in these years -of her decline. They whisper that she is sinking into second childhood, -that she repeats herself when she converses, and that she has exchanged -her early liberal tastes for a love of what is puerile, ingenious, and -"finikin." A great Parisian critic has just told us that each poet is -read only by the other poets, and he gives as the reason that the art -of verse has become so refined and so elaborate that it passes over -the heads of the multitude. But may it not be that this refinement is -only a decrepitude—the amusement of an old age that has sunk to the -playing of more and more helplessly ingenious games of patience? That -is what those hint who, more insidious by far than the open enemies of -literature, suggest that poetry has had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> its reign, its fascinating and -imperial tyranny, and that it must now make way for the democracy of -prose.</p> - -<p>Probably there would have been no need to face this question, either -in this generation or for many generations to come, if it had not -been for a single circumstance. The great enemies of the poets of -the present are the poets of the past, and the antiquarian spirit of -the nineteenth century has made the cessation of the publication of -fresh verse a possibility. The intellectual condition of our times -differs from that of all preceding ages in no other point so much as -in its attitude toward the writings of the dead. In those periods of -renovation which have refreshed the literatures of the world, the -tendency has always been to study some one class of deceased writers -with affection. In English history, we have seen the romantic poets of -Italy, the dramatists of Spain, the Latin satirists, and the German -ballad-mongers, exercise, at successive moments, a vivid influence on -English writers. But this study was mainly limited to those writers -themselves, and did not extend to the circle of their readers; while -even with the writers it never absorbed at a single moment the whole -range of poetry. We may take one instance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> Pope was the disciple of -Horace and of the French Jesuits, of Dryden and of the conceit-creating -school of Donne. But he was able to use Boileau and Crashaw so freely -because he addressed a public that had never met with the first and had -forgotten the second; and when he passed outside this narrow circle -he was practically without a rival. To the class whom he addressed, -Shakespeare and Milton were phantoms, Chaucer and Spenser not so much -as names. The only doubt was whether Alexander Pope was man enough to -arrest attention by the intrinsic merits of his poetry. If his verse -was admitted to be good, his public were not distracted by a preference -for other verse which they had known for a longer time.</p> - -<p>This remained true until about a generation ago. The great romantic -poets of the beginning of this century found the didactic and -rhetorical verse-writers of the eighteenth century in possession of the -field, but they found no one else there. Their action was of the nature -of a revolt—a revolution so successful that it became constitutional. -All that Wordsworth and Keats had to do was to prove their immediate -predecessors to be unworthy of public attention, and when once they -had <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>persuaded the reading world that what they had to offer was more -pleasing than what Young and Churchill and Darwin had offered, the -revolution was complete. But, in order to draw attention to the merits -of the proposed change, the romantic poets of the Georgian age pointed -to the work of the writers of the Elizabethan age, whom they claimed as -their natural predecessors—the old stock cast out at the Restoration -and now reinstated. The public had entirely forgotten the works of -these writers, except to some extent those of the dramatists, and it -became necessary to reprint them. A whole galaxy of poetic stars was -revealed when the cloud of prejudice was blown away, and a class of -dangerous rivals to the modern poet was introduced.</p> - -<p>The activity of the dead is now paramount, and threatens to paralyse -original writing altogether. The revival of the old poets who were in -direct sympathy with Keats and Wordsworth has extended far beyond the -limits which those who inaugurated it desired to lay down. Every poetic -writer of any age precedent to our own has now a chance of popularity, -often a very much better chance than he possessed during his own -lifetime. Scarcely a poet, from Chaucer downward, remains inedited.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> -The imitative lyrist who, in a paroxysm of inspiration, wrote one good -sonnet under the sway of James I., but was never recognised as a poet -even by his friends, rejoices now in a portly quarto, and lives for the -first time. The order of nature is reversed, and those who were only -ghosts in the seventeenth century come back to us clothed in literary -vitality.</p> - -<p>In this great throng of resuscitated souls, all of whom have forfeited -their copyright, how is the modern poet to exist? He has no longer to -compete—as "his great forefathers did, from Homer down to Ben"—with -the leading spirits of his own generation, but with the picked genius -of the world. He writes an epic; Mr. Besant and the Society of Authors -oblige him to "retain his rights," to "publish at a royalty," and to -keep the rules of the game. But Milton has no rights and demands no -royalty. The new poet composes lyrics and publishes them in a volume. -They are sincere and ingenious; but why should the reader buy that -volume, when he can get the best of Shelley and Coleridge, of Gray and -Marvell, in a cheaper form in <i>The Golden Treasury</i>? At every turn the -thronging company of the ghosts impedes and disheartens the modern -writer, and it is no wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> if the new Orpheus throws down his lyre -in despair when the road to his desire is held by such an invincible -army of spectres. In the golden age of the Renaissance an enthusiast -is said to have offered up a manuscript by Martial every year, as a -burnt sacrifice to Catullus, an author whom he distinctly preferred. -The modern poet, if he were not afraid of popular censure, might make -a yearly holocaust of editions of the British classics, in honour of -the Genius of Poetry. There are many enemies of the art abroad, but -among them all the most powerful and insidious are those of its own -household. The poets of to-day might contrive to fish the murex up, and -to eat turtle, if it were not for the intolerable rivalry of "souls of -poets dead and gone."</p> - -<p>On the whole, however, it is highly unlikely that the antiquarian -passion of our age will last. Already it gives signs of wearing -out, and it will probably be succeeded by a spirit of unreasonable -intolerance of the past. Intellectual invention will not allow itself -to be pinioned for ever by these soft and universal cords of tradition, -each as slight as gossamer in itself, but overwhelming in the immense -mass. As for the old poets, young verse-writers may note with glee -that these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> rivals of theirs are being caught in the butterfly net of -education, where they will soon find the attractive feathers rubbed -off their wings. One by one they pass into text-books and are lost. -Chaucer is done for, and so is Milton; Goldsmith is annotated, Scott -is prepared for "local examinations," and even Byron, the loose, the -ungrammatical, is edited as a school book. The noble army of extension -lecturers will scarcely pause in their onward march. We shall see -Wordsworth captured, Shelley boiled down for the use of babes, and -Keats elaborately annotated, with his blunders in classical mythology -exposed. The schoolmaster is the only friend the poet of the future -dares to look to, for he alone has the power to destroy the loveliness -and mystery which are the charm of the old poets. Even a second-rate -verse-writer may hope to live by the side of an Elizabethan poet edited -for the Clarendon Press.</p> - -<p>This remedy may, however, be considered fantastic, and it would -scarcely be wise to trust to it. There is, nevertheless, nothing -ironical in the statement that an exaggerated attention paid to -historical work leaves no time and no appetite for what contemporaries -produce. The neglect of poetry is so widespread that if the very small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> -residuum of love of verse is expended lavishly on the dead, the living -are likely to come off badly indeed. The other arts, which can better -defend themselves, are experiencing the same sense of being starved -by the old masters. The bulk of the public neither buys books nor -invests in pictures, nor orders statuary according to its own taste, -but according to the fashion; and if the craze is antiquarian, we may -produce Raphaels in dozens and Shelleys in shoals; they will have to -subsist as the bears and the pelicans do.</p> - -<p>Let us abandon ourselves, however, to the vain pleasure of prophesying. -Let us suppose, for the humour of it, that what very young gentlemen -call "the might of poesy" is sure to reassert itself, that the votaries -of modern verse will always form a respectable minimum, and that some -alteration in fashion will reduce the tyranny of antiquarianism to -decent proportions. Admit that poetry, in whatever lamentable condition -it may be at the present time, is eternal in its essence, and must -offer the means of expression to certain admirable talents in each -generation. What, then, is the form which we may reasonably expect it -to take next? This is, surely, a harmless kind of speculation, and the -moral certainty of being fooled by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> the event need not restrain us -from indulging in it. We will prophesy, although fully conscious of -the wild predictions on the same subject current in England in 1580, -1650, and 1780, and in France in 1775 and 1825. We may be quite sure of -one thing, that when the Marlowe or the André Chénier is coming, not -a single critic will be expecting him. But in the meantime why show a -front less courageous than that of the history-defying Zadkiel?</p> - -<p>It is usually said, in hasty generalisation, that the poetry of the -present age is unique in the extreme refinement of its exterior -mechanism. Those who say this are not aware that the great poets whose -virile simplicity and robust carelessness of detail they applaud—thus -building tombs to prophets whom they have never worshipped—have, -almost without exception, been scrupulously attentive to form. No -modern writer has been so learned in rhythm as Milton, so faultless -in rhyme-arrangement as Spenser. But what is true is that a care for -form, and a considerable skill in the technical art of verse, have -been acquired by writers of a lower order, and that this sort of -perfection is no longer the hall-mark of a great master. We may expect -it, therefore, to attract less<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> attention in the future; and although, -assuredly, the bastard jargon of Walt Whitman, and kindred returns to -sheer barbarism, will not be accepted, technical perfection will more -and more be taken as a matter of course, as a portion of the poet's -training which shall be as indispensable, and as little worthy of -notice, as that a musician should read his notes correctly.</p> - -<p>Less effort, therefore, is likely to be made, in the immediate -future, to give pleasure by the manner of poetry, and more skill -will be expended on the subject-matter. By this I do not understand -that greater concession will be made than in the past to what may be -called the didactic fallacy, the obstinate belief of some critics in -the function of poetry as a teacher. The fact is certain that nothing -is more obsolete than educational verse, the literary product which -deliberately supplies information. We may see another Sappho; it is -even conceivable that we might see another Homer; but a new Hesiod, -never. Knowledge has grown to be far too complex, exact, and minute to -be impressed upon the memory by the artifice of rhyme; and poetry had -scarcely passed its infancy before it discovered that to stimulate, to -impassion, to amuse, were the proper duties of an art which appeals to -the emotions, and to the emotions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> only. The curious attempts, then, -which have been made by poets of no mean talent to dedicate their verse -to botany, to the Darwinian hypothesis, to the loves of the fossils, -and to astronomical science, are not likely to be repeated, and if they -should be repeated, they would scarcely attract much popular attention. -Nor is the epic, on a large scale—that noble and cumbersome edifice -with all its blank windows and corridors that lead to nothing—a -species of poetic architecture which the immediate future can be -expected to indulge in.</p> - -<p>Leaving the negative for the positive, then, we may fancy that one -or two probabilities loom before us. Poetry, if it exist at all, -will deal, and probably to a greater degree than ever before, with -those more frail and ephemeral shades of emotion which prose scarcely -ventures to describe. The existence of a delicately organised human -being is diversified by divisions and revulsions of sensation, -ill-defined desires, gleams of intuition, and the whole gamut of -spiritual notes descending from exultation to despair, none of which -have ever been adequately treated except in the hieratic language of -poetry. The most realistic novel, the closest psychological analysis in -prose, does no more than skim the surface of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> soul; verse has the -privilege of descending into its depths. In the future, lyrical poetry -will probably grow less trivial and less conventional, at the risk of -being less popular. It will interpret what prose dares not suggest. -It will penetrate further into the complexity of human sensation, -and, untroubled by the necessity of formulating a creed, a theory, or -a story, will describe with delicate accuracy, and under a veil of -artistic beauty, the amazing, the unfamiliar, and even the portentous -phenomena which it encounters.</p> - -<p>The social revolution or evolution which most sensible people are -now convinced is imminent, will surely require a species of poetry -to accompany its course and to celebrate its triumphs. If we could -foresee what form this species will take, we should know all things. -But we must believe that it will be democratic, and that to a -degree at present unimaginable. The aristocratic tradition is still -paramount in all art. Kings, princesses, and the symbols of chivalry -are as essential to poetry, as we now conceive it, as roses, stars, -or nightingales. The poet may be a pronounced socialist; he may be -Mr. William Morris; but the oligarchic imagery pervades his work as -completely as if he were a troubadour of the thirteenth century. It is -difficult<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> to understand what will be left if this romantic phraseology -is destroyed, but it is still more difficult to believe that it can -survive a complete social revolution.</p> - -<p>A kind of poetry now scarcely cultivated at all may be expected to -occupy the attention of the poets, whether socialism hastens or delays. -What the Germans understand by epic verse—that is to say, short and -highly finished studies in narrative—is a class of literature which -offers unlimited opportunities. What may be done in this direction is -indicated in France by the work of M. Coppée. In England and America -we have at present nothing at all like it, the idyllic stories of Mr. -Coventry Patmore presenting the closest parallel. The great danger -which attends the writing of these narratives in English is the -tendency to lose distinction of style, to become humorous in dealing -with the grotesque and tame in describing the simple. Blank verse will -be wholly eschewed by those who in the future sing the annals of the -humble; they will feel that the strictest art and the most exquisite -ornament of rhyme and metre will be required for the treatment of -such narratives. M. Coppée himself, who records the adventures of -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>seamstresses and engine-drivers, of shipwrecked sailors and retail -grocers, with such simplicity and moving pathos, has not his rival -in all France for purity of phrase and for exquisite propriety of -versification.</p> - -<p>The modern interest in the drama, and the ever-growing desire to -see literature once more wedded to the stage, will, it can hardly -be doubted, lead to a revival of dramatic poetry. This will not, -of course, have any relation to the feeble lycean plays of the -hour—spectacular romances enshrined in ambling blank verse—but will, -in its form and substance alike, offer entertainment to other organs -than the eye. Probably the puritanic limitations which have so long -cramped the English theatre will be removed, and British plays, while -remaining civilised and decent, will once more deal with the realities -of life and not with its conventions. Neither the funeral baked meats -of the romantic English novel, nor the spiced and potted dainties of -the French stage, will satisfy our playgoers when once we have strong -and sincere playwrights of our own.</p> - -<p>In religious verse something, and in philosophical verse much, remains -to be done. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> wider hope has scarcely found a singer yet, and the -deeper speculation has been very imperfectly and empirically celebrated -by our poets. Whether love, the very central fountain of poetic -inspiration in the past, can yield many fresh variations, remains to be -seen. That passion will, however, in all probability be treated in the -future less objectively and with a less obtrusive landscape background. -The school which is now expiring has carried description, the -consciousness of exterior forms and colours, the drapery and upholstery -of nature, to its extreme limit. The next development of poetry is -likely to be very bare and direct, unembroidered, perhaps even arid, -in character. It will be experimental rather than descriptive, human -rather than animal. So at least we vaguely conjecture. But whatever -the issue may be, we may be confident that the art will retain that -poignant charm over undeveloped minds, and that exquisite fascination, -which for so many successive generations have made poetry the wisest -and the fairest friend of youth.</p> - -<p><i>1891.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">TENNYSON—AND AFTER</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Tennyson—and After</h2> - -<p>As we filed slowly out of the Abbey on the afternoon of Wednesday, the -12th of October, 1892, there must have occurred to others, I think, -as to myself, a whimsical and half-terrifying sense of the symbolic -contrast between what we had left and what we emerged upon. Inside, -the grey and vitreous atmosphere, the reverberations of music moaning -somewhere out of sight, the bones and monuments of the noble dead, -reverence, antiquity, beauty, rest. Outside, in the raw air, a tribe -of hawkers urging upon the edges of a dense and inquisitive crowd a -large sheet of pictures of the pursuit of a flea by a "lady," and more -insidious salesmen doing a brisk trade in what they falsely pretended -to be "Tennyson's last poem."</p> - -<p>Next day we read in our newspapers affecting accounts of the emotion -displayed by the vast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> crowds outside the Abbey—horny hands dashing -away the tear, seamstresses holding the "the little green volumes" to -their faces to hide their agitation. Happy for those who could see -these things with their fairy telescopes out of the garrets of Fleet -Street. I, alas!—though I sought assiduously—could mark nothing -of the kind. Entering the Abbey, conducted by courteous policemen -through unparalleled masses of the curious, we distinguished patience, -good behaviour, cheerful and untiring inquisitiveness, a certain -obvious gratitude for an incomprehensible spectacle provided by the -authorities, but nothing else. And leaving the Abbey, as I say, the -impression was one almost sinister in its abrupt transition. Poetry, -authority, the grace and dignity of life, seemed to have been left -behind us for ever in that twilight where Tennyson was sleeping with -Chaucer and with Dryden.</p> - -<p>In recording this impression I desire nothing so little as to appear -censorious. Even the external part of the funeral at Westminster -seemed, as was said of the similar scene which was enacted there nearly -two hundred years ago, "a well-conducted and uncommon public ceremony, -where the philosopher can find nothing to condemn, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> the satirist -to ridicule." But the contrast between the outside and the inside of -the Abbey, a contrast which may possibly have been merely whimsical -in itself, served for a parable of the condition of poetry in England -as the burial of Tennyson has left it. If it be only the outworn body -of this glorious man which we have relinquished to the safeguard of -the Minster, gathered to his peers in the fulness of time, we have no -serious ground for apprehension, nor, after the first painful moment, -even for sorrow. His harvest is ripe, and we hold it in our granaries. -The noble physical presence which has been the revered companion of -three generations has, indeed, sunk at length:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Yet would we not disturb him from his tomb,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Thus sleeping in his Abbey's friendly shade,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And the rough waves of life for ever laid.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>But what if this vast and sounding funeral should prove to have -really been the entombment of English poetry? What if it should be -the prestige of verse that we left behind us in the Abbey? That is a -question which has issues far more serious than the death of any one -man, no matter how majestic that man may be.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> - -<p>Poetry is not a democratic art. We are constantly being told by the -flexible scribes who live to flatter the multitude that the truest -poetry is that which speaks to the million, that moves the great -heart of the masses. In his private consciousness no one knows better -than the lettered man who writes such sentences that they are not -true. Since the pastoral days in which poets made great verses for a -little clan, it has never been true that poetry of the noblest kind -was really appreciated by the masses. If we take the bulk of what are -called educated people, but a very small proportion are genuinely fond -of reading. Sift this minority, and but a minute residue of it will -be found to be sincerely devoted to beautiful poetry. The genuine -lovers of verse are so few that if they could be made the subject of a -statistical report, we should probably be astounded at the smallness of -their number. From the purely democratic point of view it is certain -that they form a negligible quantity. They would produce no general -effect at all if they were not surrounded by a very much larger -number of persons who, without taste for poetry themselves, are yet -traditionally impressed with its value, and treat it with conventional -respect, buying it a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> little, frequently conversing about it, pressing -to gaze at its famous professors, and competing for places beside the -tombs of its prophets. The respect for poetry felt by these persons, -although in itself unmeaning, is extremely valuable in its results. It -supports the enthusiasm of the few who know and feel for themselves, -and it radiates far and wide into the outer masses, whose darkness -would otherwise be unreached by the very glimmer of these things.</p> - -<p>There is no question, however, that the existence in prominent public -honour of an art in its essence so aristocratic as poetry—that is to -say, so dependent on the suffrages of a few thousand persons who happen -to possess, in greater or lesser degree, certain peculiar qualities -of mind and ear—is, at the present day, anomalous, and therefore -perilous. All this beautiful pinnacled structure of the glory of verse, -this splendid position of poetry at the summit of the civil ornaments -of the Empire, is built of carven ice, and needs nothing but that the -hot popular breath should be turned upon it to sink into so much water. -It is kept standing there, flashing and sparkling before our eyes, by a -succession of happy accidents. To speak rudely, it is kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> there by an -effort of bluff on the part of a small influential class.</p> - -<p>In reflecting on these facts, I have found myself depressed and -terrified at an ebullition of popularity which seems to have struck -almost everybody else with extreme satisfaction. It has been very -natural that the stupendous honour apparently done to Tennyson, not -merely by the few who always valued him, but by the many who might be -supposed to stand outside his influence, has been welcomed with delight -and enthusiasm. But what is so sinister a circumstance is the excessive -character of this exhibition. I think of the funeral of Wordsworth at -Grasmere, only forty-two years ago, with a score of persons gathering -quietly under the low wall that fenced them from the brawling Rotha; -and I turn to the spectacle of the 12th, the vast black crowd in the -street, the ten thousand persons refused admission to the Abbey, -the whole enormous popular manifestation.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> What does it mean? Is -Tennyson, great as he is, a thousand times greater than Wordsworth? Has -poetry, in forty years, risen at this ratio in the public estimation? -The democracy, I fear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> doth protest too much, and there is danger in -this hollow reverence.</p> - -<p>The danger takes this form. It may at any moment come to be held -that the poet, were he the greatest that ever lived, was greater -than poetry; the artist more interesting than his art. This was a -peril unknown in ancient times. The plays of Shakespeare and his -contemporaries were scarcely more closely identified with the men -who wrote them than Gothic cathedrals were with their architects. -Cowley was the first English poet about whom much personal interest -was felt outside the poetic class. Dryden is far more evident to us -than the Elizabethans were, yet phantasmal by the side of Pope. Since -the age of Anne an interest in the poet, as distinguished from his -poetry, has steadily increased; the fashion for Byron, the posthumous -curiosity in Shelley and Keats, are examples of the rapid growth of -this individualisation in the present century. But since the death -of Wordsworth it has taken colossal proportions, without, so far as -can be observed, any parallel quickening of the taste for poetry -itself. The result is that a very interesting or picturesque figure, -if identified with poetry, may attract an amount of attention and -admiration<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> which is spurious as regards the poetry, and of no real -significance. Tennyson had grown to be by far the most mysterious, -august, and singular figure in English society. He represented poetry, -and the world now expects its poets to be as picturesque, as aged, and -as individual as he was, or else it will pay poetry no attention. I -fear, to be brief, that the personal, as distinguished from the purely -literary, distinction of Tennyson may strike, for the time being, a -serious blow at the vitality of poetry in this country.</p> - -<p>Circumstances have combined, in a very curious way, to produce this -result. If a supernatural power could be conceived as planning a scenic -effect, it could hardly have arranged it in a manner more telling, or -more calculated to excite the popular imagination, than has been the -case in the quick succession of the death of Matthew Arnold, of Robert -Browning, and of Tennyson.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?</i></div> -<div><i>Thy shaft few thrice; and thrice our peace was slain.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>A great poet was followed by a greater, and he by the greatest of the -century, and all within five years. So died, but not with this crescent -effect, Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Raleigh; so Vanbrugh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> Congreve, -Gay, Steele, and Defoe; so Byron, Shelley, and Keats; so Scott, -Coleridge, and Lamb. But in none of these cases was the field left -so exposed as it now is in popular estimation. The deaths of Keats, -Shelley, and Byron were really momentous to an infinitely greater -degree than those of Arnold, Browning, and Tennyson, because the former -were still in the prime of life, while the latter had done their work; -but the general public was not aware of this, and, as is well known, -Shelley and Keats passed away without exciting a ripple of popular -curiosity.</p> - -<p>The tone of criticism since the death of Tennyson has been very much -what might, under the circumstances, have been expected. Their efforts -to overwhelm his coffin with lilies and roses have seemed paltry to -the critics, unless they could succeed, at the same time, in laying -waste all the smaller gardens of his neighbours. There is no doubt -that the instinct for suttee lies firmly embedded in human nature, and -that the glory of a dead rajah is dimly felt by us all to be imperfect -unless some one or other is immolated on his funeral pile. But when -we come to think calmly on this matter, it will be seen that this -offering up of the live poets as a burnt sacrifice to the memory of -their dead<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> master is absurd and grotesque. We have boasted all these -years that we possessed the greatest of the world's poets since Victor -Hugo. We did well to boast. But he is taken from us at a great age, -and we complain at once, with bitter cries—because we have no poet -left so venerable or so perfect in ripeness of the long-drawn years of -craftsmanship—that poetry is dead amongst us, and that all the other -excellent artists in verse are worthless scribblers. This is natural, -perhaps, but it is scarcely generous and not a little ridiculous. It -is, moreover, exactly what the critics said in 1850, when Arnold, -Browning, and Tennyson had already published a great deal of their most -admirable work.</p> - -<p>The ingratitude of the hour towards the surviving poets of England pays -but a poor compliment to the memory of that great man whose fame it -professes to honour. I suppose that there has scarcely been a writer -of interesting verse who has come into anything like prominence within -the lifetime of Tennyson who has not received from him some letter of -praise—some message of benevolent indulgence. More than fifty years -ago he wrote, in glowing terms, to congratulate Mr. Bailey on his -<i>Festus</i>; it is only yesterday that we were hearing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> of his letters to -Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. William Watson. Tennyson did not affect to -be a critic—no man, indeed, can ever have lived who less <i>affected</i> -to be anything—but he loved good verses, and he knew them when he -saw them, and welcomed them indulgently. No one can find it more -distasteful to him to have it asserted that Tennyson was, and will be, -"the last of the English poets" than would Tennyson himself.</p> - -<p>It was not my good fortune to see him many times, and only twice, at an -interval of about twelve years, did I have the privilege of hearing him -talk at length and ease. On each of those occasions, however, it was -noticeable with what warmth and confidence he spoke of the future of -English poetry, with what interest he evidently followed its progress, -and how cordially he appreciated what various younger men were doing. -In particular, I hope it is not indiscreet to refer to the tone in -which he spoke to me on each of these occasions of Mr. Swinburne, -whose critical conscience had, it must not be forgotten, led him to -refer with no slight severity to several of the elder poet's writings. -In 1877 Mr. Swinburne's strictures were still recent, and might not -unreasonably have been painfully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> recollected. Yet Tennyson spoke of -him almost as Dryden did two hundred years ago to Congreve:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>And this I prophesy—thou shalt be seen</i></div> -<div><i>(Though with some short parenthesis between)</i></div> -<div><i>High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,</i></div> -<div><i>Not mine (that's little), but thy laurel wear.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>It would never have occurred to this great and wise man that his own -death could be supposed to mark the final burning up and turning to -ashes of the prophetic bays.</p> - -<p>These are considerations, however—to return to my original -parable—for the few within the Abbey. They are of no force in guiding -opinion among the non-poetical masses outside. These, dangerously moved -for the nonce to observe the existence of poetry, may make a great -many painful and undesirable reflections before the subject quits -their memory. There is always a peril in a popular movement that is -not founded on genuine feeling, and the excitement about Tennyson's -death has been far too universal to be sincere. It is even now not too -early for us to perceive, if we will face it calmly, that elements of -a much commoner and emptier nature than reverence for a man of genius -have entered into the stir about the Laureate's burial. The multitude -so stirred into an excited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> curiosity about a great poet will presently -crave, of course, a little more excitement still over another poet, -and this stimulant will not be forthcoming. We have not, and shall not -have for a generation at least, such another sacrifice to offer to the -monster. It will be in the retreat of the wave, in the sense of popular -disappointment at the non-recurrence of such intellectual shocks as the -deaths of Browning and Tennyson have supplied, that the right of poetry -to take precedence among the arts of writing will for the first time -come to be seriously questioned. Our critics will then, too late, begin -to regret their suttee of the Muses; but if they try to redeem their -position by praising this living poet or that, the public will only too -glibly remind them of their own dictum that "poetry died with Tennyson."</p> - -<p>In old days the reading public swept the literature of its fathers -into the dust-bin, and read Horace while its immediate contemporaries -were preparing works in prose and verse to suit the taste of the -moment. But nowadays each great writer who passes out of physical life -preserves his intellectual existence intact and becomes a lasting -rival to his surviving successor. The young novelist has no living -competitor so dangerous to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> him as Dickens and Thackeray are, who are -nevertheless divided from him by time almost as far as Milton was from -Pope. It is nearly seventy years since the earliest of Macaulay's -<i>Essays</i> appeared, and the least reference to one of them would now -be recognised by "every schoolboy." Less than seventy years after -the death of Bacon his <i>Essays</i> were so completely forgotten that -when extracts from them were discovered in the common-place book of -a deceased lady of quality, they were supposed to be her own, were -published and praised by people as clever as Congreve, went through -several editions, and were not detected until within the present -century. When an age made a palimpsest of its memory in this way it was -far easier to content it with contemporary literary excellence than it -is now, when every aspirant is confronted with the quintessence of the -centuries.</p> - -<p>It is not, however, from the captious taste of the public that most is -to be feared, but from its indifference. Let it not be believed that, -because a mob of the votaries of Mr. Jerome and Mr. Sims have been -drawn to the precincts of the Abbey to gaze upon a pompous ceremonial, -these admirable citizens have suddenly taken to reading<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> <i>Lucretius</i> -or <i>The Two Voices</i>. What their praise is worth no one among us would -venture to say in words so unmeasured as those of the dead Master -himself, who, with a prescience of their mortuary attentions, spoke of -these irreverent admirers as those</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Who make it seem more sweet to be</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>The little life of bank and brier,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>The bird who pipes his lone desire</i></div> -<div><i>And dies unheard within his tree,</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Than he that warbles long and loud,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And drops at Glory's temple-gates,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>For whom the carrion-vulture waits</i></div> -<div><i>To tear his heart before the crowd.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>If this is more harsh reproof than a mere idle desire to be excited by -a spectacle or by an event demands, it may nevertheless serve us as -an antidote to the vain illusion that these multitudes are suddenly -converted to a love of fine literature. They are not so converted, and -fine literature—however scandalous it may sound in the ears of this -generation to say it—is for the few.</p> - -<p>How long, then, will the many permit themselves to be brow-beaten by -the few? At the present time the oligarchy of taste governs our vast -republic of readers. We tell them to praise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> the Bishop of Oxford for -his history, and Mr. Walter Pater for his essays, and Mr. Herbert -Spencer for his philosophy, and Mr. George Meredith for his novels. -They obey us, and these are great and illustrious personages about -whom newspaper gossip is continually occupied, whom crowds, when they -have the chance, hurry to gaze at, but whose books (or I am cruelly -misinformed) brave a relatively small circulation. These reputations -are like beautiful churches, into which people turn to cross themselves -with holy water, bow to the altar, and then hurry out again to spend -the rest of the morning in some snug tavern.</p> - -<p>Among these churches of living fame, the noblest, the most exquisite -was that sublime cathedral of song which we called Tennyson; and -there, it is true, drawn by fashion and by a choral service of extreme -beauty, the public had formed the habit of congregating. But at length, -after a final ceremony of incomparable dignity, this minster has been -closed. Where will the people who attended there go now? The other -churches stand around, honoured and empty. Will they now be better -filled? Or will some secularist mayor, of strong purpose and an enemy -to sentiment, order them to be deserted altogether? We may, at any -rate,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> be quite sure that this remarkable phenomenon of the popularity -of Tennyson, however we regard it, is but transitory and accidental, -or at most personal to himself. That it shows any change in the public -attitude of reserved or grumbling respect to the best literature, and -radical dislike to style, will not be seriously advanced.</p> - -<p>What I dread, what I long have dreaded, is the eruption of a sort -of Commune in literature. At no period could the danger of such an -outbreak of rebellion against tradition be so great as during the -reaction which must follow the death of our most illustrious writer. -Then, if ever, I should expect to see a determined resistance made to -the pretensions of whatever is rare, or delicate, or abstruse. At no -time, I think, ought those who guide taste amongst us to be more on -their guard to preserve a lofty and yet generous standard, to insist on -the merits of what is beautiful and yet unpopular, and to be unaffected -by commercial tests of distinction. We have lived for ten years in a -fool's paradise. Without suspecting the truth, we have been passing -through a period of poetic glory hardly to be paralleled elsewhere -in our history. One by one great luminaries were removed—Rossetti, -Newman, Arnold, Browning sank,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> each star burning larger as it neared -the horizon. Still we felt no apprehension, saying, as we turned -towards Farringford:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"<i>Mais le père est là-bas, dans l'île.</i>"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Now he is gone also, and the shock of his extinction strikes us for the -moment with a sense of positive and universal darkness.</p> - -<p>But this very natural impression is a mistaken one. As our eyes grow -accustomed to the absence of this bright particular planet, we shall -be more and more conscious of the illuminating power of the heavenly -bodies that are left. We shall, at least, if criticism directs us -carefully and wholesomely. With all the losses that our literature -has sustained, we are, still, more richly provided with living poets -of distinction than all but the blossoming periods of our history -have been. In this respect we are easily deceived by a glance at some -chart of the course of English literature, where the lines of life of -aged writers overlap those of writers still in their early youth. The -worst pessimist amongst us will not declare that our poetry seems to -be in the utterly and deplorably indigent condition in which the death -of Burns appeared to leave it in 1796. Then the beholder, glancing -round, would see nothing but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> Crabbe, grown silent for eleven years, -Cowper insane, Blake undeveloped and unrecognised; the pompous, florid -Erasmus Darwin left solitary master of the field. But we, who look at -the chart, see Wordsworth and Coleridge on the point of evolution, -Campbell and Moore at school, Byron and Shelley in the nursery, and -Keats an infant. Who can tell what inheritors of unfulfilled renown may -not now be staining their divine lips with the latest of this season's -blackberries?</p> - -<p>But we are not left to these conjectural consolations. I believe that -I take very safe ground when I say that our living poets present a -variety and amplitude of talent, a fulness of tone, an accomplishment -in art, such as few other generations in England, and still fewer -elsewhere, have been in a position to exult in. It would be invidious, -and it might indeed be very difficult and tedious, to go through the -list of those who do signal honour to our living literature in this -respect. Without repeating the list so patiently drawn up and so -humorously commented upon by Mr. Traill, it would be easy to select -from it fifteen names, not one of which would be below the fair -meridian of original merit, and many of which would rise far above it. -Could so much have been said in 1592, or in 1692, or in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> 1792? Surely, -no. I must not be led to multiply names, the mere mention of which in -so casual a manner can hardly fail to seem impertinent; yet I venture -to assert that a generation which can boast of Mr. Swinburne and Miss -Christina Rossetti, of Mr. William Morris and Mr. Coventry Patmore, of -Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Robert Bridges, has no reason to complain of -lack of fire or elevation, grace or versatility.</p> - -<p>It was only in Paradise, so we learn from St. Basil, that roses ever -grew without thorns. We cannot have the rose of such an exceptional -life as Tennyson's without suffering for it. We suffer by the void its -cessation produces, the disturbance in our literary hierarchy that -it brings, the sense of uncertainty and insufficiency that follows -upon it. The death of Victor Hugo led to precisely such a rocking and -swaying of the ship of literature in France, and to this day it cannot -be said that the balance there is completely restored. I cannot think -that we gain much by ignoring this disturbance, which is inevitable, -and still less by folding our hands and calling out that it means that -the vessel is sinking. It means nothing of the kind. What it does mean -is that when a man of the very highest rank in the profession lives to -an exceptionally great age, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> retains his intellectual gifts to the -end, combining with these unusual advantages the still more fortuitous -ones of being singular and picturesque in his personality and the -object of much ungratified curiosity, he becomes the victim, in the -eyes of his contemporaries, of a sort of vertical mirage. He is seen -up in the sky where no man could be. I trust I shall not be accused of -anything like disrespect to the genius of Tennyson—which I loved and -admired as nearly to the pitch of idolatry as possible—when I say that -his reputation at this moment is largely mirage. His gifts were of the -very highest order; but in the popular esteem, at this moment, he holds -a position which is, to carry on the image, topographically impossible. -No poet, no man, ever reached that altitude above his fellows.</p> - -<p>The result of seeing one mountain in vertical mirage, and various -surrounding acclivities (if that were possible) at their proper -heights, would be to falsify the whole system of optical proportion. -Yet this is what is now happening, and for some little time will -continue to happen <i>in crescendo</i>, with regard to Tennyson and his -surviving contemporaries. There is no need, however, to cherish "those -gloomy thoughts led on by spleen" which the melancholy events of the -past month have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> awakened. The recuperative force of the arts has never -yet failed the human race, and will not fail us now. All the <i>Tit-Bits</i> -and <i>Pearson's Weeklies</i> in the world will not be able to destroy a -fragment of pure and original literature, although the tastes they -foster may delay its recognition and curtail its rewards.</p> - -<p>The duty of all who have any influence on the public is now clear. So -far from resigning the responsibility of praise and blame, so far from -opening the flood-gates to what is bad—on the ground that the best -is gone, and that it does not matter—it behoves those who are our -recognised judges of literary merit to resist more strenuously than -ever the inroads of mere commercial success into the Temple of Fame. -The Scotch ministry preserve that interesting practice of "fencing the -tables" of the Lord by a solemn searching of would-be communicants. Let -the tables of Apollo be fenced, not to the exclusion or the discomfort -of those who have a right to his sacraments, but to the chastening of -those who have no other mark of his service but their passbook. And -poetry, which survived the death of Chaucer, will recover even from the -death of Tennyson.</p> - -<p><i>1892.</i></p> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Mr. Hall Caine's interesting article in the <i>Times</i> -for October 17th, 1892.</p></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">SHELLEY in 1892</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Shelley in 1892</h2> - -<p class="center"><i>Centenary Address delivered at Horsham, August 11, 1892</i></p> - -<p>We meet to-day to celebrate the fact that, exactly one hundred -years ago, there was born, in an old house in this parish, one of -the greatest of the English poets, one of the most individual and -remarkable of the poets of the world. This beautiful county of Sussex, -with its blowing woodlands and its shining downs, was even then not -unaccustomed to poetic honours. One hundred and thirty years before, -it had given birth to Otway; seventy years before, to Collins. But -charming as these pathetic figures were and are, not Collins and -not Otway can compare for a moment with that writer who is the -main intellectual glory of Sussex, the ever-beloved and ethereally -illustrious Percy Bysshe Shelley. It has appeared to me that you might, -as a Sussex audience, gathered in a Sussex town, like to be reminded, -before we go any further, of the exact connection of our poet with -the county—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>of the stake, as it is called, which his family held in -Sussex, and of the period of his own residence in it. You will see -that, although his native province lost him early, she had a strong -claim upon his interests and associations.</p> - -<p>When Shelley was born, on the 4th of August, 1792, his grandfather, -afterwards a baronet, Sir Bysshe Shelley, was ensconced at Goring -Castle, while his father, the heir to the title, Mr. Timothy Shelley, -inhabited that famous house, Field Place, which lies here at your -doors. Mr. Timothy Shelley had married a lady from your nearest eastern -neighbour, the town of Cuckfield; he was M.P. for another Sussex -borough, Shoreham; in the next Parliament he was to represent, if I am -not mistaken, Horsham itself. The names which meet us in the earliest -pages of the poet's biographies are all Sussex names. It was at Warnham -that he was taught his earliest lessons, and it was in Warnham Pond -that the great tortoise lurked which was the earliest of his visions. -St. Irvine's, in whose woods he loved to wander by moonlight, has -disappeared, but Strode is close to you still, and if St. Leonard's -Forest has shrunken somewhat to the eastward since Shelley walked and -raved in its allies, you still possess it in your neighbourhood.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> - -<p>Until Shelley was expelled from Oxford, Field Place was his constant -residence out of school and college hours. Nor, although his father at -first forbade him to return, was his connection with Sussex broken even -then. The house of his uncle, Captain Pilfold, was always open to him -at Cuckfield, and when the Duke of Norfolk made his kind suggestion -that the young man should enter Parliament, as a species of moral -sedative, it was to a Sussex borough that he proposed to nominate -him. Shelley's first abortive volume of poems was set up by a Horsham -printer, and it was from Hurstpierpoint that Miss Hitchener, afterwards -known as the "Brown Demon," started on her disastrous expedition into -the lives of the Shelleys. It was not until 1814, on the eve of his -departure for the Continent, that Shelley came to Sussex for the last -time, paying that furtive visit to his mother and sisters, on which, -in order to conceal himself from his father, he buttoned the scarlet -jacket of a guardsman round his attenuated form.</p> - -<p>If I have endeavoured, by thus grouping together all the Sussex names -which are connected with Shelley, to attract your personal and local -sympathy around the career of the poet, it is with no intention to -claim for him a provincial significance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> Shelley does not belong to -any one county, however rich and illustrious that county may be; he -belongs to Europe—to the world. The tendency of his poetry and its -peculiar accent were not so much English as European. He might have -been a Frenchman, or an Italian, a Pole, or a Greek, in a way in which -Wordsworth, for instance, or even Byron, could never have been anything -but an Englishman. He passes, as we watch the brief and sparkling -record of his life, from Sussex to the world. One day he is a child, -sailing paper boats among the reeds in Warnham Pond; next day we look, -and see, scarcely the son of worthy Mr. Timothy Shelley of Field Place, -but a spirit without a country, "a planet-crested shape sweeping by -on lightning-braided pinions" to scatter the liquid joy of life over -humanity.</p> - -<p>Into the particulars of this strange life I need not pass. You -know them well. No life so brief as Shelley's has occupied so much -curiosity, and for my part I think that even too minute inquiry has -been made concerning some of its details. The "Harriet problem" leaves -its trail across one petal of this rose; minuter insects, not quite -so slimy, lurk where there should be nothing but colour and odour. -We may well, I think, be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> content to-day to take the large romance -of Shelley's life, and leave any sordid details to oblivion. He -died before he was quite thirty years of age, and the busy piety of -biographers has peeped into the record of almost every day of the last -ten of those years. What seems to me most wonderful is that a creature -so nervous, so passionate, so ill-disciplined as Shelley was, should -be able to come out of such an unprecedented ordeal with his shining -garments so little specked with mire. Let us, at all events, to-day, -think of the man only as "the peregrine falcon" that his best and -oldest friends describe him.</p> - -<p>We may, at all events, while a grateful England is cherishing Shelley's -memory, and congratulating herself on his majestic legacy of song to -her, reflect almost with amusement on the very different attitude of -public opinion seventy and even fifty years ago. That he should have -been pursued by calumny and prejudice through his brief, misrepresented -life, and even beyond the tomb, can surprise no thinking spirit. It was -not the poet who was attacked; it was the revolutionist, the enemy of -kings and priests, the extravagant and paradoxical humanitarian. It is -not needful, in order to defend Shelley's genius aright, to inveigh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> -against those who, taught in the prim school of eighteenth-century -poetics, and repelled by political and social peculiarities which they -but dimly understood, poured out their reprobation of his verses. -Even his reviewers, perhaps, were not all of them "beaten hounds" -and "carrion kites"; some, perhaps, were very respectable and rather -narrow-minded English gentlemen, devoted to the poetry of Shenstone. -The newer a thing is, in the true sense, the slower people are to -accept it, and the abuse of the <i>Quarterly Review</i>, rightly taken, was -but a token of Shelley's opulent originality.</p> - -<p>To this unintelligent aversion there succeeded in the course of years -an equally blind, although more amiable, admiration. Among a certain -class of minds the reaction set in with absolute violence, and once -more the centre of attention was not the poet and his poetry, but -the faddist and his fads. Shelley was idealised, etherealised, and -canonised. Expressions were used about his conduct and his opinions -which would have been extravagant if employed to describe those of a -virgin-martyr or of the founder of a religion. Vegetarians clustered -around the eater of buns and raisins, revolutionists around the -enemy of kings, social anarchists around the husband of Godwin's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> -daughter. Worse than all, those to whom the restraints of religion -were hateful, marshalled themselves under the banner of the youth who -had rashly styled himself an atheist, forgetful of the fact that all -his best writings attest that, whatever name he might give himself, -he, more than any other poet of the age, saw God in everything. This -also was a phase, and passed away. The career of Shelley is no longer -a battlefield for fanatics of one sort or the other; if they still -skirmish a little in its obscurer corners, the main tract of it is -not darkened with the smoke from their artillery. It lies, a fair -open country of pure poetry, a province which comes as near to being -fairyland as any that literature provides for us.</p> - -<p>We cannot, however, think of this poet as of a writer of verses in the -void. He is anything but the "idle singer of an empty day." Shelley was -born amid extraordinary circumstances into an extraordinary age. On the -very day, one hundred years ago, when the champagne was being drunk -in the hall of Field Place in honour of the birth of a son and heir -to Mr. Timothy Shelley, the thunder-cloud of revolution was breaking -over Europe. Never before had there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> been felt within so short a space -of time so general a crash of the political order of things. Here, in -England, we were spectators of the wild and sundering stress, in which -the other kingdoms of Europe were distracted actors. The faces of Burke -and of his friends wore "the expression of men who are going to defend -themselves from murderers," and those murderers are called, during the -infancy of Shelley, by many names, Mamelukes and Suliots, Poles and -Swedes, besides the all-dreaded one of <i>sansculottes</i>. In the midst of -this turmoil Shelley was born, and the air of revolution filled his -veins with life.</p> - -<p>In Shelley we see a certain type of revolutionist, born out of due -time, and directed to the bloodless field of literature. The same -week that saw the downfall of La Fayette saw the birth of Shelley, -and we might believe the one to be an incarnation of the hopes of the -other. Each was an aristocrat, born with a passionate ambition to play -a great part in the service of humanity; in neither was there found -that admixture of the earthly which is needful for sustained success -in practical life. Had Shelley taken part in active affairs, his will -and his enthusiasm must have broken, like waves, against the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> coarser -type of revolutionist, against the Dantons and the Robespierres. Like -La Fayette, Shelley was intoxicated with virtue and glory; he was -chivalrous, inflammable, and sentimental. Happily for us, and for -the world, he was not thrown into a position where these beautiful -qualities could be displayed only to be shattered like a dome of -many-coloured glass. He was the not unfamiliar figure of revolutionary -times, the <i>grand seigneur</i> enamoured of democracy. But he was much -more than this; as Mr. Swinburne said long ago, Shelley "was born a -son and soldier of light, an archangel winged and weaponed for angel's -work." Let us attempt to discover what sort of prophecy it was that he -blew through his golden trumpet.</p> - -<p>It is in the period of youth that Shelley appeals to us most directly, -and exercises his most unquestioned authority over the imagination. In -early life, at the moment more especially when the individuality begins -to assert itself, a young man or a young woman of feeling discovers in -this poet certain qualities which appear to be not merely good, but -the best, not only genuine, but exclusively interesting. At that age -we ask for light, and do not care how it is distributed; for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> melody, -and do not ask the purpose of the song; for colour, and find no hues -too brilliant to delight the unwearied eye. Shelley satisfies these -cravings of youth. His whole conception of life is bounded only by -its illusions. The brilliancy of the morning dream, the extremities -of radiance and gloom, the most pellucid truth, the most triumphant -virtue, the most sinister guilt and melodramatic infamy, alone contrive -to rivet the attention. All half-lights, all arrangements in grey or -russet, are cast aside with impatience, as unworthy of the emancipated -spirit. Winged youth, in the bright act of sowing its intellectual wild -oats, demands a poet, and Horsham, just one hundred years ago, produced -Shelley to satisfy that natural craving.</p> - -<p>It is not for grey philosophers, or hermits wearing out the evening -of life, to pass a definitive verdict on the poetry of Shelley. It -is easy for critics of this temper to point out weak places in the -radiant panoply, to say that this is incoherent, and that hysterical, -and the other an ethereal fallacy. Sympathy is needful, a recognition -of the point of view, before we can begin to judge Shelley aright. We -must throw ourselves back to what we were at twenty, and recollect -how dazzling, how fresh, how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> full of colour, and melody, and odour, -this poetry seemed to us—how like a May-day morning in a rich Italian -garden, with a fountain, and with nightingales in the blossoming boughs -of the orange-trees, with the vision of a frosty Apennine beyond the -belt of laurels, and clear auroral sky everywhere above our heads. We -took him for what he seemed, "a pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift," -and we thought to criticise him as little as we thought to judge the -murmur of the forest or the reflections of the moonlight on the lake. -He was exquisite, emancipated, young like ourselves, and yet as wise -as a divinity. We followed him unquestioning, walking in step with his -panthers, as the Bacchantes followed Dionysus out of India, intoxicated -with enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>If our sentiment is no longer so rhapsodical, shall we blame the poet? -Hardly, I think. He has not grown older, it is we who are passing -further and further from that happy eastern morning where the light is -fresh, and the shadows plain and clearly defined. Over all our lives, -over the lives of those of us who may be seeking to be least trammelled -by the commonplace, there creeps ever onward the stealthy tinge of -conventionality, the admixture of the earthly. We cannot honestly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> -wish it to be otherwise. It is the natural development, which turns -kittens into cats, and blithe-hearted lads into earnest members of -Parliament. If we try to resist this inevitable tendency, we merely -become eccentric, a mockery to others, and a trouble to ourselves. -Let us accept our respectability with becoming airs of gravity; it -is another thing to deny that youth was sweet. When I see an elderly -professor proving that the genius of Shelley has been overrated, I -cannot restrain a melancholy smile. What would he, what would I, give -for that exquisite ardour, by the light of which all other poetry than -Shelley's seemed dim? You recollect our poet's curious phrase, that to -go to him for common sense was like going to a gin-palace for mutton -chops. The speech was a rash one, and has done him harm. But it is -true enough that those who are conscious of the grossness of life, and -are over-materialised, must go to him for the elixir and ether which -emancipate the senses.</p> - -<p>If I am right in thinking that you will all be with me in considering -this beautiful passion of youth, this recapturing of the illusions, -as the most notable of the gifts of Shelley's poetry to us, you will -also, I think, agree with me in placing only second to it the witchery -which enables this writer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> more than any other, to seize the most -tumultuous and agitating of the emotions, and present them to us -coloured by the analogy of natural beauty. Whether it be the petulance -of a solitary human being, to whom the little downy owl is a friend, -or the sorrows and desires of Prometheus, on whom the primal elements -attend as slaves, Shelley is able to mould his verse to the expression -of feeling, and to harmonise natural phenomena to the magnitude or the -delicacy of his theme. No other poet has so wide a grasp as he in this -respect, no one sweeps so broadly the full diapason of man in nature. -Laying hold of the general life of the universe with a boldness that is -unparalleled, he is equal to the most sensitive of the naturalists in -his exact observation of tender and humble forms.</p> - -<p>And to the ardour of fiery youth and the imaginative sympathy of -pantheism, he adds what we might hardly expect from so rapt and -tempestuous a singer, the artist's self-restraint. Shelley is none -of those of whom we are sometimes told in these days, whose mission -is too serious to be transmitted with the arts of language, who are -too much occupied with the substance to care about the form. All that -is best in his exquisite collection of verse cries out against this -wretched heresy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> With all his modernity, his revolutionary instinct, -his disdain of the unessential, his poetry is of the highest and most -classic technical perfection. No one, among the moderns, has gone -further than he in the just attention to poetic form, and there is so -severe a precision in his most vibrating choruses that we are taken -by them into the company, not of the Ossians and the Walt Whitmans, -not of those who feel, yet cannot control their feelings, but of those -impeccable masters of style,</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i2"><i>who dwelt by the azure sea</i></div> -<div><i>Of serene and golden Italy,</i></div> -<div><i>Or Greece the mother of the free.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And now, most inadequately and tamely, yet, I trust, with some sense of -the greatness of my theme, I have endeavoured to recall to your minds -certain of the cardinal qualities which animated the divine poet whom -we celebrate to-day. I have no taste for those arrangements of our -great writers which assign to them rank like schoolboys in a class, and -I cannot venture to suggest that Shelley stands above or below this -or that brother immortal. But of this I am quite sure, that when the -slender roll is called of those singers, who make the poetry of England -second only to that of Greece (if even of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> Greece), however few are -named, Shelley must be among them. To-day, under the auspices of the -greatest poet our language has produced since Shelley died, encouraged -by universal public opinion and by dignitaries of all the professions, -yes, even by prelates of our national church, we are gathered here as a -sign that the period of prejudice is over, that England is in sympathy -at last with her beautiful wayward child, understands his great -language, and is reconciled to his harmonious ministry. A century has -gone by, and once more we acknowledge the truth of his own words:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>The splendours of the firmament of time</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;</i></div> -<div><i>Like stars to their appointed height they climb.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">SYMBOLISM AND M. STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<h2>Symbolism and M. Stéphane Mallarmé</h2> - -<p>The name which stands at the head of this essay is that of a writer -who is at the present time more talked about, more ferociously -attacked, more passionately beloved and defended, and at the same -time less understood, than perhaps any other man of his intellectual -rank in Europe. Even in the ferocious world of Parisian letters his -purity of motive and dignity of attitude are respected. Benevolent to -those younger than himself, exquisitely courteous and considerate in -controversy, a master of that suavity and reserve the value of which -literary persons so rarely appreciate, M. Mallarmé, to one who from a -distance gazes with curiosity into the Parisian hurly-burly, appeals -first by the beautiful amenity of his manners—a dreamy Sir Launcelot -riding through a forest of dragons to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> help the dolorous lady of Poesy -from pain. In the incessant pamphlet-wars of his party, others seem to -strike for themselves, M. Mallarmé always for the cause; and when the -battle is over, and the rest meet to carouse round a camp-fire, he is -always found stealing back to the ivory tower of contemplation. Before -we know the rights of the case, or have read a line of his verses, we -are predisposed towards a figure so pure and so distinguished.</p> - -<p>But though the personality of M. Mallarmé is so attractive, and though -he marches at the head of a very noisy rabble, exceedingly little -seems to be clearly known about him in this country. Until now, he has -published in such a rare and cryptic manner, that not half a dozen of -any one of his books can have reached England. Two or three abstruse -essays in prose, published in the <i>National Observer</i>, have lately -amazed the Philistines. Not thus did Mr. Lillyvick understand that -the French language was to be imparted to Morleena Kenwigs. Charming -stories float about concerning Scotch mammas who subscribed to the -<i>National Observer</i> for the use of their girls, and discovered that -the articles were written in Moldo-Wallachian. M. Mallarmé's theories -have been ridiculed and travestied, his style parodied, his practice -gravely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> rebuked; but what that practice and style and theories are, -has scarcely been understood. M. Mallarmé has been wrapped up in -the general fog which enfolds our British notions of symbolists and -impressionists. If the school has had a single friend in England, it -has been Mr. Arthur Symons, one of the most brilliant of our younger -poets; and even he has been interested, I think, more in M. Verlaine -than in the Symbolists and Décadents proper.</p> - -<p>It was in 1886 that the Décadents first began to be talked about. Then -it was that Arthur Rimbaud's famous sonnet about the colours of the -vowels flashed into celebrity, and everybody was telling everybody else -that</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>A's black; E, white; I, blue; O, red; V, yellow;</i></div> -<div><i>But purple seeks in vain a vowel-fellow.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Those were the days, already ancient now! of Noël Loumo and Marius -Tapera, when the inexpressible Adoré Floupette published <i>Les -Déliquescences</i>. Where are the deliquescents of yesteryear? Where -is the once celebrated scene in the "boudoir oblong aux cycloïdes -bigarrures" which enlivened <i>Le Thé chez Miranda</i> of M. Jean Moréas? -These added to the gaiety of nations, and have been forgotten;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> brief -life was here their portion. Fresh oddities come forward, poets -in shoals and schools, Evolutivo-instrumentists, Cataclysmists, -Trombonists—even while we speak, have they not faded away? But amidst -all this world of phantasmagoria, among these fugitive apparitions -and futile individualities, dancing once across the stereopticon and -seen no more—one figure of a genuine man of letters remains, that of -M. Stéphane Mallarmé, the solitary name among those of the so-called -Décadents which has hitherto proved its right to serious consideration.</p> - -<p>If the dictionaries are to be trusted, M. Mallarmé was born in 1842. -His career seems to have been the most uneventful on record. He has -always been, and I think still is, professor of English at the Lycée -Fontanes in Paris. About twenty years ago he paid a short visit to -London, carrying with him, as I well remember, the vast portfolio of -his translation of Poe's <i>Raven</i>, with Manet's singular illustrations. -His life has been spent in a Buddhistic calm, in meditation. He -has scarcely published anything, disliking, so it is said, the -"exhibitionnisme" involved in bringing out a book, the banality of -types and proofs and revises.</p> - -<p>His revolutionary ideas with regard to style<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> were formulated about -1875, when the <i>Parnasse Contemporain</i>, edited by the friends -and co-evals of M. Mallarmé, rejected his first important poem, -<i>L'Après-Midi d'un Faune</i>, which appeared at length in 1876, as a -quarto pamphlet, illustrated by Manet. In the same year he gave his -earliest example of the new prose in the shape of an essay prefixed to -a beautiful reprint of Beckford's <i>Vathek</i>, a volume bound in vellum, -tied with black and crimson silk, and produced in a very small edition. -Ridicule was the only welcome vouchsafed to these two couriers of the -Décadance. Perhaps M. Mallarmé was somewhat discouraged, although -absolutely unsubdued.</p> - -<p>He remained long submerged, but with the growth of his school he was -persuaded to reappear. In 1887 one fascicule only of his complete poems -was brought out in an extraordinary form, photolithographed from the -original manuscript. In 1888 followed a translation of the poems of -Edgar Poe. But until 1893 the general reader has had no opportunity, -even in France, of forming an opinion on the prose or verse of M. -Mallarmé. Meanwhile, his name has become one of the most notorious in -contemporary literature. A thousand eccentricities, a thousand acts of -revolt against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> tradition, have been perpetrated under the banner of -his tacit encouragement. It is high time to try and understand what M. -Mallarmé's teaching really is, and what his practice.</p> - -<p>To ridicule the Décadents, or to insist upon their extravagance, is -so easy as to be unworthy of a serious critic. It would be quite -simple for some crusty Christopher to show that the poems of master -and scholars alike are monstrous, unintelligible, ludicrously inept, -and preposterous. M. Mallarmé has had hard words, not merely from the -old classical critics such as M. Brunetière, but from men from whom -the extremity of sympathy might have been looked. Life-long friends -like M. Leconte de Lisle confess that they understood him once, but, -alas! understand him no longer; or, like M. François Coppée, avoid all -discussion of his verses, and obstinately confine themselves to "son -esprit élevé, sa vie si pure, si belle." When such men as these profess -themselves unable to comprehend a writer of their own age and language, -it seems presumptuous for a foreigner to attempt to do so, nor do I -pretend that in the formal and minute sense I am able to comprehend -the poems of M. Mallarmé. He remains, under the most loving scrutiny, -a most difficult writer. But, at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> events, I think that sympathy -and study may avail to enable the critic to detect the spirit which -inspires this strange and cryptic figure. Study and sympathy I have -given, and I offer some results of them, not without diffidence.</p> - -<p>Translated into common language, then, the main design of M. Mallarmé -and his friends seems to be to refresh the languid current of French -style. They hold—and in this view no English critic can dare to join -issue with them—that art is not a stable nor a definite thing, and -that success for the future must lie along paths not exactly traversed -in the immediate past. They are tired of the official versification -of France, and they dream of new effects which all the handbooks tell -them are impossible to French prosody. They make infinite experiments, -they feel their way; and I have nothing to reproach them with except -their undue haste (but M. Mallarmé has not been hasty) in publishing -their "tentatives." Their aims are those of our own Areopagites of -1580, met "for the general surceasing and silence of bold Rymers, and -also of the very best of them too"—"our new famous enterprise for the -exchange of barbarous rymes for artificial verses." We must wish for -the odd productions of these modern Parisian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> euphuists a better fate -than befell the trimeter iambics of Master Drant and Master Preston. -But the cause of their existence is plain enough. It is the exhaustion, -the enervation of the language, following upon the activities of -Victor Hugo and his contemporaries. It is, morever, a reaction -towards freedom, directly consequent upon the strict and impersonal -versification of the Parnassians. When the official verse has been -burnished and chased to the metallic perfection of M. de Hérédia's -sonnets, nothing but to withdraw to the wilderness in sheepskins is -left to would-be poets of the next generation.</p> - -<p>To pass from Symbolism generally to M. Mallarmé and his particular -series of theories, he presents himself to us above all as an -individualist. The poets of the last generation were a flock of -singing-birds, trained in a general aviary. They met, as on the marble -pavement of some new Serapeum, to contend in public for the rewards -of polished verse. In contrast with these rivalries and congregations -M. Mallarmé has always shown himself solitary and disengaged. As he -has said: "The poet is a man who isolates himself that he may carve -the sculptures of his own tomb." He refuses to obey that hierarchical -tradition of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> Victor Hugo was the most formidable pontiff. He -finds the alexandrine, as employed in the intractable prosody of -modern France, a rigid and puerile instrument, from which melodies can -nowadays no more be extracted. So far as I comprehend the position, M. -Mallarmé does not propose, as do some of his disciples, to reject this -noble verse-form altogether, and to slide into a sort of rhymed Walt -Whitmanism. I cannot trace in his published poems a single instance -of such a determination. But it is plain that he takes the twelve -syllables of the line as forming, not six notes, but twelve, and he -demands permission to form with these twelve as many combinations as -he pleases. Melody, to be gained at any sacrifice of the old Jesuit -laws, is what he desiderates: harmony of versification, obtained in new -ways, by extracting the latent capabilities of the organ until now too -conventionally employed.</p> - -<p>So much, very briefly, for the prosodical innovation. For the language -he demands an equal refreshment, by the rejection of the old worn -phrases in favour of odd, exotic, and archaic terms. He takes up -and adopts literally the idea of Théophile Gautier that words are -precious stones, and should be so set as to flash and radiate from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> -the page. More individually characteristic of M. Mallarmé I find a -certain preference for enigma. Language, to him, is given to conceal -definite thought, to draw the eye away from the object. The Parnassians -defined, described, analysed the object until it stood before us as in -a coloured photograph. M. Mallarmé avoids this as much as possible. -He aims at allusion only; he wraps a mystery around his simplest -utterance; the abstruse and the symbolic are his peculiar territory. -His aim, or I greatly misunderstand him, is to use words in such -harmonious combinations as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition which is not mentioned in the text, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition. To the -conscious aiming at this particular effect are, it appears to me, due -the more curious characteristics of his style, and much of the utter -bewilderment which it produces on the brain of an indolent reader -debauched by the facilities of realism.</p> - -<p>The longest and the most celebrated of the poems of M. Mallarmé is -<i>L'Après-Midi d'un Faune</i>. It appears in the "florilège" which he has -just published, and I have now read it again, as I have often read it -before. To say that I understand it bit by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> bit, phrase by phrase, -would be excessive. But if I am asked whether this famous miracle of -unintelligibility gives me pleasure, I answer, cordially, Yes. I even -fancy that I obtain from it as definite and as solid an impression as -M. Mallarmé desires to produce. This is what I read in it: A faun—a -simple, sensuous, passionate being—wakens in the forest at daybreak -and tries to recall his experience of the previous afternoon. Was he -the fortunate recipient of an actual visit from nymphs, white and -golden goddesses, divinely tender and indulgent? Or is the memory he -seems to retain nothing but the shadow of a vision, no more substantial -than the "arid rain" of notes from his own flute? He cannot tell. Yet -surely there was, surely there is, an animal whiteness among the brown -reeds of the lake that shines out yonder? Were they, are they, swans? -No! But Naiads plunging? Perhaps!</p> - -<p>Vaguer and vaguer grows the impression of this delicious experience. -He would resign his woodland godship to retain it. A garden of lilies, -golden-headed, white-stalked, behind the trellis of red roses? Ah! the -effort is too great for his poor brain. Perhaps if he selects one lily -from the garth of lilies, one benign and beneficent yielder of her cup -to thirsty lips, the memory,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> the ever-receding memory, may be forced -back. So, when he has glutted upon a bunch of grapes, he is wont to -toss the empty skins into the air and blow them out in a visionary -greediness. But no, the delicious hour grows vaguer; experience or -dream, he will now never know which it was. The sun is warm, the -grasses yielding; and he curls himself up again, after worshipping the -efficacious star of wine, that he may pursue the dubious ecstasy into -the more hopeful boskages of sleep.</p> - -<p>This, then, is what I read in the so excessively obscure and -unintelligible <i>L'Après-Midi d'un Faune</i>; and, accompanied as it is -with a perfect suavity of language and melody of rhythm, I know not -what more a poem of eight pages could be expected to give. It supplies -a simple and direct impression of physical beauty, of harmony, of -colour; it is exceedingly mellifluous, when once the ear understands -that the poet, instead of being the slave of the alexandrine, weaves -his variations round it like a musical composer. Unfortunately, -<i>L'Après-Midi</i> was written fifteen years ago, and his theories have -grown upon M. Mallarmé as his have on Mr. George Meredith. In the -new collection of <i>Vers et Prose</i> I miss some pieces which I used -to admire—in particular, surely, <i>Placet</i>, and the delightful poem -called<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> <i>Le Guignon</i>. Perhaps these were too lucid for the worshippers. -In return, we have certain allegories which are terribly abstruse, -and some subfusc sonnets. I have read the following, called <i>Le -Tombeau d'Edgard Poe</i>, over and over and over. I am very stupid, but -I cannot tell what it <i>says</i>. In a certain vague and vitreous way I -think I perceive what it <i>means</i>; and we are aided now by its being -punctuated, which was not the case in the original form in which I met -with it. But, "O my Brothers, ye the Workers," is it not still a little -difficult?</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Tel qu'en Lui-même enfin l'éternité le change,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Le Poëte suscite avec un glaive nu</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Son siècle épouvanté de n'avoir pas connu</i></div> -<div><i>Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange!</i></div> -<div><i>Eux, comme un vil sursaut d'hydre oyant jadis l'ange</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu</i></div> -<div><i>Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.</i></div> -<div><i>Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief!</i></div> -<div><i>Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s'orne</i></div> -<div><i>Calme bloc ici-bas chu d'un désastre obscur</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne</i></div> -<div><i>Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Of the prose of M. Mallarmé, I can here speak but briefly. He has -not published very much of it;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> and it is all polished and cadenced -like his verse, with strange transposed adjectives and exotic nouns -fantastically employed. It is even more distinctly to be seen in his -prose than in his verse that he descends directly from Baudelaire, and -in the former that streak of Lamartine that marks his poems is lacking.</p> - -<p>The book called <i>Pages</i> can naturally be compared with the <i>Poèmes -en Prose</i> of Baudelaire. Several of the sketches so named are -now reprinted in <i>Vers et Prose</i>, and they strike me as the most -distinguished and satisfactory of the published writings of M. -Mallarmé. They are difficult, but far more intelligible than the -enigmas which he calls his sonnets. <i>La Pipe</i>, in which the sight -of an old meerschaum brings up dreams of London and the solitary -lodgings there; <i>Le Nénuphar Blanc</i>, recording the vision of a lovely -lady, visible for one tantalising moment to a rower in his boat; -<i>Frisson d'Hiver</i>, the wholly fantastic and nebulous reverie of -archaic elegances evoked by the ticking of a clock of Dresden china; -each of these, and several more of these exquisite <i>Pages</i>, give -just that impression of mystery and allusion which the author deems -that style should give. They are exquisite—so far as they go—pure, -distinguished, ingenious; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> fantastic oddity of their vocabulary -seems in perfect accord with their general character.</p> - -<p>Here is a fragment of <i>La Pénultième</i>, on which the reader may try his -skill in comprehending the New French:</p> - -<p>"Mais où s'installe l'irrécusable intervention du surnaturel, et le -commencement de l'angoisse sous laquelle agonise mon esprit naguère -seigneur, c'est quand je vis, levant les yeux, dans la rue des -antiquaires instinctivement suivie, que j'étais devant la boutique d'un -luthier vendeur de vieux instruments pendus au mur, et, à terre, des -palmes jaunes et les ailes enfouies en l'ombre, d'oiseaux anciens. Je -m'enfuis, bizarre, personne condamnée à porter probablement le deuil de -l'inexplicable Pénultième."</p> - -<p>As a translator, all the world must commend M. Mallarmé. He has put -the poems of Poe into French in a way which is subtle almost without -parallel. Each version is in simple prose, but so full, so reserved, -so suavely mellifluous, that the metre and the rhymes continue to sing -in an English ear. None could enter more tenderly than he into the -strange charm of <i>Ulalume</i>, of <i>The Sleeper</i>, or of <i>The Raven</i>. It is -rarely indeed that a word suggests that the melody of one, who was a -symbolist<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> and a weaver of enigmas like himself, has momentarily evaded -the translator.</p> - -<p>M. Mallarmé, who understands English so perfectly, has perhaps seen the -poems of Sydney Dobell. He knows, it is possible, that thirty or forty -years ago there was an English poet who cultivated the symbol, who -deliquesced the language, as he himself does in French. Sydney Dobell -wrote lovely, unintelligible things, that broke, every now and then, -into rhapsodies of veritable beauty. But his whole system was violent. -He became an eccentric cometary nebula, whirling away from our poetic -system at a tangent. He whirled away, for all his sincere passion, into -oblivion. This is what one fears for the Symbolists: that being read -with so great an effort by their own generation, they may, by the next, -not be read at all, and what is pure and genuine in their artistic -impulses be lost. Something of M. Mallarmé will, however, always be -turned back to with respect and perhaps with enthusiasm, for he is a -true man of letters.</p> - -<p><i>1893.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">TWO PASTELS</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>I</span> <span class="smaller">Mr. R. L. Stevenson as a Poet</span></h2> - -<p>A pretty little anthology might be made of poems by distinguished -writers who never for a moment professed to be poets, and who only -"swept, with hurried hand, the strings" when they thought nobody was -listening. The elegant technical people of the eighteenth century, -who never liked to be too abstruse to seem polite, would contribute -a great many of these flowers that were born to bloom unseen. It is -not everybody who is aware that the majestic Sir William Blackstone -was "guilty," as people put it, of a set of one hundred octosyllabic -verses which would do credit to any laurelled master on Parnassus. We -might, indeed, open our little volume with <i>The Lawyers Farewell to -his Muse</i>. Then, of course, there would be Bishop Berkeley's unique -poem, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span><i>Westward the Course of Empire takes its Way</i>; and Oldys, -the antiquary, would spare us his <i>Busy, curious, thirsty Fly</i>. We -should appeal to Burton for the prefatory verses in the <i>Anatomy of -Melancholy</i>, and to Bacon for <i>The World's Bubble</i>. If I had any finger -in that anthology, Smollett's <i>Ode to Leven Water</i> should by no means -be omitted. It would be a false pride that would reject Holcroft's -<i>Gaffer Gray</i>, or Sydney Smith's <i>Receipt for a Salad</i>, which latter -Herrick might have been glad to sign. Hume's solitary poem should be -printed by itself, or with some of Carlyle's lyrics, and George Eliot's -sonnets, in an appendix, as an awful warning.</p> - -<p>As we come down to recent times the task of editing our anthology would -grow difficult. In our day, the prose writers have either been coy -or copious with their verses. If Professor Tyndall has never essayed -the Lydian measure it is very surprising, but we have not yet been -admitted to hear his shell; nor has Mr. Walter Besant, to the best of -my belief, published an ode to anything. Let the shades of Berkeley and -Smollett administer reproof. Until quite lately, however, we should -have been contented to close our selection with "The bed was made,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> the -room was fit," from <i>Travels with a Donkey</i>. But Mr. Stevenson is now -ineligible—he has published books of poems.</p> - -<p>That this departure is not quite a new one might be surmised by any one -who has followed closely the publications of the essayist and novelist -whom a better man than I am has called "the most exquisite and original -of our day." Though Mr. Stevenson's prose volumes are more than twelve -in number, and though he had been thought of essentially as a prose -writer, the ivory shoulder of the lyre has peeped out now and then. I -do not refer to his early collections of verse, to <i>Not I, and other -Poems</i>, to <i>Moral Emblems</i>, and to <i>The Graver and the Pen</i>. (I mention -these scarce publications of the Davos press in the hope of rousing -wicked passions in the breasts of other collectors, since my own set -of them is complete.) These volumes were decidedly occult. A man might -build upon them a reputation as a sage, but hardly as a poet. Their -stern morality came well from one whose mother's milk has been the -<i>Shorter Catechism;</i> they are books which no one can read and not be -the better for; but as mere verse, they leave something to be desired. -<i>Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda</i>, if you happen to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> lucky enough -to possess them, <i>e passa</i>. Where the careful reader has perceived -that Mr. Stevenson was likely to become openly a poet has been in -snatches of verse published here and there in periodicals, and of a -quality too good to be neglected. Nevertheless, the publication of <i>A -Child's Garden of Verses</i> (Longmans, 1885) was something of a surprise, -and perhaps the new book of grown-up poems, <i>Underwoods</i> (Chatto and -Windus, 1887) is more surprising still. There is no doubt about it any -longer. Mr. Stevenson is a candidate for the bays.</p> - -<p>The <i>Child's Garden of Verses</i> has now been published long enough to -enable us to make a calm consideration of its merits. When it was -fresh, opinion was divided, as it always is about a new strong thing, -between those who, in Mr. Longfellow's phrase about the little girl, -think it very, very good, and those who think it is horrid. After -reading the new book, the <i>Underwoods</i>, we come back to <i>A Child's -Garden</i> with a clearer sense of the writer's intention, and a wider -experience of his poetical outlook upon life. The later book helps us -to comprehend the former; there is the same sincerity, the same buoyant -simplicity, the same curiously candid and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> confidential attitude -of mind. If any one doubted that Mr. Stevenson was putting his own -childish memories into verse in the first book, all doubt must cease in -reading the second book, where the experiences, although those of an -adult, have exactly the same convincing air of candour. The first thing -which struck the reader of <i>A Child's Garden</i> was the extraordinary -clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager -childhood were reproduced in it. People whose own childish memories had -become very vague, and whose recollections of their games and dreams -were hazy in the extreme, asked themselves how far this poet's visions -were inspired by real memory and how far by invention. The new book -sets that question at rest; the same hand that gave us—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>My bed is like a little boat;</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Nurse helps me in when I embark;</i></div> -<div><i>She girds me in my sailor's coat,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And starts me in the dark;</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>and the even more delicious—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Now, with my little gun, I crawl</i></div> -<div><i>All in the dark along the wall,</i></div> -<div><i>And follow round the forest-track</i></div> -<div><i>Away behind the sofa-back,—</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>now gives us pictures like the following:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>My house, <i>I say. But hark to the sunny doves,</i></div> -<div><i>That make my roof the arena of their loves</i>,</div> -<div><i>That gyre about the gable all day long</i></div> -<div><i>And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:</i></div> -<div>Our house, <i>they say; and</i> mine, <i>the cat declares,</i></div> -<div><i>And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;</i></div> -<div><i>And</i> mine <i>the dog, and rises stiff with wrath</i></div> -<div><i>If any alien foot profane the path.</i></div> -<div><i>So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,</i></div> -<div><i>Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;</i></div> -<div><i>Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode</i></div> -<div><i>And his late kingdom, only from the road.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>We now perceive that it is not invention, but memory of an -extraordinarily vivid kind, patiently directed to little things, and -charged with imagination; and we turn back with increased interest -to <i>A Child's Garden</i>, assured that it gives us a unique thing, a -transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, -but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a -photograph. Long ago, in one of the very earliest, if I remember right, -of those essays by R. L. S. for which we used so eagerly to watch the -<i>Cornhill Magazine</i> in Mr. Leslie Stephen's time, in the paper called -"Child Play," this retention of what is wiped off from the memories of -the rest of us was clearly displayed. Out of this rarely <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>suggestive -essay I will quote a few lines, which might have been printed as an -introduction to <i>A Child's Garden</i>:</p> - -<p>"In the child's world of dim sensation, play is all in all. 'Making -believe' is the gist of his whole life, and he cannot so much as take -a walk except in character. I could not learn my alphabet without some -suitable <i>mise-en-scène</i>, and had to act a business-man in an office -before I could sit down to my book.... I remember, as though it were -yesterday, the expansion of spirit, the dignity and self-reliance, that -came with a pair of mustachios in burnt cork, even when there was none -to see. Children are even content to forego what we call the realities, -and prefer the shadow to the substance. When they might be speaking -intelligently together, they chatter gibberish by the hour, and are -quite happy because they are making believe to speak French."</p> - -<p>Probably all will admit the truth of this statement of infant fancy, -when it is presented to them in this way. But how many of us, in -perfect sincerity, not relying upon legends of the nursery, not -refreshed by the study of our own children's "make-believe," can -say that we clearly recollect the method of it? We shall find that -our memories<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> are like a breath upon the glass, like the shape of a -broken wave. Nothing is so hopelessly lost, so utterly volatile, as -the fancies of our childhood. But Mr. Stevenson, alone amongst us all, -appears to have kept daguerreotypes of the whole series of his childish -sensations. Except the late Mrs. Ewing, he seems to be without a rival -in this branch of memory as applied to literature.</p> - -<p>The various attitudes of literary persons to the child are very -interesting. There are, for instance, poets like Victor Hugo and Mr. -Swinburne who come to admire, who stay to adore, and who do not disdain -to throw their purple over any humble article of nursery use. They are -so magnificent in their address to infancy, they say so many brilliant -and unexpected things, that the mother is almost as much dazzled as she -is gratified. We stand round, with our hats off, and admire the poet -as much as he admires the child; but we experience no regret when he -presently turns away to a discussion of grown-up things. We have an -ill-defined notion that he reconnoitres infancy from the outside, and -has not taken the pains to reach the secret mind of childhood. It is to -be noted, and this is a suspicious circumstance, that Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> Swinburne -and Victor Hugo like the child better the younger it is.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>What likeness may define, and stray not</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>From truth's exactest way,</i></div> -<div><i>A baby's beauty? Love can say not,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>What likeness may.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This is charming; but the address is to the mother, is to the grown-up -reflective person. To the real student of child-life the baby contains -possibilities, but is at present an uninteresting chrysalis. It cannot -carry a gun through the forest, behind the sofa-back; it is hardly so -useful as a cushion to represent a passenger in a railway-train of -inverted chairs.</p> - -<p>Still more remote than the dithyrambic poets are those writers about -children—and they are legion—who have ever the eye fixed upon -morality, and carry the didactic tongue thrust in the cheek of fable. -The late Charles Kingsley, who might have made so perfect a book of -his <i>Water-Babies</i>, sins notoriously in this respect. The moment a -wise child perceives the presence of allegory, or moral instruction, -all the charm of a book is gone. Parable is the very antipodes of -childish "make-believe," into which the element of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> ulterior motive or -secondary moral meaning never enters for an instant. The secret of the -charm of Mrs. Gatty's <i>Parables from Nature</i>, which were the fairest -food given to very young minds in my day, was that the fortunate child -never discovered that they were parables at all. I, for one, used to -read and re-read them as realistic statements of fact, the necessity of -pointing a moral merely having driven the amiable author to the making -of her story a little more fantastic, and therefore more welcome, than -it would otherwise be. It was explained to me one hapless day that the -parables were of a nature to instil nice principles into the mind; and -from that moment Mrs. Gatty became a broken idol. Lewis Carroll owed -his great and deserved success to his suppleness in bending his fancy -to the conditions of a mind that is dreaming. It has never seemed to -me that the <i>Adventures in Wonderland</i> were specially childish; dreams -are much the same, whether a child or a man is passive under them, and -it is a fact that Lewis Carroll appeals just as keenly to adults as to -children. In Edward Lear's rhymes and ballads the love of grotesque -nonsense in the grown-up child is mainly appealed to; and these are -certainly appreciated more by parents than by children.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> - -<p>It would be easy, by multiplying examples, to drive home my contention -that only two out of the very numerous authors who have written -successfully on or for children have shown a clear recollection of -the mind of healthy childhood itself. Many authors have achieved -brilliant success in describing children, in verbally caressing them, -in amusing, in instructing them; but only two, Mrs. Ewing in prose, -and Mr. Stevenson in verse, have sat down with them without disturbing -their fancies, and have looked into the world of "make-believe" with -the children's own eyes. If Victor Hugo should visit the nursery, -every head of hair ought to be brushed, every pinafore be clean, and -nurse must certainly be present, as well as mamma. But Mrs. Ewing or -Mr. Stevenson might lead a long romp in the attic when nurse was out -shopping, and not a child in the house should know that a grown-up -person had been there. There are at least a dozen pieces in the -<i>Child's Garden</i> which might be quoted to show what is meant. "The -Lamplighter" will serve our purpose as well as any other:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;</i></div> -<div><i>It's time to take the window to see Learie going by;</i></div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span><i>For every night at tea-time, and before you take your seat,</i></div> -<div><i>With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street,</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,</i></div> -<div><i>And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;</i></div> -<div><i>But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,</i></div> -<div><i>O Learie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,</i></div> -<div><i>And Learie stops to light it as he lights so many more;</i></div> -<div><i>And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,</i></div> -<div><i>O Learie, see a little child, and nod to him to-night.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>In publishing this autumn a second volume, this time of grown-up -verses, Mr. Stevenson has ventured on a bolder experiment. His -<i>Underwoods</i>, with its title openly borrowed from Ben Jonson, is an -easy book to appreciate and enjoy, but not to review. In many respects -it is plainly the work of the same fancy that described the Country -of Counterpane and the Land of Story-books, but it has grown a little -sadder, and a great deal older. There is the same delicate sincerity, -the same candour and simplicity, the same artless dependence on -the good faith of the public. The ordinary themes of the poets are -untouched; there is not one piece from cover to cover which deals -with the passion of love. The book is occupied with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>friendship, with -nature, with the honourable instincts of man's moral machinery. Above -all, it enters with great minuteness, and in a very confidential -spirit, into the theories and moods of the writer himself. It will be -to many readers a revelation of the every-day life of an author whose -impersonal writings have given them so much and so varied pleasure. -Not a dozen ordinary interviewers could have extracted so much of the -character of the man himself as he gives us in these one hundred and -twenty pages.</p> - -<p>The question of admitting the personal element into literature is -one which is not very clearly understood. People try to make rules -about it, and say that an author may describe his study, but not his -dining-room, and his wife, but not her cousin. The fact is that no -rules can possibly be laid down in a matter which is one of individual -sympathy. The discussion whether a writer may speak of himself or no -is utterly vain until we are informed in what voice he has the habit -of speaking. It is all a question which depends on the <i>timbre</i> of -the literary voice. As in life there are persons whose sweetness of -utterance is such that we love to have them warbling at our side, no -matter on what subject they speak, and others to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> whom we have scarcely -patience to listen if they want to tell us that we have inherited a -fortune, so it is in literature. Except that little class of stoic -critics who like to take their books <i>in vacuo</i>, most of us prefer to -know something about the authors we read. But whether we like them to -tell it us themselves, or no, depends entirely on the voice. Thackeray -and Fielding are never confidential enough to satisfy us; Dickens and -Smollett set our teeth on edge directly they start upon a career of -confidential expansion; and this has nothing to do with any preference -for <i>Tom Jones</i> over <i>Peregrine Pickle</i>. There is no doubt that Mr. -Stevenson is one of those writers the sound of whose personal voices -is pleasing to the public, and there must be hundreds of his admirers -who will not miss one word of "To a Gardener" or "The Mirror Speaks," -and who will puzzle out each of the intimate addresses to his private -friends with complete satisfaction.</p> - -<p>The present writer is one of those who are most under the spell. For -me Mr. Stevenson may speak for ever, and chronicle at full length all -his uncles and his cousins and his nurses. But I think if it were my -privilege to serve him in the capacity of Molière's old woman, or to be -what a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> friend of mine would call his "foolometer," I should pluck up -courage to represent to him that this thing can be overdone. I openly -avow myself an enthusiast, yet even I shrink before the confidential -character of the prose inscription to <i>Underwoods</i>. This volume is -dedicated, if you please, to eleven physicians, and it is strange that -one so all compact of humour as Mr. Stevenson should not have noticed -how funny it is to think of an author seated affably in an armchair, -simultaneously summoning by name eleven physicians to take a few words -of praise each, and a copy of his little book.</p> - -<p>The objective side of Mr. Stevenson's mind is very rich and full, and -he has no need to retire too obstinately upon the subjective. Yet -I know not that anything he has written in verse is more worthily -dignified than the following little personal fragment, in which he -refers, of course, to the grandfather who died a few weeks before his -birth, and to the father whom he had just conducted to the grave, both -heroic builders of lighthouses:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Say not of me that weakly I declined</i></div> -<div><i>The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,</i></div> -<div><i>The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,</i></div> -<div><i>To play at home with paper like a child.</i></div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p><div><i>But rather say: In the afternoon of time</i></div> -<div><i>A strenuous family dusted from its hands</i></div> -<div><i>The sand of granite, and beholding far</i></div> -<div><i>Along the sounding coast its pyramids</i></div> -<div><i>And tall memorials catch the dying sun,</i></div> -<div><i>Smiled well content, and to this childish task</i></div> -<div><i>Around the fire addressed its evening hours.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This is a particularly happy specimen of Mr. Stevenson's blank verse, -in which metre, as a rule, he does not show to advantage. It is not -that his verses are ever lame or faulty, for in the technical portion -of the art he seldom fails, but that his rhymeless iambics remind the -ear too much now of Tennyson, now of Keats. He is, on the contrary, -exceedingly happy and very much himself in that metre of eight or seven -syllables, with couplet-rhymes, which served so well the first poets -who broke away from heroic verse, such as Swift and Lady Winchilsea, -Green and Dyer. If he must be affiliated to any school of poets it is -to these, who hold the first outworks between the old classical camp -and the invading army of romance, to whom I should ally him. Martial -is with those octo-syllabists of Queen Anne, and to Martial might well -have been assigned, had they been in old Latin, the delicately homely -lines, "To a Gardener." How felicitous is this quatrain about the -onion—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Let first the onion flourish there,</i></div> -<div><i>Rose among roots, the maiden fair,</i></div> -<div><i>Wine-scented and poetic soul</i></div> -<div><i>Of the capacious salad-bowl.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Or this, in more irregular measure, and enfolding a loftier fancy—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still,</i></div> -<div><i>Sing truer, or no longer sing!</i></div> -<div><i>No more the voice of melancholy Jacques</i></div> -<div><i>To make a weeping echo in the hill;</i></div> -<div><i>But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,</i></div> -<div><i>From the green elm a living linnet takes,</i></div> -<div><i>One natural verse recapture—then be still.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>It would be arrogant in the extreme to decide whether or no Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's poems will be read in the future. They are, however, so -full of character, so redolent of his own fascinating temperament, -that it is not too bold to suppose that so long as his prose is -appreciated those who love that will turn to this. There have been -prose writers whose verse has not lacked accomplishment or merit, but -has been so far from interpreting their prose that it rather disturbed -its effect and weakened its influence. Cowley is an example of this, -whose ingenious and dryly intellectual poetry positively terrifies the -reader away from his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> eminently suave and human essays. Neither of Mr. -Stevenson's volumes of poetry will thus disturb his prose. Opinions may -be divided as to their positive value, but no one will doubt that the -same characteristics are displayed in the poems, the same suspicion -of "the abhorred pedantic sanhedrim," the same fulness of life and -tenderness of hope, the same bright felicity of epithet as in the -essays and romances. The belief, however, may be expressed without -fear of contradiction that Mr. Stevenson's fame will rest mainly upon -his verse and not upon his prose, only in that dim future when Mr. -Matthew Arnold's prophecy shall be fulfilled and Shelley's letters -shall be preferred to his lyrical poems. It is saying a great deal to -acknowledge that the author of <i>Kidnapped</i> is scarcely less readable in -verse than he is in prose.</p> - -<p><i>1887.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>II</span> <span class="smaller">Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Short Stories</span></h2> - -<p>Two years ago there was suddenly revealed to us, no one seems to -remember how, a new star out of the East. Not fewer distinguished men -of letters profess to have "discovered" Mr. Kipling than there were -cities of old in which Homer was born. Yet, in fact, the discovery was -not much more creditable to them than it would be, on a summer night, -to contrive to notice a comet flaring across the sky. Not only was this -new talent robust, brilliant, and self-asserting, but its reception -was prepared for by a unique series of circumstances. The fiction of -the Anglo-Saxon world, in its more intellectual provinces, had become -curiously feminised. Those novel-writers who cared to produce subtle -impressions upon their readers, in England and America, had become<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> -extremely refined in taste and discreet in judgment. People who were -not content to pursue the soul of their next-door neighbour through -all the burrows of self-consciousness had no choice but to take ship -with Mr. Rider Haggard for the Mountains of the Moon. Between excess -of psychological analysis and excess of superhuman romance there was -a great void in the world of Anglo-Saxon fiction. It is this void -which Mr. Kipling, with something less than one hundred short stories, -one novel, and a few poems, has filled by his exotic realism and his -vigorous rendering of unhackneyed experience. His temperament is -eminently masculine, and yet his imagination is strictly bound by -existing laws. The Evarras of the novel had said:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i7"><i>Thus gods are made,</i></div> -<div><i>And whoso makes them otherwise shall die,</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>when, behold, a young man comes up out of India, and makes them quite -otherwise, and lives.</p> - -<p>The vulgar trick, however, of depreciating other writers in order to -exalt the favourite of a moment was never less worthy of practice than -it is in the case of the author of <i>Soldiers Three</i>. His relation to -his contemporaries is curiously slight. One living writer there is, -indeed, with whom it is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> unnatural to compare him—Pierre Loti. -Each of these men has attracted the attention, and then the almost -exaggerated admiration, of a crowd of readers drawn from every class. -Each has become popular without ceasing to be delightful to the -fastidious. Each is independent of traditional literature, and affects -a disdain for books. Each is a wanderer, a lover of prolonged exile, -more at home among the ancient races of the East than among his own -people. Each describes what he has seen in short sentences, with highly -coloured phrases and local words, little troubled to obey the laws of -style if he can but render an exact impression of what the movement -of physical life has been to himself. Each produces on the reader a -peculiar thrill, a voluptuous and agitating sentiment of intellectual -uneasiness, with the spontaneous art of which he has the secret. -Totally unlike in detail, Rudyard Kipling and Pierre Loti have these -general qualities in common, and if we want a literary parallel to the -former, the latter is certainly the only one that we can find. Nor is -the attitude of the French novelist to his sailor friends at all unlike -that of the Anglo-Indian civilian to his soldier chums. To distinguish -we must note very carefully the difference between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> Mulvaney and <i>mon -frère Yves</i>; it is not altogether to the advantage of the latter.</p> - -<p>The old rhetorical manner of criticism was not meant for the discussion -of such writers as these. The only way in which, as it seems to me, we -can possibly approach them, is by a frank confession of their personal -relation to the feelings of the critic. I will therefore admit that -I cannot pretend to be indifferent to the charm of what Mr. Kipling -writes. From the first moment of my acquaintance with it it has held -me fast. It excites, disturbs, and attracts me; I cannot throw off its -disquieting influence. I admit all that is to be said in its disfavour. -I force myself to see that its occasional cynicism is irritating and -strikes a false note. I acknowledge the broken and jagged style, the -noisy newspaper bustle of the little peremptory sentences, the cheap -irony of the satires on society. Often—but this is chiefly in the -earlier stories—I am aware that there is a good deal too much of the -rattle of the piano at some café concert. But when all this is said, -what does it amount to? What but an acknowledgment of the crudity of a -strong and rapidly developing young nature? You cannot expect a creamy -smoothness while the act of vinous fermentation is proceeding.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i10"><i>Wit will shine</i></div> -<div><i>Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line;</i></div> -<div><i>A noble error, and but seldom made,</i></div> -<div><i>When poets are by too much force betray'd;</i></div> -<div><i>Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,</i></div> -<div><i>Still show a quickness, and maturing time</i></div> -<div><i>But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rime.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>In the following pages I shall try to explain why the sense of these -shortcomings is altogether buried for me in delighted sympathy -and breathless curiosity. Mr. Kipling does not provoke a critical -suspension of judgment. He is vehement, and sweeps us away with him; -he plays upon a strange and seductive pipe, and we follow him like -children. As I write these sentences, I feel how futile is this attempt -to analyse his gifts, and how greatly I should prefer to throw this -paper to the winds and listen to the magician himself. I want more -and more, like Oliver Twist. I want all those "other stories"; I wish -to wander down all those bypaths that we have seen disappear in the -brushwood. If one lay very still and low by the watch-fire, in the -hollow of Ortheris's greatcoat, one might learn more and more of the -inextinguishable sorrows of Mulvaney. One might be told more of what -happened, out of the moonlight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> in the blackness of Amir Nath's Gully. -I want to know how the palanquin came into Dearsley's possession, and -what became of Kheni Singh, and whether the seal-cutter did really -die in the House of Suddhoo. I want to know who it is who dances the -<i>Hálli Hukk</i>, and how, and why, and where. I want to know what happened -at Jagadhri, when the Death Bull was painted. I want to know all the -things that Mr. Kipling does not like to tell—to see the devils of the -East "rioting as the stallions riot in spring." It is the strength of -this new story-teller that he reawakens in us the primitive emotions -of curiosity, mystery, and romance in action. He is the master of a -new kind of terrible and enchanting peepshow, and we crowd around him -begging for "just one more look." When a writer excites and tantalises -us in this way, it seems a little idle to discuss his style. Let -pedants, then, if they will, say that Mr. Kipling has no style; yet, if -so, how shall we designate such passages as this, frequent enough among -his more exotic stories?</p> - -<p>"Come back with me to the north and be among men once more. Come back -when this matter is accomplished and I call for thee. The bloom of the -peach-orchards is upon all the valley, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> <i>here</i> is only dust and a -great stink. There is a pleasant wind among the mulberry-trees, and -the streams are bright with snow-water, and the caravans go up and the -caravans go down, and a hundred fires sparkle in the gut of the pass, -and tent-peg answers hammer-nose, and pony squeals to pony across the -drift-smoke of the evening. It is good in the north now. Come back with -me. Let us return to our own people. Come!"</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>The private life of Mr. Rudyard Kipling is not a matter of public -interest, and I should be very unwilling to exploit it, even if I had -the means of doing so. The youngest of living writers should really be -protected for a few years longer against those who chirp and gabble -about the unessential. All that needs to be known, in order to give him -his due chronological place, is that he was born in Bombay in Christmas -week, 1865. The careful student of what he has published will collect -from it the impression that Mr. Kipling was resident in India at an age -when few European children remain there; that he returned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> to England -for a brief period; that he began a career on his own account in India -at an unusually early age; that he has led a life of extraordinary -vicissitude, as a journalist, as a war correspondent, as a civilian -in the wake of the army; that an insatiable curiosity has led him to -shrink from no experience that might help to solve the strange riddles -of Oriental existence; and that he is distinguished from other active, -adventurous, and inquisitive persons in that his capacious memory -retains every impression that it captures.</p> - -<p>Beyond this, all that must here be said about the man is that his -stories began to be published—I think about eight years ago—in local -newspapers of India, that his first book of verse, <i>Departmental -Ditties</i>, appeared in 1886, while his prose stories were not collected -from a Lahore journal, of which he was the sub-editor, until 1888, when -a volume of <i>Plain Tales from the Hills</i> appeared in Calcutta. In the -same year six successive pamphlets or thin books appeared in an <i>Indian -Railway Library</i>, published at Allahabad, under the titles of <i>Soldiers -Three</i>, <i>The Gadsbys</i>, <i>In Black and White</i>, <i>Under the Deodars</i>, <i>The -Phantom 'Rickshaw</i>, and <i>Wee Willie Winkle</i>. These formed the literary -baggage of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, when, in 1889, he came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> home to find -himself suddenly famous at the age of twenty-three.</p> - -<p>Since his arrival in England Mr. Kipling has not been idle. In 1890 -he brought out a Christmas annual called <i>The Record of Badalia -Herodsfoot</i>, and a short novel, <i>The Light that Failed</i>. Already in -1891 he has published a fresh collection of tales called (in America) -<i>Mine Own People</i>, and a second miscellany of verses. This is by no -means a complete record of his activity, but it includes the names -of all his important writings. At an age when few future novelists -have yet produced anything at all, Mr. Kipling is already voluminous. -It would be absurd not to acknowledge that a danger lies in this -precocious fecundity. It would probably be an excellent thing for every -one concerned if this brilliant youth could be deprived of pens and -ink for a few years and be buried again somewhere in the far East. -There should be a "close time" for authors no less than for seals, and -the extraordinary fulness and richness of Mr. Kipling's work does not -completely reassure us.</p> - -<p>The publications which I have named above have not, as a rule, any -structural cohesion. With the exception of <i>Badalia Herodsfoot</i> and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> -<i>The Light that Failed</i>, which deal with phases of London life, their -contents might be thrown together without much loss of relation. The -general mass so formed could then be redivided into several coherent -sections. It may be remarked that Mr. Kipling's short stories, of -which, as I have said, we hold nearly a hundred, mainly deal with three -or four distinct classes of Indian life. We may roughly distinguish -these as the British soldier in India, the Anglo-Indian, the Native, -and the British child in India. In the following pages, I shall -endeavour to characterise his treatment of these four classes. I retain -the personal impression that it is pre-eminently as a poet that we -shall eventually come to regard him. For the present his short stories -fill the popular mind in connection with his name.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>There can be no question that the side upon which Mr. Kipling's talent -has most delicately tickled British curiosity, and British patriotism -too, is his revelation of the soldier in India. A great body of our -countrymen are constantly being drafted out to the East on Indian -service. They serve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> their time, are recalled, and merge in the mass -of our population; their strange temporary isolation between the -civilian and the native, and their practical inability to find public -expression for their feelings, make these men—to whom, though we so -often forget it, we owe the maintenance of our Empire in the East—an -absolutely silent section of the community. Of their officers we may -know something, although <i>A Conference of the Powers</i> may perhaps have -awakened us to the fact that we know very little. Still, people like -Tick Boileau and Captain Mafflin of the Duke of Derry's Pink Hussars -are of ourselves; we meet them before they go out and when they come -back; they marry our sisters and our daughters; and they lay down the -law about India after dinner. Of the private soldier, on the other -hand, of his loves and hates, sorrows and pleasures, of the way in -which the vast, hot, wearisome country and its mysterious inhabitants -strike him, of his attitude towards India, and of the way in which -India treats him, we know, or knew until Mr. Kipling enlightened us, -absolutely nothing. It is not surprising, then, if the novelty of this -portion of his writings has struck ordinary English readers more than -that of any other.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p> - -<p>This section of Mr. Kipling's work occupies the seven tales called -<i>Soldiers Three</i>, and a variety of stories scattered through his other -books. In order to make his point of view that of the men themselves, -not spoiled by the presence of superior officers, or by social -restraint of any sort, the author takes upon himself the character of -an almost silent young civilian who has gained the warm friendship of -three soldiers, whose intimate companion and chum he becomes. Most of -the military stories, though not all, are told by one of these three, -or else recount their adventures or caprices.</p> - -<p>Before opening the book called <i>Soldiers Three</i>, however, the reader -will do well to make himself familiar with the opening pages of a -comparatively late story, <i>The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney</i>, in -which the characteristics of the famous three are more clearly defined -than elsewhere. Mulvaney, the Irish giant, who has been the "grizzled, -tender, and very wise Ulysses" to successive generations of young and -foolish recruits, is a great creation. He is the father of the craft -of arms to his associates; he has served with various regiments from -Bermuda to Halifax; he is "old in war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, -and in his pious hours an unequalled soldier." Learoyd, the second of -these friends, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> "six and a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed -Yorkshireman, born on the wolds, bred in the dales, and educated -chiefly among the carriers' carts at the back of York railway-station." -The third is Ortheris, a little man as sharp as a needle, "a -fox-terrier of a cockney," an inveterate poacher and dog-stealer.</p> - -<p>Of these three strongly contrasted types the first and the third live -in Mr. Kipling's pages with absolute reality. I must confess that -Learoyd is to me a little shadowy, and even in a late story, <i>On -Greenhow Hill</i>, which has apparently been written in order to emphasise -the outline of the Yorkshireman, I find myself chiefly interested in -the incidental part, the sharp-shooting of Ortheris. It seems as though -Mr. Kipling required, for the artistic balance of his cycle of stories, -a third figure, and had evolved Learoyd while he observed and created -Mulvaney and Ortheris, nor am I sure that places could not be pointed -out where Learoyd, save for the dialect, melts undistinguishably into -an incarnation of Mulvaney. The others are studied from the life, -and by an observer who goes deep below the surface of conduct. How -penetrating the study is, and how clear the diagnosis, may be seen -in one or two stories which lie somewhat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> outside the popular group. -It is no superficial idler among men who has taken down the strange -notes on military hysteria which inspire <i>The Madness of Ortheris</i> and -<i>In the Matter of a Private</i>, while the skill with which the battered -giant Mulvaney, who has been a corporal and then has been reduced for -misconduct, who to the ordinary view and in the eyes of all but the -wisest of his officers is a dissipated blackguard, is made to display -the rapidity, wit, resource, and high moral feeling which he really -possesses, is extraordinary.</p> - -<p>We have hitherto had in English literature no portraits of private -soldiers like these, and yet the soldier is an object of interest -and of very real, if vague and inefficient, admiration to his -fellow-citizens. Mr. Thomas Hardy has painted a few excellent soldiers, -but in a more romantic light and a far more pastoral setting. -Other studies of this kind in fiction have either been slight and -unsubstantial, or else they have been, as in the baby-writings of a -certain novelist who has enjoyed popularity for a moment, odious in -their sentimental unreality. There seems to be something essentially -volatile about the soldier's memory. His life is so monotonous, so -hedged in by routine, that he forgets the details of it as soon as the -restraint is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> removed, or else he looks back upon it to see it bathed -in a fictitious haze of sentiment. The absence of sentimentality in -Mr. Kipling's version of the soldier's life in India is one of its -great merits. What romance it assumes under his treatment is due to the -curious contrasts it encourages. We see the ignorant and raw English -youth transplanted, at the very moment when his instincts begin to -develop, into a country where he is divided from everything which can -remind him of his home, where by noon and night, in the bazar, in -barracks, in the glowing scrub jungle, in the ferny defiles of the -hills, everything he sees and hears and smells and feels produces on -him an unfamiliar and an unwelcome impression. How he behaves himself -under these new circumstances, what code of laws still binds his -conscience, what are his relaxations and what his observations, these -are the questions which we ask and which Mr. Kipling essays for the -first time to answer.</p> - -<p>Among the short stories which Mr. Kipling has dedicated to the British -soldier in India there are a few which excel all the rest as works of -art. I do not think that any one will deny that of this inner selection -none exceeds in skill or originality <i>The Taking of Lungtungpen</i>. Those -who have not read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> this little masterpiece have yet before them the -pleasure of becoming acquainted with one of the best short stories, -not merely in English, but in any language. I do not know how to -praise adequately the technical merit of this little narrative. It -possesses to the full that masculine buoyancy, that power of sustaining -an extremely spirited narrative in a tone appropriate to the action, -which is one of Mr. Kipling's rare gifts. Its concentration, which -never descends into obscurity, its absolute novelty, its direct and -irresistible appeal to what is young and daring and absurdly splendid, -are unsurpassed. To read it, at all events to admire and enjoy it, is -to recover for a moment a little of that dare-devil quality that lurks -somewhere in the softest and the baldest of us. Only a very young man -could have written it, perhaps, but still more certainly only a young -man of genius.</p> - -<p>A little less interesting, in a totally different way, is <i>The Daughter -of the Regiment</i>, with its extraordinarily vivid account of the -breaking-out of cholera in a troop-train. Of <i>The Madness of Ortheris</i> -I have already spoken; as a work of art this again seems to me somewhat -less remarkable, because carried out with less completeness. But it -would be hard to find a parallel, of its own class,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> to <i>The Rout of -the White Hussars</i>, with its study of the effects of what is believed -to be supernatural on a gathering of young fellows who are absolutely -without fear of any phenomenon of which they comprehend the nature. -In a very late story, <i>The Courting of Dinah Shadd</i>, Mr. Kipling has -shown that he is able to deal with the humours and matrimonial amours -of Indian barrack-life just as rapidly, fully, and spiritedly as with -the more serious episodes of a soldier's career. The scene between Judy -Sheehy and Dinah, as told by Mulvaney in that story, is pure comedy, -without a touch of farce.</p> - -<p>On the whole, however, the impression left by Mr. Kipling's military -stories is one of melancholy. Tommy Atkins, whom the author knows so -well and sympathises with so truly, is a solitary being in India. In -all these tales I am conscious of the barracks as of an island in a -desolate ocean of sand. All around is the infinite waste of India, -obscure, monotonous, immense, inhabited by black men and pariah dogs, -Pathans and green parrots, kites and crocodiles, and long solitudes -of high grass. The island in this sea is a little collection of young -men, sent out from the remoteness of England to serve "the Widder," -and to help to preserve for her the rich and barbarous empire of the -East. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> microcosm of the barracks has its own laws, its own morals, -its own range of emotional sentiment. What these are the new writer -has not told us (for that would be a long story), but shown us that he -himself has divined. He has held the door open for a moment, and has -revealed to us a set of very human creations. One thing, at least, the -biographer of Mulvaney and Ortheris has no difficulty in persuading -us—namely, that "God in his wisdom has made the heart of the British -soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of -a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers -into tight and nasty places."</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>The Anglo-Indians with whom Mr. Kipling deals are of two kinds. I -must confess that there is no section of his work which appears to -me so insignificant as that which deals with Indian "society." The -eight tales which are bound together as <i>The Story of the Gadsbys</i> -are doubtless very early productions. I have been told, but I know -not whether on good authority, that they were published in serial -form before the author was twenty-one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> Judged as the observation of -Anglo-Indian life by so young a boy, they are, it is needless to say, -astonishingly clever. Some pages in them can never, I suppose, come -to seem unworthy of his later fame. The conversation in <i>The Tents of -Kedar</i>, where Captain Gadsby breaks to Mrs. Herriott that he is engaged -to be married, and absolutely darkens her world to her during "a Naini -Tal dinner for thirty-five," is of consummate adroitness. What a "Naini -Tal dinner" is I have not the slightest conception, but it is evidently -something very sumptuous and public, and if any practised hand of the -old social school could have contrived the thrust and parry under the -fire of seventy critical eyes better than young Mr. Kipling has done, -I know not who that writer is. In quite another way the pathos of the -little bride's delirium in <i>The Valley of the Shadow</i> is of a very -high, almost of the highest, order.</p> - -<p>But, as a rule, Mr. Kipling's "society" Anglo-Indians are not drawn -better than those which other Indian novelists have created for our -diversion. There is a sameness in the type of devouring female, and -though Mr. Kipling devises several names for it, and would fain -persuade us that Mrs. Herriott, and Mrs. Reiver, and Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> Hauksbee -possess subtle differences which distinguish them, yet I confess I am -not persuaded. They all—and the Venus Annodomini as well—appear to -me to be the same high-coloured, rather ill-bred, not wholly spoiled -professional coquette. Mr. Kipling seems to be too impatient of what -he calls "the shiny toy-scum stuff people call civilisation" to paint -these ladies very carefully. <i>The Phantom 'Rickshaw</i>, in which a -hideously selfish man is made to tell the story of his own cruelty -and of his mechanical remorse, is indeed highly original, but here it -is the man, not the woman, in whom we are interested. The proposal of -marriage in the dust-storm in <i>False Dawn</i>, a theatrical, lurid scene, -though scarcely natural, is highly effective. The archery contest in -<i>Cupid's Arrows</i> needs only to be compared with a similar scene in -<i>Daniel Deronda</i> to show how much more closely Mr. Kipling keeps his -eye on detail than George Eliot did. But these things are rare in this -class of his stories, and too often the Anglo-Indian social episodes -are choppy, unconvincing, and not very refined.</p> - -<p>All is changed when the central figure is a man. Mr. Kipling's -officials and civilians are admirably vivid and of an amazing variety. -If any one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> wishes to know why this new author has been received -with joy and thankfulness by the Anglo-Saxon world, it is really not -necessary for him to go further for a reason than to the moral tale of -<i>The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin</i>. Let the author of that tract -speak for himself:</p> - -<p>"Every man is entitled to his own religious opinions; but no man—least -of all a junior—has a right to thrust these down other men's throats. -The Government sends out weird civilians now and again; but McGoggin -was the queerest exported for a long time. He was clever—brilliantly -clever—but his cleverness worked the wrong way. Instead of keeping -to the study of the vernaculars, he had read some books written by a -man called Comte, I think, and a man called Spencer, and a Professor -Clifford. [You will find these books in the Library.] They deal with -people's insides from the point of view of men who have no stomachs. -There was no order against his reading them, but his mamma should have -smacked him.... I do not say a word against this creed. It was made -up in town, where there is nothing but machinery and asphalte and -building—all shut in by the fog.... But in this country [India], where -you really see humanity—raw,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> brown, naked humanity—with nothing -between it and the blazing sky, and only the used-up, over-handled -earth underfoot, the notion somehow dies away, and most folk come back -to simpler theories."</p> - -<p>Those who will not come back to simpler theories are prigs, for whom -the machine-made notion is higher than experience. Now Mr. Kipling, in -his warm way, hates many things, but he hates the prig for preference. -Aurelian McGoggin, better known as the Blastoderm, is a prig of the -over-educated type, and upon him falls the awful calamity of sudden -and complete nerve-collapse. Lieutenant Golightly, in the story which -bears his name, is a prig who values himself for spotless attire and -clockwork precision of manner; he therefore is mauled and muddied up -to his eyes, and then arrested under painfully derogatory conditions. -In <i>Lispeth</i> we get the missionary prig, who thinks that the Indian -instincts can be effaced by a veneer of Christianity. Mr. Kipling hates -"the sheltered life." The men he likes are those who have been thrown -out of their depth at an early age, and taught to swim off a boat. The -very remarkable story of <i>Thrown Away</i> shows the effect of preparing -for India by a life "unspotted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> from the world" in England; it is as -hopelessly tragic as any in Mr. Kipling's somewhat grim repertory.</p> - -<p>Against the <i>régime</i> of the prig Mr. Kipling sets the <i>régime</i> of -Strickland. Over and over again he introduces this mysterious figure, -always with a phrase of extreme approval. Strickland is in the police, -and his power consists in his determination to know the East as the -natives know it. He can pass through the whole of Upper India, dressed -as a fakir, without attracting the least attention. Sometimes, as in -<i>Beyond the Pale</i>, he may know too much. But this is an exception, -and personal to himself. Mr. Kipling's conviction is that this is -the sort of man to pervade India for us, and that one Strickland is -worth a thousand self-conceited civilians. But even below the Indian -prig, because he has at least known India, is the final object of Mr. -Kipling's loathing, "Pagett, M.P.," the radical English politician who -comes out for four months to set everybody right. His chastisement -is always severe and often comic. But in one very valuable paper, -which Mr. Kipling must not be permitted to leave unreprinted, <i>The -Enlightenment of Pagett, M.P.</i>, he has dealt elaborately and quite -seriously with this noxious creature.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> Whether Mr. Kipling is right or -wrong, far be it from me in my ignorance to pretend to know. But his -way of putting these things is persuasive.</p> - -<p>Since Mr. Kipling has come back from India he has written about society -"of sorts" in England. Is there not perhaps in him something of Pagett, -M.P., turned inside out? As a delineator of English life, at all -events, he is not yet thoroughly master of his craft. Everything he -writes has vigour and picturesqueness. But <i>The Lamentable Comedy of -Willow Wood</i> is the sort of thing that any extremely brilliant Burman, -whose English, if slightly odd, was nevertheless unimpeachable, might -write of English ladies and gentlemen, having never been in England. -<i>The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot</i> was in every way better, more truly -observed, more credible, more artistic, but yet a little too cynical -and brutal to come straight from life. And last of all there is the -novel of <i>The Light that Failed</i>, with its much-discussed two endings, -its oases of admirable detail in a desert of the undesirable, with its -extremely disagreeable woman, and its far more brutal and detestable -man, presented to us, the precious pair of them, as typical specimens -of English society. I confess that it is <i>The Light that Failed</i> that -has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> wakened me to the fact that there are limits to this dazzling new -talent, the <i>éclat</i> of which had almost lifted us off our critical feet.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The conception of Strickland would be very tantalising and incomplete -if we were not permitted to profit from his wisdom and experience. But, -happily, Mr. Kipling is perfectly willing to take us below the surface, -and to show us glimpses of the secret life of India. In so doing he -puts forth his powers to their fullest extent, and I think it cannot be -doubted that the tales which deal with native manners are not merely -the most curious and interesting which Mr. Kipling has written, but -are also the most fortunately constructed. Every one who has thought -over this writer's mode of execution will have been struck with the -skill with which his best work is restrained within certain limits. -When inspiration flags with him, indeed, his stories may grow too long, -or fail, as if from languor, before they reach their culmination. But -his best short stories—and among his best we include the majority of -his native Indian tales—are cast at once, as if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> in a mould; nothing -can be detached from them without injury. In this consists his great -technical advantage over almost all his English rivals; we must look to -France or to America for stories fashioned in this way. In several of -his tales of Indian manners this skill reaches its highest because most -complicated expression. It may be comparatively easy to hold within -artistic bonds a gentle episode of European amorosity. To deal, in -the same form, but with infinitely greater audacity, with the muffled -passions and mysterious instincts of India, to slur over nothing, to -emphasise nothing, to give in some twenty pages the very spicy odour of -the East, this is marvellous.</p> - -<p>Not less than this Mr. Kipling has done in a little group of stories -which I cannot but hold to be the culminating point of his genius so -far. If the remainder of his writings were swept away, posterity would -be able to reconstruct its Rudyard Kipling from <i>Without Benefit of -Clergy</i>, <i>The Man who Would be King</i>, <i>The Strange Ride of Morrowbie -Jukes</i>, and <i>Beyond the Pale</i>. More than that, if all other record of -Indian habits had been destroyed, much might be conjectured from these -of the pathos, the splendour, the cruelty, and the mystery of India. -From <i>The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows</i> more is to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> be gleaned of the -real action of opium-smoking, and the causes of that indulgence, than -from many sapient debates in the British House of Commons. We come very -close to the confines of the moonlight-coloured world of magic in <i>The -Bisara of Pooree</i>. For pure horror and for the hopeless impenetrability -of the native conscience there is <i>The Recrudescence of Imray</i>. In a -revel of colour and shadow, at the close of the audacious and Lucianic -story of <i>The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney</i>, we peep for a moment -into the mystery of "a big queen's praying at Benares."</p> - -<p>Admirable, too, are the stories which deal with the results of attempts -made to melt the Asiatic and the European into one. The red-headed -Irish-Thibetan who makes the king's life a burden to him in the -fantastic story of <i>Namgay Doola</i> represents one extremity of this -chain of grotesque Eurasians; Michele D'Cruze, the wretched little -black police inspector, with a drop of white blood in his body, who -wakes up to energetic action at one supreme moment of his life, is at -the other. The relapse of the converted Indian is a favourite theme -with this cynical observer of human nature. It is depicted in <i>The -Judgment of Dungara</i>, with a rattling humour worthy of Lever, where the -whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> mission, clad in white garments woven of the scorpion nettle, go -mad with fire and plunge into the river, while the trumpet of the god -bellows triumphantly from the hills. In <i>Lispeth</i> we have a study—much -less skilfully worked out, however—of the Indian woman carefully -Christianised from childhood reverting at once to heathenism when her -passions reach maturity.</p> - -<p>The lover of good literature, however, is likely to come back to -the four stories which we named first in this section. They are the -very flower of Mr. Kipling's work up to the present moment, and on -these we base our highest expectations for his future. <i>Without -Benefit of Clergy</i> is a study of the Indian woman as wife and mother, -uncovenanted wife of the English civilian and mother of his son. The -tremulous passion of Ameera, her hopes, her fears, and her agonies of -disappointment, combine to form by far the most tender page which Mr. -Kipling has written. For pure beauty the scene where Holden, Ameera, -and the baby count the stars on the housetop for Tota's horoscope is -so characteristic that, although it is too long to quote in full, its -opening paragraph must here be given as a specimen of Mr. Kipling's -style in this class of work:</p> - -<p>"Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that led to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> the flat roof. The -child, placid and unwinking, lay in the hollow of her right arm, -gorgeous in silver-fringed muslin, with a small skull-cap on his head. -Ameera wore all that she valued most. The diamond nose-stud that takes -the place of the Western patch in drawing attention to the curve of -the nostril, the gold ornament in the centre of the forehead studded -with tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the heavy circlet of -beaten gold that was fastened round her neck by the softness of the -pure metal, and the clinking curb-patterned silver anklets hanging low -over the rosy ankle-bone. She was dressed in jade-green muslin, as -befitted a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to elbow and elbow -to wrist ran bracelets of silver tied with floss silk; frail glass -bangles slipped over the wrist in proof of the slenderness of the hand, -and certain heavy gold bracelets that had no part in her country's -ornaments, but, since they were Holden's gift, and fastened with a -cunning European snap, delighted her immensely.</p> - -<p>"They sat down by the low white parapet of the roof, overlooking the -city and its lights."</p> - -<p>What tragedy was in store for the gentle astrologer, or in what -darkness of waters the story ends, it is needless to repeat here.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span></p> - -<p>In <i>The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes</i> a civil engineer stumbles by -chance on a ghastly city of the dead who do not die, trapped into it, -down walls of shifting sand, on the same principle as the ant-lion -secures its prey, the parallel being so close that one half suspects -Mr. Kipling of having invented a human analogy to the myrmeleon. The -abominable settlement of living dead men is so vividly described, -and the wonders of it are so calmly, and, as it were, so temperately -discussed, that no one who possesses the happy gift of believing can -fail to be persuaded of the truth of the tale. The character of Gunga -Dass, a Deccanee Brahmin whom Jukes finds in this reeking village, -and who, reduced to the bare elements of life, preserves a little, -though exceedingly little, of his old traditional obsequiousness, is an -admirable study. But all such considerations are lost, as we read the -story first, in the overwhelming and Poe-like horror of the situation -and the extreme novelty of the conception.</p> - -<p>A still higher place, however, I am inclined to claim for the daring -invention of <i>The Man who would be King</i>. This is a longer story than -is usual with Mr. Kipling, and it depends for its effect, not upon -any epigrammatic surprise or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> extravagant dénouement of the intrigue, -but on an imaginative effort brilliantly sustained through a detailed -succession of events. Two ignorant and disreputable Englishmen, exiles -from social life, determine to have done with the sordid struggle, and -to close with a try for nothing less than empire. They are seen by -the journalist who narrates the story to disappear northward from the -Kumharsan Serai disguised as a mad priest and his servant starting to -sell whirligigs to the Ameer of Kabul. Two years later there stumbles -into the newspaper office a human creature bent into a circle, and -moving his feet one over the other like a bear. This is the surviving -adventurer, who, half dead and half dazed, is roused by doses of raw -whisky into a condition which permits him to unravel the squalid and -splendid chronicle of adventures beyond the utmost rim of mountains, -adventures on the veritable throne of Kafiristan. The tale is recounted -with great skill as from the lips of a dying king. At first, to give -the needful impression of his faint, bewildered state, he mixes up -his narrative, whimpers, forgets, and repeats his phrases; but by -the time the curiosity of the reader is fully arrested, the tale has -become limpid and straightforward enough. When it has to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> drawn to -a close, the symptoms of aphasia and brain-lesion are repeated. This -story is conceived and conducted in the finest spirit of an artist. -It is strange to the verge of being incredible, but it never outrages -possibility, and the severe moderation of the author preserves our -credence throughout.</p> - -<p>It is in these Indian stories that Mr. Kipling displays more than -anywhere else the accuracy of his eye and the retentiveness of his -memory. No detail escapes him, and, without seeming to emphasise the -fact, he is always giving an exact feature where those who are in -possession of fewer facts or who see less vividly are satisfied with a -shrewd generality.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>In Mr. Kipling's first volume there was one story which struck -quite a different note from all the others, and gave promise of a -new delineator of children. <i>Tods' Amendment</i>, which is a curiously -constructed piece of work, is in itself a political allegory. It is to -be noticed that when he warms to his theme the author puts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> aside the -trifling fact that Tods is an infant of six summers, and makes him give -a clear statement of collated native opinion worthy of a barrister in -ample practice. What led to the story, one sees without difficulty, -was the wish to emphasise the fact that unless the Indian Government -humbles itself, and becomes like Tods, it can never legislate with -efficiency, because it never can tell what all the <i>jhampanis</i> and -<i>saises</i> in the bazar really wish for. If this were all, Mr. Kipling in -creating Tods would have shown no more real acquaintance with children -than other political allegorists have shown with sylphs or Chinese -philosophers. But Mr. Kipling is always an artist, and in order to -make a setting for his child-professor of jurisprudence, he invented -a really convincing and delightful world of conquering infancy. Tods, -who lives up at Simla with Tods' mamma, and knows everybody, is "an -utterly fearless young pagan," who pursues his favourite kid even into -the sacred presence of the Supreme Legislative Council, and is on terms -of equally well-bred familiarity with the Viceroy and with Futteh Khan, -the villainous loafer <i>khit</i> from Mussoorie.</p> - -<p>To prove that <i>Tods' Amendment</i> was not an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> accident, and also, -perhaps, to show that he could write about children purely and simply, -without any after-thought of allegory, he brought out, as the sixth -instalment of the <i>Indian Railway Library</i>, a little volume entirely -devoted to child-life. Of the four stories contained in this book one -is among the finest productions of its author, while two others are -very good indeed. There are also, of course, the children in <i>The Light -that Failed</i>, although they are too closely copied from the author's -previous creations in <i>Baa, Baa, Black Sheep</i>; and in other writings of -his, children take a position sufficiently prominent to justify us in -considering this as one of the main divisions of his work.</p> - -<p>In his preface to <i>Wee Willie Winkie</i>, Mr. Kipling has sketched for us -the attitude which he adopts towards babies. "Only women," he says, but -we may doubt if he means it, "understand children thoroughly; but if a -mere man keeps very quiet, and humbles himself properly, and refrains -from talking down to his superiors, the children will sometimes be -good to him, and let him see what they think about the world." This is -a curious form of expression, and suggests the naturalist more than -the lover of children.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> So might we conceive a successful zoologist -affirming that the way to note the habits of wild animals and birds -is by keeping very quiet, and lying low in the grass, and refraining -from making sudden noises. This is, indeed, the note by which we may -distinguish Mr. Kipling from such true lovers of childhood as Mrs. -Ewing. He has no very strong emotion in the matter, but he patiently -and carefully collects data, partly out of his own faithful and -capacious personal memory, partly out of what he still observes.</p> - -<p>The Tods type he would probably insist that he has observed. A finer -and more highly developed specimen of it is given in <i>Wee Willie -Winkie</i>, the hero of which is a noble infant of overpowering vitality, -who has to be put under military discipline to keep him in any sort of -domestic order, and who, while suffering under two days' confinement to -barracks (the house and verandah), saves the life of a headstrong girl. -The way in which Wee Willie Winkie—who is of Mr. Kipling's favourite -age, six—does this is at once wholly delightful and a terrible strain -to credence. The baby sees Miss Allardyce cross the river, which he has -always been forbidden to do, because the river is the frontier, and -beyond it are bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> men, goblins, Afghans, and the like. He feels that -she is in danger, he breaks mutinously out of barracks on his pony and -follows her, and when she has an accident, and is surrounded by twenty -hill-men, he saves her by his spirit and by his complicated display of -resource. To criticise this story, which is told with infinite zest -and picturesqueness, seems merely priggish. Yet it is contrary to Mr. -Kipling's whole intellectual attitude to suppose him capable of writing -what he knows to be supernatural romance. We have therefore to suppose -that in India infants "of the dominant race" are so highly developed at -six, physically and intellectually, as to be able to ride hard, alone, -across a difficult river, and up pathless hilly country, to contrive -a plan for succouring a hapless lady, and to hold a little regiment -of savages at bay by mere force of eye. If Wee Willie Winkie had been -twelve instead of six, the feat would have been just possible. But -then the romantic contrast between the baby and his virile deeds would -not have been nearly so piquant. In all this Mr. Kipling, led away by -sentiment and a false ideal, is not quite the honest craftsman that he -should be.</p> - -<p>But when, instead of romancing and creating, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> is content to observe -children, he is excellent in this as in other branches of careful -natural history. But the children he observes, are, or we much misjudge -him, himself. <i>Baa, Baa, Black Sheep</i> is a strange compound of work at -first and at second hand. Aunty Rosa (delightfully known, without a -suspicion of supposed relationship, as "Antirosa"), the Mrs. Squeers -of the Rocklington lodgings, is a sub-Dickensian creature, tricked out -with a few touches of reality, but mainly a survival of early literary -hatreds. The boy Harry and the soft little sister of Punch are rather -shadowy. But Punch lives with an intense vitality, and here, without -any indiscretion, we may be sure that Mr. Kipling has looked inside -his own heart and drawn from memory. Nothing in the autobiographies -of their childhood by Tolstoi and Pierre Loti, nothing in Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's <i>Child's Garden of Verses</i>, is more valuable as a record of -the development of childhood than the account of how Punch learned to -read, moved by curiosity to know what the "falchion" was with which the -German man split the Griffin open. Very nice, also, is the reference to -the mysterious rune, called "Sonny, my Soul," with which mamma used to -sing Punch to sleep.</p> - -<p>By far the most powerful and ingenious story,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> however, which Mr. -Kipling has yet dedicated to a study of childhood is <i>The Drums of the -Fore and Aft</i>. "The Fore and Aft" is a nickname given in derision to a -crack regiment, whose real title is "The Fore and Fit," in memory of a -sudden calamity which befell them on a certain day in an Afghan pass, -when, if it had not been for two little blackguard drummer-boys, they -would have been wofully and contemptibly cut to pieces, as they were -routed by a dashing troop of Ghazis. The two little heroes, who only -conquer to die, are called Jakin and Lew, stunted children of fourteen, -"gutter-birds" who drink and smoke and "do everything but lie," and are -the disgrace of the regiment. In their little souls, however, there -burns what Mr. Pater would call a "hard, gem-like flame" of patriotism, -and they are willing to undergo any privation, if only they may wipe -away the stigma of being "bloomin' non-combatants."</p> - -<p>In the intervals of showing us how that stain was completely removed, -Mr. Kipling gives us not merely one of the most thrilling and effective -battles in fiction, but a singularly delicate portrait of two grubby -little souls turned white and splendid by an element of native -greatness. It would be difficult to point to a page of modern English -more poignant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> than that which describes how "the only acting-drummers -who were took along," and—left behind, moved forward across the pass -alone to the enemy's front, and sounded on drum and fife the return of -the regiment to duty. But perhaps the most remarkable feature of the -whole story is that a record of shocking British retreat and failure is -so treated as to flatter in its tenderest susceptibilities the pride of -British patriotism.</p> - -<p><i>1891.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">AN ELECTION AT THE ENGLISH ACADEMY</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p> - -<h2>An Election at the English Academy</h2> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Athenæum Club, Pall Mall, S.W.</span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">To Robert Louis Stevenson</span>, R.E.A., Samoa</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Stevenson</span>,—Last night I think that even you must -have regretted being a beachcomber. Even the society of your friend -Ori-a-Ori and the delights of kava and bread-fruit can hardly make up -to you for what you lost in Piccadilly. It was the first occasion, as -you are aware, upon which we have been called upon to fill up a vacancy -in the Forty. You know, long before this letter reaches you, that we -have already lost one of our original members. Poor Kinglake! I thought -at the time that it was a barren honour, but it was one which his fame -imperatively demanded. I can't say I knew him: a single introduction, -a few gracious words in a low<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> voice, a grave and sad presence—that -is all I retain of him personally. I shall know more when our new -Academician has to deliver the eulogium on his predecessor. What an -intellectual treat it will be!</p> - -<p>We had a splendid gathering. Do you recollect that when the papers -discussed us, before our foundation, one thing they said was that -there never would be a decent attendance? I must confess our -business meetings have been rather sparsely filled up. Besant is -invariably there, Lecky generally, a few others. There has always -been a quorum—not much more. But between you and me and those other -palms—the feathery palms of your cabin—there has not been much -business to transact; not much more than might have been left to -assiduous Mr. Robinson, our paid secretary. But last night the clan was -all but complete. There were thirty-seven of us, nobody missing but Mr. -Ruskin and yourself. Ruskin, by the way, wrote a letter to be read at -the meeting, and then sent on to the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>—so diverting! -I must cut it out and enclose it. But his style, if this is to be taken -as an example, is not quite what it was.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> - -<p>Well, I am still so excited that I hardly know where to begin. To -me, a real country bumpkin, the whole thing was such an occasion! -Such a <i>social</i> occasion! I must begin from the beginning. I came -all the way up from Luxilian, my green uniform, with the golden -palm-shoots embroidered on it, safely packed in my portmanteau under my -dress-clothes. To my great annoyance the children had been wearing it -in Christmas charades. My dear wife, ay me, has so little firmness of -character. By-the-by, I hope you wear yours on official occasions in -Samoa? The whole costume, I should fancy, must be quite in a Polynesian -taste.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> I was more "up" in the candidates and their characteristics -than you would expect. Ah! I know you think me rather a Philistine—but -can an Academician be a Philistine? That is a question that might be -started when next the big gooseberry season begins. I was "up" in the -candidates because, as good luck would have it, Sala had been spending -a week with me in the country. Delightful companion, but scarcely -fitted for rural pleasures. He mentioned such a great number of eminent -literary persons whom I had never heard of—mostly rather occasional -writers, I gathered. He has an extraordinarily wide circle, I find: -it makes me feel quite the Country Mouse. He did not seem to know -much about Gardiner, it is true, but then he could tell me all that -Hardy had written—or pretty nearly all; and, of course, as you know, -Gardiner is my own hobby.</p> - -<p>The moment I got to Paddington I foolishly began looking hither and -thither for fellow-"immortals." Rather absurd, but not so absurd as -you might suppose, for there, daintily stepping out of a first-class -carriage, whom should I see but Max Müller. I scarcely know him, and -should not have ventured to address him, but he called out: "Ah! my -dear friend, we come, I suspect, on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> same interesting, the same -patriotic errand!" I had felt a few qualms of conscience about my own -excitement in the election; we are so quiet at Luxilian that we can -scarcely measure the relative importance of events. But Max Müller -completely reassured me. It was delightful to me to see how seriously -he regarded the event. "Europe," he said, "is not inattentive to such -a voice as the unanimity of the English Academy may—may wield." I -could not help smiling at the last word, and reflecting how carelessly -the most careful of us professional writers expresses himself in -conversation. But his enthusiasm was very beautiful, and I found myself -more elevated than ever. "It is permitted to us," he went on, "to -whisper among ourselves what the world must not hear—the unthinking -world—that the social status of English Academician adds not a -little dignity to literature. One hopes that, whoever may be added -to our number to-night, the social——eh?" I had formulated just the -same feeling myself. "Only in so far," he went on, "as is strictly -consistent with the interests of literature and scholarship—of course? -Good-bye!" and he left me with an impression that he wanted to vote for -both candidates.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was a little shopping I had to do in Regent Street, after I -had left my costume at the Academy, and I called in at Mudie's for a -moment on my way to the British Museum. To give you an idea of the -mental disturbance I was suffering from, I asked the very polite -young man at the counter for my own <i>Mayors of Woodshire</i>—you know, -my seventeenth-century book—instead of <i>The Mayor of Casterbridge</i>, -which my wife wanted to read. I did not realise my mistake till I saw -the imprint of the Clarendon Press. At last I got to the manuscript -room, made my references, and found that our early dinner hour was -approaching. I walked westward down Oxford Street, enjoying the -animation and colour of the lovely evening, and then, suddenly, -realising what the hour was, turned and took a hansom to the Athenæum.</p> - -<p>Who should meet me in the vestibule but Seeley? Less and less often -do I find my way to Cambridge, and I hesitated about addressing him, -although I used to know him so well. He was buried in a reverie, -and slowly moving to the steps. I suppose I involuntarily slackened -my speed also, and he looked up. He was most cordial, and almost -immediately began to talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> to me about those notes on the commercial -relations of the Woodshire ports with Poland which I printed in the -<i>English Historical</i> two (or perhaps three) years ago. I daresay you -never heard of them. I promised to send him some transcripts I have -since made of the harbour laws of Luxilian itself—most important. -I longed to ask Seeley whether we might be sure of his support for -Gardiner, but I hardly liked to do so, he seemed so much more absorbed -in the past. I took for granted it was all right, and when we parted, -as he left the Club, he said, "We meet later on this evening, I -suppose?" and that was his only reference to the election.</p> - -<p>I am hardly at home yet at the Athenæum, and I was therefore delighted -to put myself under Lecky's wing. I soon saw that quite a muster of -Academicians was preparing to dine, for when we entered the Coffee Room -we found Mr. Walter Besant already seated, and before we could join him -Mr. Black and Mr. Herbert Spencer came in together and approached us. -We had two small tables placed together, and just as we were sitting -down, Lord Lytton, who was so extremely kind to me in Paris last autumn -when I left my umbrella in the Eiffel Tower, made his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> appearance. We -all seemed studiously to make no reference, at first, to the great -event of the day, while Mr. Spencer diverted us with several anecdotes -which he had just brought from a family in the country—not at all, of -course, of a puerile description, but throwing a singular light upon -the development of infant mind. After this the conversation flagged a -little. I suppose we were all thinking of the same thing. I was quite -relieved when a remark of Lecky's introduced the general topic.</p> - -<p>Our discussion began by Lord Lytton's giving us some very interesting -particulars of the election of Pierre Loti (M. Viaud) into the French -Academy last week, and of the social impression produced by these -contests. I had no idea of the pushing, the intriguing, the unworthy -anxiety which are shown by some people in Paris who wish to be of the -Forty. Lord Lytton says that there is a story by M. Daudet which, -although it is petulant and exaggerated, gives a very graphic picture -of the seamy side of the French Academy. I must read this novel, for I -feel that we, as a new body destined to wield a vast influence in this -country, ought to be forewarned. I ventured to say that I did not think -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> English people, with our honest and wholesome traditions, and the -blessings of a Protestant religion, would be in any danger of falling -into these excesses. Nobody responded to this; I am afraid the London -writers are dreadfully cynical, and Black remarked that we six, at all -events, were poachers turned inside out. They laughed at this, and I -was quite glad when the subject was changed.</p> - -<p>Lord Lytton asked Mr. Besant whether he was still as eager as ever -about his Club of Authors, or whether he considered that the English -Academy covered the ground. He replied that he had wholly relinquished -that project for the present. His only wish had been to advocate union -among authors, on a basis of mutual esteem and encouragement, and -he thought that the Academy would be quite enough to do that, if it -secured for itself the building which is now being talked about, as -a central point for consultation on all matters connected with the -literary life and profession. But this notion did not seem to command -itself to Mr. Spencer, who said that it seemed to him that the Forty -were precisely those whom success or the indulgence of the public had -raised above the need or the desire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> of consultation. "I am very glad -to have the pleasure of playing a game of billiards with you, Mr. -Besant, but why should I consult you about my writings? I conceive that -the duty of our Academy is solely to insist on a public recognition of -the dignity of literature, and that if we go a step beyond that aim, we -prepare nothing but snares for our feet."</p> - -<p>"Whom, then, do you propose," continued Lecky to Besant, "to summon to -your consultations?"</p> - -<p>"Surely," was the reply, "any respectable authors."</p> - -<p>"Outsiders, then," said Mr. Spencer, "a few possible and a multitude of -impossible candidates?"</p> - -<p>"Female writers as well as male?" asked Black; "are we to have the -literary Daphne at our conversaziones—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits,</i></div> -<div><i>Vouchsafing audience to contending wits?</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>How do you like that prospect, Lecky?"</p> - -<p>"But poorly, I must confess. We have tiresome institutions enough -in London without adding to them a sort of Ptolemaic Mouseion, for -us to strut about on the steps of, in our palm-costume, attended by -dialectical ladies and troops of intriguing pupils.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> Though that, -I am sure," he added courteously, "is the last thing our friend -Besant desires, yet I conceive it would tend to be the result of such -consultation."</p> - -<p>"What then," said the novelist, "is to be the practical service of the -English Academy to life and literature?"</p> - -<p>At this we all put on a grave and yet animated expression, for -certainly, to each of us, this was a very important consideration.</p> - -<p>"Putting on one side," began Mr. Spencer, "the social advantage, the -unquestionable dignity and importance given to individual literary -accomplishment at a time when the purer parts of writing—I mean no -disrespect to you novelists—are greatly neglected in the general -hurly-burly; putting on one side this function of the English Academy, -there remains, of course——"</p> - -<p>But, at this precise moment, when I was literally hanging on the lips -of our eminent philosopher, the door opened with a considerable noise -of gaiety, and Mr. Arthur Balfour entered, in company with a gentleman, -who was introduced to me presently as Mr. Andrew Lang.</p> - -<p>"Two more Academicians, and this time neither novelists nor -philosophers," said Black.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> - -<p>They sat down close to us, so that the conversation was still general.</p> - -<p>"We were discussing the Academy," said Lord Lytton. "And we," replied -Mr. Balfour, "were comparing notes about rackets. Lang tells me he has -found a complete description of the game in one of the Icelandic sagas."</p> - -<p>"Played with a shuttlecock," said Mr. Lang, throwing himself back -with a gesture of intense fatigue. "By the way, when we get to B in -our Academy dictionary, I will write the article <i>battledore</i>. It is -Provençal, I believe; but one must look up Skeat."</p> - -<p>"We shall be very old, I am afraid, before we reach letter B," I -remarked, "shall we not?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! no," said Mr. Lang, "we shall fire away like fun. All we have to -do is to crib our definitions out of Murray."</p> - -<p>"I hardly think that," said Mr. Besant; "we seem to have precious -little to occupy ourselves with, but our dictionary at least you must -leave us."</p> - -<p>We talked this over a little, and the general opinion seemed to be that -it would turn out to be more an alphabetical series of monographs on -the history of our language than a dictionary in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> ordinary sense. -And who was to have the courage to start it, no one seemed able to -guess.</p> - -<p>A general conversation then began, which was of not a little interest -to me. The merits of our two candidates were warmly, but temperately -discussed. Everybody seemed to feel that we ought to have them both -among us; that our company would still be incomplete if one was -elected. Black suggested that some public-spirited Academician should -perform the Happy Despatch, so as to supply the convenience of two -vacancies. Lord Lytton reminded us that we were doing, on a small -scale, what the French Academy itself did for a few years,—from the -election of Guizot to that of Labiche—namely, meeting in private to -wrangle over the merits of the candidates. We laughed, and set to with -greater zeal, I painting Gardiner in rosier colours as Besant advanced -the genius of Hardy.</p> - -<p>While this was going on Sir Frederick Leighton joined us, listening -and leaning in one of his Olympian attitudes. "I find," he said at -last, "that I am able to surprise you. You are not aware that there is -a third candidate." "A third candidate?" we all exclaimed. "Yes," he -said; "before the hour was too far advanced yesterday, our secretary -received the due notice from his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury." -"Ah! you mean for your own Academy," some one said; "as chaplain in the -room of the poor Archbishop of York?" "No," Sir Frederick answered, -smiling, "as a candidate for <i>our</i> Academy, the English Academy." (And, -indeed, I recollected that Leighton was one of our original members. I -cannot quite recall upon what literary grounds, but he is a charming -person, and a great social acquisition.)</p> - -<p>There was a pause at this unexpected announcement. "I am sorry," said -Mr. Balfour at last, "that the Archbishop, whom I greatly esteem and -admire, should have laid himself open to this rebuff. We cannot admit -him, and yet how extremely painful to reject him. He has scarcely more -claim to belong to this Academy than I have, and——" At this we all, -very sincerely, murmured our expostulation, and Lord Lytton, leaning -across, said: "My dear Arthur, you are our Haussonville!" "I am afraid -I am more likely," he replied, "to be your Audriffet-Pasquier. But -here I am, and it was none of my seeking. I am, at least, determined -not to use what fortieth-power I have for the election of any but the -best purely literary candidates." There was no direct reply to this, -and presently we all got up and separated to prepare for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> the election, -each of us manifestly disturbed by this unexpected news.</p> - -<p>As I was going out of the Club, I met Jebb, whom I was very glad to -greet. I used to know him well, but I go so seldom to Cambridge in -these days that I can scarcely have seen him since he took his doctor's -degree in letters, which must be seven or eight years ago, when I -came up to see my own boy get his B.A. He was quite unchanged, and as -cordial as ever. The night was so clear that we decided to walk, and, -as we passed into Pall Mall, the moonlight suddenly flooded the street.</p> - -<p>"How the nightingales must be singing at Luxilian," I cried.</p> - -<p>"And that nest of singing-birds with whom I saw you dining," said Jebb, -"how did they entertain you?"</p> - -<p>"The best company in the world," I replied; "and yet——! Perhaps -Academicians talk better in twos and ones than <i>en masse</i>. I thought -the dinner might have been more brilliant, and it certainly might have -been more instructive."</p> - -<p>"They were afraid of one another, no doubt," said the Professor; "they -were afraid of you. But how could it have been more instructive?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I was in hopes that I should hear from all these accomplished men -something definite about the aims of the Academy, its functions in -practical life—what the use of it is to be, in fact."</p> - -<p>"Had they no ideas to exchange on that subject? Did they not dwell on -the social advantages it gives to literature? Why, my dear friend, -between ourselves, the election of a new member to an Academy -constituted as ours is, so restricted in numbers, so carefully weeded -of all questionable elements, is in itself the highest distinction ever -yet placed within the reach of English literature. In fact, it is the -Garter."</p> - -<p>"But," I pursued, "are we not in danger of thinking too much of the -social matter? Are we not framing a tradition which, if it had existed -for three hundred years, would have excluded Defoe, Bunyan, Keats, and -perhaps Shakespeare himself?"</p> - -<p>"Doubtless," Jebb answered, "but we are protected against such folly -by the high standard of our candidates. Hardy, Gardiner—who could be -more unexceptionable? who could more eminently combine the qualities we -seek?"</p> - -<p>"You are not aware, then," I said, "that a third candidate is before -us?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No! Who?"</p> - -<p>"The Archbishop of Canterbury."</p> - -<p>"Ah!" he exclaimed, and we walked on together in silence.</p> - -<p>At the door of the Academy Jebb left me, "for a moment or two," -he said, and proceeded up Piccadilly. I ascended the steps of our -new building, and passed into the robing-room. Whom should I meet -there, putting on his green palm-shoots, but Mr. Leslie Stephen. I -was particularly glad to have a moment's interview with him, for I -wanted to tell him of my great discovery, a fifth Nicodemus, Abbot -of Luxilian, in the twelfth century. Extraordinary thing! Of course, -I imagined that he would be delighted about it, although he has not -quite reached N yet, but I can't say that he seemed exhilarated. "Five -successive Nicodemuses," I said, "what do you think of that?" He -murmured something about "all standing naked in the open air." I fancy -he is losing his interest in the mediæval biographies. However, before -I could impress upon him what a "find" it is, Mr. Gladstone came in -with the Bishop of Oxford, and just then Sala called me out to repeat -a story to me which he had just heard at some club. I thought it good -at the time—something about "Manipur"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> and "many poor"—but I have -forgotten how it went.</p> - -<p>Upstairs, in the great reception-room, the company was now rapidly -gathering. You may imagine how interesting I found it. Everywhere knots -of men were forming, less, I felt, to discuss the relative claims of -Hardy and Gardiner than to deplore the descent of the Archbishop into -the lists. The Duke of Argyll, who courteously recognised me, deigned -to refer to this topic of universal interest. "I would have done much," -he said, "to protect him from the annoyance of this defeat. A prince of -the Anglican Church, whom we all respect and admire! I fear he will not -have more than—than—perhaps <i>one</i> vote. Alas! alas!"</p> - -<p>Various little incidents caught my eye. Poor Professor Freeman, -bursting very hastily into the room, bounced violently against Mr. -Froude, who happened to be standing near the door. I don't think Mr. -Freeman can have realised how roughly he struck him, for he did not -turn or stop, but rushed across the room to the Bishop of Oxford, with -whom he was soon in deep consultation about Gardiner, no doubt; I did -not disturb them. Lord Salisbury, with pendant arms, gently majestic, -stood on the hearth-rug talking to an elderly gentleman of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>pleasing -aspect, in spectacles. I heard some one say something about "the other -uncrowned king of Brentford," but I did not understand the allusion. I -suppose the gentleman was some supporter of the Ministry, but I did not -catch his name.</p> - -<p>Lecky was so kind as to present me to Professors Huxley and Tyndall, -neither of whom, I believe, ought to have been out on so fresh a spring -night; neither, I hope to hear this evening, is the worse for such -imprudence. A curious incident now occurred, for as we were chatting, -Huxley suddenly said, in a low voice: "Gladstone has his eye upon you, -Tyndall." The professor flounced about at this in a great agitation, -and replied, so loudly that I feared it would be generally heard—"He -had better not attempt to address me. I should utter six withering -syllables, and then turn my back upon him. Gladstone, indeed, the old -——." But at this moment, to my horror, Mr. Gladstone glided across -the floor with his most courtly and dignified air, and held out his -hand. "Ah! Professor Tyndall, how long it seems since those beautiful -days on the Bel Alp." There was a little bridling and hesitating, and -then Tyndall took the proffered hand. "I was wandering," said the -Grand Old Man, "without a guide, and now I have found one,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> the best -possible. I am——" "Oh!" broke in the professor, "I thought it would -be so. I am more delighted than——" "Pardon me," interrupted Mr. -Gladstone with an exquisite deprecation, "I am mainly interested at the -moment in the Sirens. I am lost, as I said, without a guide, and I have -found one. Your experiments with the sirens on the North Foreland—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>ἱεἱσαι ὁπα κἁλλιμον,—"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>[Greek: hieisai opa kallimon],—"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>and then, arm in arm, the amicable and animated pair retired to a -corner of the room.</p> - -<p>Impossible to describe to you all the incidents of this delightful -gathering. In one corner the veteran Dr. Martineau was seated, -conversing with Mr. Henry Irving. I was about to join them when I was -attracted by a sharp and elastic step on the stairs, and saw that -Lord Wolseley, entering the room, and glancing quickly round, walked -straight to a group at my left hand, which was formed around Mr. George -Meredith.</p> - -<p>"For whom must I vote, Mr. Meredith?" he said. "I place myself in your -hands. Is it to be the Archbishop of Canterbury?"</p> - -<p>"Nay," replied Mr. Meredith, smiling, "for the prelate I shake you out -a positive negative. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> customary guests at our academic feast—well; -poet, historian, essayist, say novelist or journalist, all welcome -on grounds of merit royally acknowledged and distinguished. But this -portent of a crozier, nodding familiarly to us with its floriated tin -summit, a gilt commodity, definitely hostile to literature—never -in the world. How Europe will boom with cachinnation when it learns -that we have invented the Academy of English Letters for the more -excellent glorification of mere material episcopacy, a radiant excess -of iridescence thrown by poetry upon prelacy, heart's blood of books -shed merely to stain more rosily the <i>infulæ</i> and <i>vittæ</i> of a mitre. I -shall be tempted into some colloquial extravagance if I dwell on this -theme, however; I must chisel on Blackmore yonder for floral wit, and -so will, with permission, float out of your orbit by a bowshot."</p> - -<p>Dr. Jowett now made his appearance, in company with Mr. Swinburne; -and they were followed by a gentleman in a rough coat and picturesque -blue shirt, who attracted my attention by this odd costume, and by his -very fine head, with flowing beard and hair. I was told it was the -poet Morris; not at all how I had pictured the author of <i>The Epic of -Hades</i>. And finally, to our infinite delight, Lord Tennyson himself -came in, leaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> on Jebb's arm, and we felt that our company was -complete.</p> - -<p>We clustered at last into our inner council-room, at the door of which -the usher makes us sign our names. What a page last night's will be -for the enjoyment of posterity! We gradually settled into our places; -Lord Tennyson in his presidential chair, Lecky in his post of permanent -secretary; our excellent paid secretary hurrying about with papers, -and explaining to us the routine. It seemed more like a club than ever -at that moment, our charming Academy, with the best of all possible -society. As I sat waiting for business to begin, my thoughts ran -more and more upon the unfortunate candidature of the Archbishop. I -reflected on what the Duke of Argyll had said, the wretchedness of the -<i>one</i> vote. He should, at least, have two, I determined; and I asked -my neighbour, Mr. Frederic Harrison, if he knew what Dr. Benson had -published. "I have an idea," he replied, "that he is the author of a -work entitled <i>The Cathedral: its Necessary Place in the Life and Work -of an Academy</i>."</p> - -<p>Our proceedings were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of -Cardinal Manning, who desired to be permitted, before the election -began, to add<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> to the names of the candidates that of Mr. W. T. Stead. -At this there was a general murmur, and Mr. Lang muttered: "If it comes -to that, I propose Bridge" (or "Brydges"—I could not catch the name). -The Cardinal continued: "I know I have a seconder for him in my eminent -friend opposite." We all looked across at Archdeacon Farrar, who -objected, with considerable embarrassment: "No, no; when I said that, -I did not understand what the final list of candidates was to be. I -must really decline." The Cardinal then turned to Mr. John Morley, who -shook his head. "The Academy will have more need of Mr. Stead ten years -hence, perhaps, than it has now." And with that the incident terminated.</p> - -<p>The moment had at last arrived, and we expected a prolonged session. -By a system of successive ballotings, we have to work on until one -candidate has a positive majority; this may take a long time, and may -even fail to be accomplished. The President rang his bell, and the -names were pronounced by the secretary:</p> - -<table summary="names were pronounced"> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Edward White Benson</span>, Archbishop of Canterbury,</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Samuel Rawson Gardiner</span>,</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Thomas Hardy</span>.</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> - -<p>As soon as he had recorded his vote, our venerable President left us; -the remainder of the company awaited the result with eager curiosity. -The general opinion seemed to be that the votes for Gardiner and Hardy -would prove pretty equal, and I began to feel a little qualm at having -thrown mine away. But when Mr. Gladstone, taking the President's chair, -rang his bell, and announced the result of the voting, it is not too -much to say that we were stupefied. The votes were thus divided:</p> - -<table summary="votes"> - <tr> - <td class="left">The Archbishop of Canterbury <span class="s3"> </span> </td> - <td>19</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">Gardiner</td> - <td>8</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">Hardy</td> - <td>7</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">Blank votes</td> - <td>3</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p>There was, accordingly, no need for a second ballot, since the -Archbishop had secured a positive majority of the votes. I felt a -little uncomfortable when I reflected that my vote, if loyally given -to Gardiner, would have necessitated a reopening of the matter. Never -mind. Better as it is. The election is a very good one, from a social -point of view particularly.</p> - -<p>The company dispersed rather hurriedly. On the stairs, where Mr. Arthur -Balfour was offering his arm to Lord Selborne, I heard the latter say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> -"We may congratulate ourselves on a most excellent evening's work, may -we not?" Mr. Balfour shook his head, but I did not catch his reply; he -seemed to have lost something of his previous good spirits.</p> - -<p>This morning the daily papers are in raptures, the Gladstonians as much -as the Unionists. A great honour, they all say, done to the profession -of literature. "Quite a social triumph," the <i>Morning Post</i> remarks; -"a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"—rather happy, is it -not? But one of those young men of the <i>National Observer</i>, who was -waiting for me outside the Academy last night, and kindly volunteered -to see me home to the hotel—where he was even good enough to partake -of refreshment—was rather severe. "Not a single <i>writer</i> in the d——d -gang of you," he said. A little coarse, I thought; and not positively -final, as criticism.</p> - -<p class="right">I am,<span class="s11"> </span><br /> -Yours very faithfully,<span class="s3"> </span><br />________________</p> - -<p><i>1891.</i></p> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <span class="smcap">My dear Sir</span>,—What in the Devil's name should -I do at your assemblage of notorieties? I neither care nor wish to -care whom you elect. The only <i>Gardiner</i> I ever heard of was Henry's -Bloody Bishop. If "Kiss me <i>Hardy</i>" came before us, it would be -worth while for the only true Tory left in England to vote for him; -but he has been with God this good half century. My £100 a year as -Academician—recoverable, they tell me, in case of lapsed payment, from -Her Majesty herself—I spend in perfecting my collection of the palates -of molluscs, who keep their inward economy as clean as the deck of a -ship of the line with stratagems beautiful and manifold exceedingly. -Few of your Academicians show an apparatus half so handsome when they -open their mouths. How unlike am I, by the way, in my retirement, -from Bismarck across the waters, who squeaks like a puppy-dog on his -road to the final parliamentary sausage-making machine of these poor -times. Would it not be well for your English Academy, instead of these -election follies, to bestir itself with a copy of <i>The Crown of Wild -Olive</i> for his heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold -my Dorian.—Ever faithfully yours, <span class="smcap">John Ruskin</span>.</p></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> - -<h2>APPENDICES</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="bold">TENNYSON—AND AFTER?</p> - -<p>When this essay first appeared in <i>The New Review</i>, the scepticism it -expressed with regard to the universal appreciation of the poet was -severely censured in one or two newspapers. On the other hand, the -accomplished author of <i>Thyrza</i> and <i>New Grub Street</i> obliged me with -a letter of very great interest, which fully confirmed my doubts. Mr. -Gissing has kindly permitted me to print his letter here. His wide -experience among the poor makes his opinion on this matter one which -cannot lightly be passed by:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="right">"<i>Nov. 20, 1892.</i></p> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Will you pardon me if I venture to say with what -satisfaction I have read your remarks about Tennyson in <i>The New -Review</i>, which has only just come into my hands?</p> - -<p>"The popular mind is my study, and I know that Tennyson's song -no more reached it than it reached the young-eyed cherubim. Nor -does <i>any</i> song reach<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> the populace, rich and poor, unless, as you -suggest, it be such as appears in <i>The Referee</i>.</p> - -<p>"After fifteen years' observation of the poorer classes of -English folk, chiefly in London and the south, I am pretty well -assured that, whatever civilising agencies may be at work among -the democracy, poetry is not one of them. Reading, of one kind -or another, is universal; study, serious and progressive, is no -longer confined to the ranks that enjoy a liberal education; but -the populace, the industrial and trading masses, not merely remain -without interest in poetry, but do not so much as understand what -the term poetry means. In other intellectual points, the grades of -unlettered life are numerous; as regards appreciation of verse, -the People are one. From the work-girl, with her penny novelette, -to the artisan who has collected a little library, the natural -inclination of all who represent their class is to neglect verse -as something exotic, something without appeal to their instincts. -They either do not read it at all—the common case—or (with -an exception to be noticed) they take it as a quaint variety -of prose, which custom has consecrated to religion, to the -affections, and to certain phases of facetiousness.</p> - -<p>"In London, through all orders of society below the liberally -educated, it is a most exceptional thing to meet with a person who -seeks for verse as verse; who recognises the name of any greater -poet not hackneyed in the newspapers, or who even distantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> -apprehends the nature of the poet's art. In the north of England, -where more native melody is found, self-taught readers of poetry -are, I believe, not so rare; but they must still be greatly the -exception. As to the influence of board-schools, one cannot doubt -that the younger generation are even less inclined to a taste for -poetry than their fathers. Some elderly people, in Sunday languor, -take up a book of verse with which they have been familiar since -early days (Mrs. Hemans, Eliza Cook, Montgomery, Longfellow); -whereas their children cannot endure printed matter cut into -rhythmic lengths, unless the oddity solicit them in the columns of -a paper specially addressed to their intelligence.</p> - -<p>"At the instigation of those zealous persons who impress upon -shopkeepers, clerks and artisans, the duty of 'self-culture -in leisure hours,' there undoubtedly goes on some systematic -reading of verse—the exceptional case to which I alluded. It -is undertaken in a resolute spirit by pallid men, who study the -poet just as they study the historian, the economist, the master -of physical science, and their pathetic endeavour is directed by -that species of criticism which demands—exclusively—from poetry -its 'message for our time.' Hence, no doubt, the conviction of -many who go down to the great democratic deep that multitudes -are hungering for the poet's word. Here, as in other kindred -matters, the hope of such enthusiasts arises from imperfect -understanding. Not in lecture-hall and classroom can the mind of -the people be discovered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> Optimism has made a fancy picture of -the representative working-man, ludicrous beyond expression to -those who know him in his habitat; and the supremely ludicrous -touch is that which attributes to him a capacity for enjoying pure -literature.</p> - -<p>"I have in mind a typical artisan family, occupying a house -to themselves, the younger members grown up and, in their own -opinion, very far above those who are called 'the poor.' They -possess perhaps a dozen volumes: a novel or two, some bound -magazines, a few musty works of popular instruction or amusement; -all casually acquired and held in no value. Of these people I am -able confidently to assert (as the result of specific inquiry) -that they have in their abode no book of verse—that they never -read verse when they can avoid it—that among their intimates -is no person who reads or wishes to read verse—that they never -knew of any one buying a book of verse—and that not one of them, -from childhood upwards, ever heard a piece of verse read aloud -at the fireside. In this respect, as in many others, the family -beyond doubt is typical. They stand between the brutal and the -intelligent of working-folk. There must be an overwhelming number -of such households through the land, representing a vast populace -absolutely irresponsive to the word of any poet.</p> - -<p>"The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me -that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over -his counter; that the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or -Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman'; and that an -offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is -invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it.'</p> - -<p>"What else could one have anticipated? To love poetry is a boon of -nature, most sparingly bestowed; appreciation of the poet's art is -an outcome of studious leisure. Even an honest liking for verse, -without discernment, depends upon complex conditions of birth, -breeding, education. No one seeks to disparage the laborious -masses on the ground of their incapacity for delights necessarily -the privilege of a few. It was needless folly to pretend that, -because one or two of Tennyson's poems became largely known -through popular recitation, therefore Tennyson was dear to the -heart of the people, a subject of their pride whilst he lived, of -their mourning when he departed. My point is that <i>no</i> poet holds -this place in the esteem of the English lower orders.</p> - -<p>"Tennyson? The mere price of his works is prohibitive to people -who think a shilling a very large outlay for printed paper. Half -a dozen of his poems at most would obtain a hearing from the -average uneducated person. We know very well the kind of home in -which Tennyson is really beloved for the sake of perhaps half his -work—and that not the better half. Between such households and -the best discoverable in the world of which I speak, lies a chasm -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> utter severance. In default of other tests, Tennyson might be -used as a touch-stone to distinguish the last of gentle-folk from -the first of the unprivileged.</p> - -<p>"On the day of his funeral, I spoke of the dead poet to a live -schoolmaster, a teacher of poor children, and he avowed to me, -quite simply, that he 'couldn't stand poetry—except a few hymns;' -that he had thoroughly disliked it ever since the day, when as a -schoolboy, he had to learn by heart portions of <i>The Lady of the -Lake</i>. I doubt whether this person could have named three pieces -of Tennyson's writing. He spoke with the consciousness of being -supported by general opinion in his own world.</p> - -<p>"Some days before, I was sitting in a public room, where two men, -retired shopkeepers, exchanged an occasional word as they read -the morning's news. 'A great deal here about Lord Tennyson,' said -one. The 'Lord' was significant; I listened anxiously for his -companion's reply. 'Ah—yes.' The man moved uneasily, and added -at once: 'What do you think about this long-distance ride?' In -that room (I frequented it on successive days with this object) -not a syllable did I hear regarding Tennyson save the sentence -faithfully recorded. This was in the south of England; perhaps it -could not have happened in the north.</p> - -<p>"As a boy, I at one time went daily to school by train. It -happened once that I was alone in the carriage with a commercial -traveller; my Horace was open before me, and it elicited a remark -from the man of samples, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> spoke with the accent of that -northern county, and certainly did not belong to the educated -class. After a word or two, he opened his bag, and took out an -ancient copy, battered, thumbed, pencilled, of—Horatius Flaccus. -Without this, he told me, he never travelled. From a bare -smattering obtained at school, he had pursued the study of Latin; -Horace was dear to him; he indicated favourite odes——</p> - -<p>"Everywhere there are the many and the few. What of the multitude -in higher spheres? Their leisure is ample; literature lies thick -about them. It would be amusing to know how many give one hour a -month to the greater poets....</p> - -<p class="right">"Believe me, Sir, yours faithfully,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -<br />"<span class="smcap">George Gissing</span>.</p> - -<p>"To Edmund Gosse, Esq."</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p class="bold">M. MALLARMÉ AND SYMBOLISM</p> - -<p>It was with not a little hesitation that I undertook to unravel a -corner of the mystic web, woven of sunbeams and electrical threads, -in which the poet of <i>L'Après-Midi d'un Faune</i> conceals himself from -curious apprehension. There were a dozen chances of my interpretation -being wrong, and scarcely one of its being right. My delight therefore -may be conceived when I received a most gracious letter from the mage -himself; Apollonius was not more surprised when, by a fortunate chance, -one of his prophecies came true. I quote from this charming paper of -credentials, which proceeds to add some precious details:—</p> - -<p>"Votre étude est un miracle de divination.... Les poëtes seuls ont le -droit de parler; parce qu'avant coup, ils savent. Il y a, entre toutes, -une phrase, où vous écartez tous voiles et désignez la chose avec une -clairvoyance de diamant, le voici: 'His aim ... is to use words in -such harmonious combination as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span><i>which is not mentioned in the text</i>, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition.'</p> - -<p>"Tout est là. Je fais de la Musique, et appelle ainsi non celle qu'on -peut tirer du rapprochement euphonique des mots, cette première -condition va de soi; mais l'au delà magiquement produit par certaines -dispositions de la parole, où celle-ci ne reste qu'à l'êtat de moyen de -communication matérielle avec le lecteur comme les touches du piano. -Vraiment entre les lignes et au-dessus du regard cela se passe, en -toute pureté, sans l'entremise de cordes à boyaux et de pistons comme -à l'orchestre, qui est déjà industriel; mais c'est la même chose que -l'orchestre, sauf que littérairement ou silencieusement. Les poëtes -de tous les temps n'ont jamais fait autrement et il est aujourd'hui, -voilà tout, amusant d'en avoir conscience. Employez Musique dans le -sens grec, au fond signifiant Idée au rythme entre les rapports; là, -plus divine que dans son expression publique ou Symphonique. Très mal -dit, en causant, mais vous saisissez ou plutôt aviez saisi toute au -long de cette belle étude qu'il faut garder telle quelle et intacte. -Je ne vous chicane que sur l'obscurité: non, cher poëte, excepté par -maladresse ou gaucherie je ne suis pas obscur, du moment qu'on me lit -pour y chercher ce que j'énonce plus haut, ou la manifestation d'un -art qui se sert—mettons incidemment, j'en sais la cause profonde—du -langage: et le deviens, bien sûr! si l'on se trompe et croit ouvrir le -journal....—Votre</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Stéphane Mallarmé</span>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson and Co.</span><br /><i>London and Edinburgh</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/author.jpg" alt="BY THE SAME AUTHOR" /></div> - -<hr /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td class="center"> - Transcriber's note: - </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td> - One unpaired double quotation mark could not be corrected with - confidence. - </td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 61313-h.htm or 61313-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/3/1/61313">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/1/61313</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition.</p> - -<p>Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org</p> - -<p>This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.</p> - -</body> -</html> - diff --git a/old/61313-h/images/author.jpg b/old/61313-h/images/author.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8992920..0000000 --- a/old/61313-h/images/author.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61313-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/61313-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 501195d..0000000 --- a/old/61313-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61313-h/images/logo.jpg b/old/61313-h/images/logo.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ea2ff1e..0000000 --- a/old/61313-h/images/logo.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61313-h/images/title.jpg b/old/61313-h/images/title.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 4b66cb2..0000000 --- a/old/61313-h/images/title.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61313-h/images/works.jpg b/old/61313-h/images/works.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bbc439c..0000000 --- a/old/61313-h/images/works.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61313.txt b/old/61313.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ebb1fda..0000000 --- a/old/61313.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6791 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Questions at Issue, by Edmund Gosse - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Questions at Issue - - -Author: Edmund Gosse - - - -Release Date: February 3, 2020 [eBook #61313] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/questionsatissue00gossuoft - - - - - -QUESTIONS AT ISSUE - - - * * * * * * - -_Other Works by Mr. EDMUND GOSSE_ - - -_IN VERSE_ - - _On Viol and Flute. New edition. 1890_ - - _Firdausi in Exile, and other Poems. Second edition. 1887_ - - -_IN PROSE_ - - _Northern Studies. 1879. Popular edition. 1890_ - - _Life of Gray. 1882. Revised edition. 1889_ - - _Seventeenth Century Studies. 1883. Second edition. 1885_ - - _Life of Congreve. 1888_ - - _A History of Eighteenth Century Literature. - 1889. Second edition. 1891_ - - _Life of Philip Henry Gosse, F.R.S. 1890_ - - _Gossip in a Library. 1891. Second edition. 1892_ - - _The Secret of Narcisse. A Romance. 1892_ - - * * * * * * - - -QUESTIONS AT ISSUE - -by - -EDMUND GOSSE - - -[Illustration: Logo] - - - - - - -London -William Heinemann -1893 - -[All rights reserved] - - - - -_TO_ - -_JOSEPH HENRY SHORTHOUSE_ - -This Volume is Dedicated - -_BY_ - -_HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND_ - -_THE AUTHOR_ - - - - -Preface - - -To the essays which are here collected I have given a name which at -once, I hope, describes them accurately and distinguishes them from -criticism of a more positive order. When a writer speaks to us of the -works of the dead masters, of the literary life of the past, we demand -from him the authoritative attitude. That Homer is a great poet, and -that the verse of Milton is exquisite, are not Questions at Issue. In -dealing with such subjects the critic must persuade himself that he -is capable of forming an opinion, and must then give us his opinion -definitely. But in the continent of literary criticism, where all else -is imperial, there is a province which is still republican, and that is -the analysis of contemporary literature, the frank examination of the -literary life of to-day. - -In speaking of what is proceeding around us no one can be trusted to be -authoritative. The wisest, clearest, and most experienced of critics -have notoriously been wrong about the phenomena of their own day. -Ben Jonson selected the moment when _Hamlet_ and _Othello_ had just -been performed to talk of raising "the despised head of poetry again, -and stripping her of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times -have adulterated her form." Neither Hazlitt nor Sainte Beuve could be -trusted to give as valuable a judgment on the work of a man younger -than themselves as they could of any past production, be it what it -might. To map the ground around his feet is a task that the most -skilful geographer is not certain to carry out with success. - -The insecurity of contemporary criticism is no reason, however, why -it should not be seriously and sincerely attempted. On the contrary, -the critic who has been accustomed to follow paths where the laws -and criteria of literature are paramount, may be glad to slip away -sometimes to a freer country, where the art he tries to practise is -more instinctive, more emotional, and more controversial. In the -schools of antiquity, when the set discourse was over, the lecturer -mingled with his audience under the portico of the Museum, and then, I -suppose, it was not any longer of the ancients that they talked, but of -the poet of last night, and of the rhetorician of to-morrow. - -The critic may enjoy the sense of having abandoned the lecturing desk -or the tribune, and of mingling in easy conversation with men who are -not bound to preserve any decorum in listening to his opinions. In -the criticism of the floating literature of the day an opportunity is -offered for sensibility, for the personal note, even for a certain -indulgence in levity or irony. The questions of our own age are not yet -settled by tradition, nor hedged about with logical deductions; they -are still open to discussion; they are still Questions at Issue. Such -are all the aspects of the literary life which I endeavour to discuss -in this volume of essays. - -There can, nevertheless, be no reason why, although the dress and -attitude be different, the critic should not be as true to his radical -conceptions of right and wrong in literature, when he discusses the -shifts and movements about him, as when he "bears in memory what has -tamed great nations." The attention of a literary man of character may -be diverted to a hundred dissimilar branches of his subject, but in -dealing with them all he should be the servant of the same ideas, the -defender of the same principles, the protector of the same interests. -The battle rages hither and thither, but none of the issues of it -are immaterial to him, and his attitude towards what he regards as -the enemies of his cause should never radically alter. His functions -should rather become more active and more militant when he feels that -his temporary position deprives him of accidental authority; and even -when he admits that the questions he discusses are matters of open -controversy, he should, in bringing his ideas to bear upon them, be -peculiarly careful to obey the orders of fundamental principles. -All this is quite compatible, I hope, with the sauntering step, the -conversational tone, the absence of all pedagogic assertion, which seem -to me indispensable in the treatment of contemporary themes. - -Of the essays here reprinted, nearly half are practically new to -English readers, having been written for an American review, and having -been quoted only in fragments on this side of the Atlantic. At the -close of the volume I have added a Lucianic sketch, which, when it -appeared anonymously in the _Fortnightly Review_, enjoyed the singular -and embarrassing distinction of being attributed, in succession, to -four amusing writers, each of whom is deservedly a greater favourite -of the public than I am. I have seen this little extravaganza ticketed -with such eminent names that I almost hesitate to have to claim it at -last as my own. I hope there was none but very innocent fooling in it, -and that not a word in it can give anybody pain. I think it was not -an unfair representation of what literature in England, from a social -point of view, consisted two years ago. Already death has been busy -with my ideal Academy, and no dreamer of 1893 could summon together -quite so admirable a company as was still citable in 1891. - -LONDON, _April 1893_. - - - - -Contents - - PAGE -THE TYRANNY OF THE NOVEL 1 - -THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY ON LITERATURE 33 - -HAS AMERICA PRODUCED A POET? 69 - -WHAT IS A GREAT POET? 91 - -MAKING A NAME IN LITERATURE 113 - -THE LIMITS OF REALISM IN FICTION 135 - -IS VERSE IN DANGER? 155 - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER 175 - -SHELLEY IN 1892 199 - -SYMBOLISM AND M. STEPHANE MALLARME 217 - -TWO PASTELS:-- - I. MR. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AS A POET 237 - II. MR. RUDYARD KIPLING'S SHORT STORIES 255 - -AN ELECTION AT THE ENGLISH ACADEMY 295 - -APPENDICES 323 - - -_The following Essays originally appeared in 'The Contemporary -Review,' 'The Fortnightly Review,' 'The National Review,' 'The New -Review,' 'The Forum,' 'The Century Magazine,' 'Longman's Magazine,' and -'The Academy.'_ - - - - -THE TYRANNY OF THE NOVEL - - - - -The Tyranny of the Novel - - -A Parisian Hebraist has been attracting a moment's attention to his -paradoxical and learned self by announcing that strong-hearted and -strong-brained nations do not produce novels. This gentleman's soul -goes back, no doubt in longing and despair, to the heart of Babylon and -the brain of Gath. But if he looks for a modern nation that does not -cultivate the novel, he must, I am afraid, go far afield. Finland and -Roumania are certainly tainted; Bohemia lies in the bond of naturalism. -Probably Montenegro is the one European nation which this criterion -would leave strong in heart and brain. The amusing absurdity of this -whim of a pedant may serve to remind us how universal is now the -reign of prose fiction. In Scandinavia the drama may demand an equal -prominence, but no more. In all other countries the novel takes the -largest place, claims and obtains the widest popular attention, is the -admitted tyrant of the whole family of literature. - -This is so universally acknowledged now-a-days that we scarcely stop -to ask ourselves whether it is a heaven-appointed condition of things, -existing from the earliest times, or whether it is an innovation. -As a matter of fact, the predominance of the novel is a very recent -affair. Most other classes of literature are as old as the art of -verbal expression: lyrical and narrative poetry, drama, history, -philosophy--all these have flourished since the sunrise of the world's -intelligence. But the novel is a creation of the late afternoon of -civilisation. In the true sense, though not in the pedantic one, the -novel began in France with _La Princesse de Cleves_, and in England -with _Pamela_--that is to say, in 1677 and in 1740 respectively. -Compared with the dates of the beginning of philosophy and of poetry, -these are as yesterday and the day before yesterday. Once started, -however, the sapling of prose fiction grew and spread mightily. It took -but a few generations to overshadow all the ancient oaks and cedars -around it, and with its monstrous foliage to dominate the forest. - -It would not be uninteresting, if we had space to do so here, to -mark in detail the progress of this astonishing growth. It would -be found that, in England at least, it has not been by any means -regularly sustained. The original magnificent outburst of the English -novel lasted for exactly a quarter of a century, and closed with the -publication of _Humphrey Clinker_. During this period of excessive -fertility in a field hitherto unworked, the novel produced one -masterpiece after another, positively pushing itself to the front and -securing the best attention of the public at a moment when such men -as Gray, Butler, Hume, and Warburton were putting forth contributions -to the old and long-established sections of literature. Nay: such was -the force of the new kind of writing that the gravity of Johnson and -the grace of Goldsmith were seduced into participating in its facile -triumphs. - -But, at the very moment when the novel seemed about to sweep everything -before it, the wave subsided and almost disappeared. For nearly forty -years, only one novel of the very highest class was produced in -England; and it might well seem as though prose fiction, after its -brief victory, had exhausted its resources, and had sunken for ever -into obscurity. During the close of the eighteenth century and the -first decade of the nineteenth, no novel, except _Evelina_, could -pretend to disturb the laurels of Burke, of Gibbon, of Cowper, of -Crabbe. The publication of _Caleb Williams_ is a poor event to set -against that of the _Lyrical Ballads_; even _Thalaba the Destroyer_ -seemed a more impressive phenomenon than the _Monk_. But the second -great burgeoning of the novel was at hand. Like the tender ash, it -delayed to clothe itself when all the woods of romanticism were green. -But in 1811 came _Sense and Sensibility_, in 1814 _Waverley_; and the -novel was once more at the head of the literary movement of the time. - -It cannot be said to have stayed there very long. Miss Austen's brief -and brilliant career closed in 1817. Sir Walter Scott continued to be -not far below his best until about ten years later. But a period of two -decades included not only the work of these two great novelists, but -the best books also of Galt, of Mary Ferrier, of Maturin, of Lockhart, -of Banim. It saw the publication of _Hajji Baba_, of _Frankenstein_, -of _Anastatius_. Then, for the second time, prose fiction ceased for -a while to hold a position of high predominance. But Bulwer Lytton -was already at hand; and five or six years of comparative obscurity -prepared the way for Dickens, Lever, and Lover. Since the memorable -year 1837 the novel has reigned in English literature; and its tyranny -was never more irresistible than it is to-day. The Victorian has been -peculiarly the age of the triumph of fiction. - -In the history of France something of the same fluctuation might be -perceived, although the production of novels of a certain literary -pretension has been a feature of French much longer and more steadily -than of English life. As Mr. Saintsbury has pointed out, "it is -particularly noteworthy that every one of the eight names which have -been set at the head" of the nineteenth-century literature of France -"is the name of a novelist." Since the days of Flaubert--for the last -thirty years, that is to say--the novel has assumed a still higher -literary function than it held even in the hands of George Sand and -Balzac. It has cast aside the pretence of merely amusing, and has -affected the airs of guide, philosopher, and friend. M. Zola, justified -to some extent by the amazing vogue of his own writings, and the vast -area covered by their prestige, has said that the various classes of -literary production are being merged in the novel, and are ultimately -to disappear within it: - - - _Apollo, Pan, and Love,_ - _And even Olympian Jove_ - _Grow faint, for killing Truth hath glared on them;_ - _Our hills, and seas, and streams,_ - _Dispeopled of their dreams,_ - - -become the mere primary material for an endless series of naturalistic -stories. And even to-day, when the young David of symbolism rises to -smite the Goliath Zola, the smooth stones he takes out of his scrip are -works of fiction by Maurice Barres and Edouard Rod. The schools pass -and nicknames alter; but the novel rules in France as it does elsewhere. - -We have but to look around us at this very moment to see how complete -the tyranny of the novel is. If one hundred educated and grown -men--not, of course, themselves the authors of other books--were to -be asked which are the three most notable works published in London -during the season of 1892, would not ninety-and-nine be constrained to -answer, with a parrot uniformity, _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, _David -Grieve_, _The Little Minister_? These are the books which have been -most widely discussed, most largely bought, most vehemently praised, -most venomously attacked. These are the books in which the "trade" -has taken most interest, the vitality of which is most obvious and -indubitable. It may be said that the conditions of the winter of 1892 -were exceptional--that no books of the first class in other branches -were produced. This may be true; and yet Mr. Jebb issued a volume of -his Sophocles, Mr. William Morris a collection of the lyric poems of -years, Mr. Froude his _Divorce of Catherine of Aragon_, and Mr. Tyndall -his _New Fragments_. If the poets in chorus had blown their silver -trumpets and the philosophers their bold bassoons, the result would -have been the same: they would have won some respect and a little -notice for their performances; but the novelists would have carried -away the money and the real human curiosity. Who shall say that Mr. -Freeman was not a better historian than Robertson was? yet did he make -L4,500 by his _History of Sicily_? I wish I could believe it. To-day -Mr. Swinburne may publish a new epic, Mr. Gardiner discover to us the -head of Charles I. on the scaffold, Mr. Herbert Spencer explore a fresh -province of sociology, or Mr. Pater analyse devils in the accents -of an angel--none of these important occurrences will successfully -compete, for more than a few moments, among educated people, with the -publication of what is called, in publishers' advertisements, "the -new popular and original novel of the hour." We are accustomed to -this state of things, and we bow to it. But we may, perhaps, remind -ourselves that it is a comparatively recent condition. It was not so in -1730, nor in 1800, nor even in 1835. - -Momentary aberrations of fashion must not deceive us as to the general -tendency of taste. Mr. Hall Caine would have us believe that the public -has suddenly gone crazy for stage-plays. "Novels of great strength and -originality," says the author of _The Scapegoat_, "occasionally appear -without creating more than a flutter of interest, and, meanwhile, -plays of one-tenth their power and novelty are making something like -a profound impression." What plays are these? Not the Ollendorfian -attitudinisings of M. Maeterlinck, surely! The fact is that two years -ago it would have been impossible for any one to pen that sentence of -Mr. Caine's, and it is now possible merely because a passion for the -literary drama has been flogged into existence by certain able critics. -With a limited class, the same class which appreciates poetry, the -literary drama may find a welcome; but to suppose that it competes, or -can, in this country, even pretend to compete, with the novel is a -delusion, and Mr. Caine may safely abandon his locusts and wild honey. - -That we see around us a great interest in the drama is, of course, a -commonplace. But how much of that is literary? When the delights of -the eye are removed from the sum of pleasure, what is left? Our public -is interested in the actors and their art, in the scenery and the -furniture, in the notion of large sums of money expended, lost, or won. -When all these incidental interests are extracted from the curiosity -excited by a play, not very much is left for the purely literary -portion of it--not nearly so much, at all events, as is awakened by -a great novel. After all that has been said about the publication of -plays, I expect that the sale of dramatic contemporary literature -remains small and uncertain. Mr. Pinero is read; but one swallow does -not make a summer. Where are the dramatic works of Mr. Sydney Grundy, -which ought--if Mr. Caine be correct--to be seen on every book-shelf -beside the stories of Mr. Hawley Smart? - -If, however, I venture to emphasise the fact of the tyranny of the -novel in our current literature, it is without a murmur that I do so. -Like the harmless bard in _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_, I "write no -satire," and, what is more, I mean none. It appears to me natural and -rational that this particular form of writing should attract more -readers than any other. It is so broad and flexible, includes so vast -a variety of appeals to the emotions, makes so few painful demands -upon an overstrained attention, that it obviously lays itself out to -please the greatest number. For the appreciation of a fine poem, of -a learned critical treatise, of a contribution to exact knowledge, -peculiar aptitudes are required: the novel is within everybody's range. -Experience, moreover, proves that the gentle stimulus of reading about -the cares, passions, and adventures of imaginary personages, and their -relations to one another--a mild and irresponsible mirroring of real -life on a surface undisturbed by responsibility, or memory, or personal -feeling of any kind--is the most restful, the most refreshing, of all -excitements which literature produces. - -It is commonly said, in all countries, that women are the chief readers -of novels. It may well be that they are the most numerous, and that -they read more exhaustively than men, and with less selection. They -have, as a rule, more time. The general notion seems to be that girls -of from sixteen to twenty form the main audience of the novelist. But -I am inclined to think that the real audience consists of young married -women, sitting at home in the first year of their marriage. They find -themselves without any constraint upon their reading: they choose what -they will, and they read incessantly. The advent of the first-born -baby is awaited in silent drawing-rooms, where through long hours the -novelists supply the sole distraction. These young matrons form a much -better audience than those timorous circles of flaxen-haired girls, -watched by an Argus-eyed mamma, which the English novelist seems to -consider himself doomed to cater for. I cannot believe that it is -anything but a fallacy that young girls do read. They are far too busy -with parties and shopping, chatting and walking, the eternal music and -the eternal tennis. Middle-aged people in the country, who are cut -off from much society, and elderly ladies, whose activities are past, -and who like to resume the illusions of youth, are far more assiduous -novel-readers than girls. - -But, if we take these and all other married and unmarried women into -consideration, there is still apparently an exaggeration in saying -that it is they who make the novelist's reputation. Men read novels -a great deal more than is supposed, and it is probably from men that -the first-class novel receives its _imprimatur_. Men have made Mr. -Thomas Hardy, who owes nothing to the fair sex; if women read him now, -it is because the men have told them that they must. Occasionally we -see a very original writer who decidedly owes his fame to the plaudits -of the ladies. M. Paul Bourget is the most illustrious example that -occurs to the memory. But such instances are rare, and it is usually to -the approval of male readers that eminent novelists owe that prestige -which ultimately makes them the favourites of the women. Not all men -are pressed by the excessive agitations of business life which are -habitually attributed to their sex. Even those who are most busy -find time to read, and we were lately informed that among the most -constant and assiduous students of new novels were Lord Tennyson and -Mr. Gladstone. Every story-teller, I think, ought to write as though he -believed himself addressing such conspicuous veterans. - -As I say, I do not revolt against the supremacy of the novel. I -acknowledge too heavy a debt of gratitude to my great contemporaries -to assume any but a thankful attitude towards them. In my dull and -weary hours each has come like the angel Israfel, and has invited me -to listen to the beating of his heart, be it lyre or guitar, a solemn -instrument or a gay one. I should be instantly bankrupt if I sought -to repay to Mr. Meredith or Mr. Besant, Mr. Hardy or Mr. Norris, Mr. -Stevenson or Mr. Kipling--to name no others--one-tenth part of the -pleasure which, in varied quantity and quality, the stories of each -have given me. I admit (for which I shall be torn in pieces) that the -ladies please me less, with some exceptions; but that is because, since -the days of the divine Mrs. Gaskell, they have been so apt to be either -too serious or not serious enough. I suppose that the composition of -_The Daisy Chain_ and of _Donovan_ serves some excellent purpose; -doubtless these books are useful to great growing girls. But it is not -to such stories as these that I owe any gratitude, and it is not to -their authors that I address the presumptuous remarks which follow. - -A question which constantly recurs to my mind is this: Having secured -the practical monopoly of literature, having concentrated public -attention on their wares, what do the novelists propose to do next? To -what use will they put the unprecedented opportunity thrown in their -way? It is quite plain that to a certain extent the material out of -which the English novel has been constructed is in danger of becoming -exhausted. Why do the American novelists inveigh against plots? Not, -we may be sure, through any inherent tenderness of conscience, as -they would have us believe; but because their eminently sane and -somewhat timid natures revolt against the effort of inventing what is -extravagant. But all the obvious plots, all the stories which are not -in some degree extravagant, seem to have been told already, and for a -writer with the temperament of Mr. Howells there is nothing left but -the careful portraiture of a small portion of the limitless field of -ordinary humdrum existence. So long as this is fresh, this also may -amuse and please; to the practitioners of this kind of work it seems -as though the infinite prairie of life might be surveyed thus for -centuries, acre by acre. But that is not possible. A very little while -suffices to show that in this direction also the material is promptly -exhausted. Novelty, freshness, and excitement are to be sought for at -all hazards, and where can they be found? - -The novelists hope many things from that happy system of nature which -supplies them, year by year, with fresh generations of the ingenuous -young. The procession of adolescence moves on and on, and the front -rank of it, for a month or a year, is duped by the novelist's report -of that astonishing phenomenon, the passion of love. In a certain -sense, we might expect to be tired of love-stories as soon as, and -not before, we grow tired of the ever-recurring March mystery of -primroses and daffodils. Each generation takes its tale of love under -the hawthorn-tree as something quite new, peculiar to itself, not to be -comprehended by its elders; and the novelist pipes as he will to this -idyllic audience, sure of pleasing, if he adapt himself never so little -to their habits and the idiosyncrasies of their time. - -That theory would work well enough if the novelist held the chair of -Erotics at the University of Life, and might blamelessly repeat the -same (or very slightly modified) lectures to none but the students -of each successive year. But, unfortunately, we who long ago took -our degree, who took it, perhaps, when the Professor was himself in -pinafores, also continue to attend his classes. We are hardly to be -put off with the old, old commonplaces about hearts and darts. Yet our -adult acquiescence is necessary for the support of the Professor. How -is he to freshen up his oft-repeated course of lectures to suit our -jaded appetites? - -It would be curious to calculate how many tales of love must have been -told since the vogue of the modern story began. Three hundred novels a -year is, I believe, the average product of the English press. In each -of these there has been at least one pair of lovers, and generally -there have been several pairs. It would be a good question to set -in a mathematical examination: What is the probable number of young -persons who have conducted one another to the altar in English fiction -during the last hundred years? It is almost terrible to think of this -multitude of fictitious love-makings: - - - _For the lovers of years meet and gather;_ - _The sound of them all grows like thunder:_ - _O into what bosom, I wonder,_ - _Is poured the whole passion of years!_ - - -One would be very sorry to have the three hundred of one year poured -into one's own mature bosom. But how curious is the absolute unanimity -of it all! Thousands and thousands of books, every one of them, without -exception, turning upon the attraction of Edwin to Angelina, exactly -as though no other subject on earth interested a single human being! -The novels in which love has not formed a central feature are so few -that I suspect that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. -At this moment, I can but recall a single famous novel in which love -has no place. This is, of course, _L'Abbe Tigrane_, that delightful -story in which all the interest revolves around the intrigues of two -priestly factions in a provincial cathedral. But, although M. Ferdinand -Fabre achieved so great a success in this book, and produced an -acknowledged masterpiece, he never ventured to repeat the experiment. -Eros revels in the pages of all his other stories. - -This would be the opportunity to fight the battle of the novelists -against Mrs. Grundy. But I am not inclined to waste ink on that -conceded cause. After the reception of books like _Tess of the -D'Urbervilles_ and even _David Grieve_, it is plain that the English -novelist, who cares and dares, may say almost anything he or she likes -without calling flame out of heaven upon his head. There has been a -great reform in this respect since the days when our family friend Mr. -Punch hazarded his very existence by referring, in grimmest irony, -to the sufferings of "the gay." We do not want to claim the right, -which the French have so recklessly abused, of describing at will, and -secure against all censure, the brutal, the abnormal and the horrible. -No doubt a silly prudishness yet exists. There are still clergymen's -wives who write up indignantly from The Vicarage, Little Pedlington. I -have just received an epistle from such an one, telling me that certain -poor productions I am editing "make young hearts acquainted with vice, -and put hell-fire in their hearts." "Woe unto you in your evil work," -says this lady, doubtless a most sincere and conscientious creature, -but a little behind the times. Of her and her race individually, I wish -to say nothing but what is kind; but I confess I am glad to know that -the unreflecting spirit they represent is passing away. It is passing -away so rapidly that there is really no need to hearten the novelists -against it. I am weary to death of the gentleman who is always telling -us what a splendid novel he would write, if the publishers would only -allow him to be naughty. Let him be bold and naughty, and we will see. -If he is so poor-spirited as to be afraid to say what he feels he -ought to say because of this kind of criticism, his exposition of the -verities is not likely to be of very high value. - -But I should like to ask our friends the leading novelists whether -they do not see their way to enlarging a little the sphere of their -labours. What is the use of this tyranny which they wield, if it -does not enable them to treat life broadly and to treat it whole? -The varieties of amatory intrigue form a fascinating subject, which -is not even yet exhausted. But, surely, all life is not love-making. -Even the youngest have to deal with other interests, although this may -be the dominant one; while, as we advance in years, Venus ceases to -be even the ruling divinity. Why should there not be novels written -for middle-aged persons? Has the struggle for existence a charm only -in its reproductive aspects? If every one of us regards his or her -life seriously, with an absolute and unflinching frankness, it will -be admitted that love, extended so as to include all its forms--its -sympathetic, its imaginative, its repressed, as well as its fulfilled -and acknowledged, forms--takes a place far more restricted than the -formulae of the novelist would lead the inhabitant of some other planet -to conjecture. - -Unless the novelists do contrive to enlarge their borders, and take -in more of life, that misfortune awaits them which befell their -ancestors just before the death of Scott. About the year 1830 there -was a sudden crash of the novel. The public found itself abandoned -to Lady Blessington and Mr. Plumer Ward, and it abruptly closed its -account with the novelists. The large prices which had been, for twenty -years past, paid for novels were no longer offered. The book-clubs -throughout the kingdom collapsed, or else excluded novels. When fiction -re-appeared, after this singular epoch of eclipse, it had learned its -lesson, and the new writers were men who put into their work their best -observation and ripest experience. - -It does not appear that in the thirties any one understood what was -happening. The stuff produced by the novelists was so ridiculous -and ignoble that "the nonsinse of that divil of a Bullwig" seemed -absolutely unrivalled in its comparative sublimity, although these were -the days of _Ernest Maltravers_. It never occurred to the authors when -the public suddenly declined to read their books (it read "Bullwig's," -in the lack of anything else) that the fault was theirs. The same -excuses were made that are made now,--"necessary to write down to a -wide audience;" "obliged to supply the kind of article demanded;" -"women the only readers to be catered for;" "mammas so solicitous for -the purity of what is laid before their daughters." And the crash came. - -The crash will come again, if the novelists do not take care. -The same silly piping of the loves of the drawing-room, the same -obsequious attitude towards a supposititious public clamouring for -the commonplace, inspire the majority of the novel-writers of to-day. -Happily, we have, what our fathers in 1835 had not, half a dozen -careful and vigorous men of letters who write, not what the foolish -publishers ask for, but what they themselves choose to give. The -future rests with these few recognised masters of fiction, and with -their successors, the vigorous younger men who are preparing to take -their place. What are these novelists going to do? They were set down -to farm the one hundred acres of an estate called Life, and because -one corner of it--the two or three acres hedged about, and called the -kitchen-garden of Love--offered peculiar attractions, and was very easy -to cultivate, they have neglected the other ninety-seven acres. The -result is that by over-pressing their garden, and forcing crop after -crop out of it, it is well-nigh exhausted, and will soon refuse to -respond to the incessant hoe and spade; while, all the time, the rest -of the estate, rich and almost virgin soil, is left to cover itself -with the weeds of newspaper police-reports. - -It is supposed that to describe one of the positive employments of -life,--a business or a profession, for example,--would alienate the -tender reader, and check that circulation about which novelists talk -as nervously as if they were delicate invalids. But what evidence is -there to show that an attention to real things does frighten away the -novel reader? The experiments which have been made in this country to -widen the field of fiction in one direction, that of religious and -moral speculation, have not proved unfortunate. What was the source -of the great popular success of _John Inglesant_ and then of _Robert -Elsmere_, if not the intense delight of readers in being admitted, -in a story, to a wider analysis of the interior workings of the mind -than is compatible with the mere record of the billing and cooing of -the callow young? We are afraid of words and titles. We are afraid of -the word "psychology," and, indeed, we have seen follies committed in -its name. But the success of the books I have just mentioned was due -to their psychology, to their analysis of the effect of associations -and sentiments on a growing mind. To make such studies of the soul -even partially interesting, a great deal of knowledge, intuition, -and workmanlike care must be expended. The novelist must himself be -acquainted with something of the general life of man. - -But the interior life of the soul is, after all, a very much less -interesting study to an ordinarily healthy person than the exterior. -It is surprising how little our recent novelists have taken this into -consideration. One reason, I cannot doubt, is that they write too -early and they write too fast. Fielding began with _Joseph Andrews_, -when he was thirty-five; seven years later he published _Tom Jones_; -during the remainder of his life, which closed when he was forty-seven, -he composed one more novel. The consequence is that into these three -books he was able to pour the ripe knowledge of an all-accomplished -student of human nature. But our successful novelist of to-day begins -when he is two- or three-and-twenty. He "catches on," as they say, and -he becomes a laborious professional writer. He toils at his novels as -if he were the manager of a bank or the captain of an ocean steamer. -In one narrow groove he slides up and down, up and down, growing -infinitely skilful at his task of making bricks out of straw. He -finishes the last page of "The Writhing Victim" in the morning, lunches -at his club, has a nap; and, after dinner, writes the first page of -"The Swart Sombrero." He cannot describe a trade or a profession, for -he knows none but his own. He has no time to look at life, and he goes -on weaving fancies out of the ever-dwindling stores of his childish and -boyish memories. As these grow exhausted, his works get more and more -shadowy, till at last even the long-suffering public that once loved -his merits, and then grew tolerant of his tricks, can endure him no -longer. - -The one living novelist who has striven to give a large, competent, -and profound view of the movement of life is M. Zola. When we have -said the worst of the _Rougon-Macquart_ series, when we have admitted -the obvious faults of these books--their romantic fallacies on the one -hand, their cold brutalities on the other--it must be admitted that -they present the results of a most laudable attempt to cultivate the -estate outside the kitchen-garden. Hardly one of the main interests of -the modern man has been neglected by M. Zola, and there is no doubt -at all that to the future student of nineteenth-century manners his -books will have an interest outweighing that of all other contemporary -novels. An astonishing series of panoramas he has unrolled before us. -Here is _Le Ventre de Paris_, describing the whole system by which a -vast modern city is daily supplied with food; here is _Au Bonheur des -Dames_, the romance of a shop, which is pushed upwards and outwards by -the energy of a single ambitious tradesman, until it swamps all its -neighbours, and governs the trade of a district; here is _L'Argent_, -in which, with infinite pains and on a colossal scale, the passions -which move in _la haute finance_ are analysed, and a great battle -of the money-world chronicled; here, above all, is _Germinal_, that -unapproachable picture of the agony and stress of life in a great -mining community, with a description of the processes so minute and so -technical that this novel is quoted by experts as the best existing -record of conditions which are already obsolete. - -In these books of M. Zola's, as everyone knows, successive members -of a certain family stand out against a background of human masses -in incessant movement. The peculiar characteristic of this novelist -is that he enables us to see why these masses are moved, and in what -direction. Other writers vaguely tell us that the hero "proceeded to -his daily occupation," if, indeed, they deign to allow that he had an -occupation. M. Zola tells us what that occupation was, and describes -the nature of it carefully and minutely. More than this: he shows us -how it affected the hero's character, how it brought him into contact -with others, in what way it represented his share of the universal -struggle for existence. So far from the employment being a thing -to be slurred over or dimly alluded to, M. Zola loves to make that -the very hero of his piece, a blind and vast commercial monster, a -huge all-embracing machine, in whose progress the human persons are -hurried helplessly along, in whose iron wheels their passions and -their hopes are crushed. He is enabled to do this by the exceptional -character of his genius, which is realistic to excess in its power of -retaining and repeating details, and romantic, also to an extreme, -in its power of massing these details on a huge scale, in vast and -harmoniously-balanced compositions. - -I would not be misunderstood, even by the most hasty reader, -to recommend an imitation of M. Zola. What suits his -peculiarly-constituted genius might ill accord with the characteristics -of another. Nor do I mean to say that we are entirely without something -analogous in the writings of the more intelligent of our later -novelists. The study of the Dorsetshire dairy-farms in Mr. Hardy's -superb _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ is of the highest value, and more -thorough and intelligible than what we enjoyed in _The Woodlanders_, -the details of the apple-culture in the same county. To turn to a -totally different school: Mr. Hall Caine's _Scapegoat_ is a very -interesting experiment in fresh fields of thought and experience, more -happily conceived, if I may be permitted to say so, than fortunately -executed, though even in execution far above the ruck of popular -novels. A new Cornish story, called _Inconsequent Lives_, by that very -promising young story-teller, Mr. Pearce, seemed, when it opened, -to be about to give us just the vivid information we want about the -Newlyn pilchard-fishery; but the novelist grew timid, and forebore to -fill in his sketch. The experiments of Mr. George Gissing and of Mr. -George Moore deserve sympathetic acknowledgment. These are instances -in which, occasionally, or fantastically, or imperfectly, the real -facts of life have been dwelt upon in recent fiction. But when we have -mentioned or thought of a few exceptions, to what inanities do we not -presently descend! - -If we could suddenly arrive from another planet, and read a cluster -of novels from Mudie's, without any previous knowledge of the class, -we should be astonished at the conventionality, the narrowness, the -monotony. All I ask for is a larger study of life. Have the stress -and turmoil of a successful political career no charm? Why, if novels -of the shop and the counting-house be considered sordid, can our -novelists not describe the life of a sailor, of a gamekeeper, of a -railway-porter, of a civil engineer? What capital central figures -for a story would be the whip of a leading hunt, the foreman of a -colliery, the master of a fishing smack, or a speculator on the Stock -Exchange! It will be suggested that persons engaged in one or other -of these professions are commonly introduced into current fiction, -and that I am proposing as a novelty what is amply done already. My -reply is that our novelists may indeed present to us a personage who -is called a stoker or a groom, a secretary of state or a pin-maker, -but that, practically, they merely write these denominations clearly -on the breasts of lay-figures. For all the enlightenment we get into -the habits of action and habits of thought entailed by the occupation -of each, the fisherman might be the groom and the pin-maker the -stock-broker. It is more than this that I ask for. I want to see -the man in his life. I am tired of the novelist's portrait of a -gentleman, with gloves and hat, leaning against a pillar, upon a -vague landscape background. I want the gentleman as he appears in a -snap-shot photograph, with his every-day expression on his face, and -the localities in which he spends his days accurately visible around -him. I cannot think that the commercial and professional aspects of -life are unworthy of the careful attention of the novelist, or that he -would fail to be rewarded by a larger and more interested audience for -his courage in dealing closely with them. At all events, if it is too -late to ask our accepted tyrants of the novel to enlarge their borders, -may we not, at all events, entreat their heirs-apparent to do so? - -_1892_ - - - - -THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY ON LITERATURE - - - - -The Influence of Democracy on Literature - - -It is not desirable to bring the element of party politics into the -world of books. But it is difficult to discuss the influence of -democracy on literature without borrowing from the Radicals one of the -wisest and truest of their watchwords. It is of no use, as they remind -us, to be afraid of the people. We have this huge mass of individuals -around us, each item in the coagulation struggling to retain and to -exercise its liberty; and, while we are perfectly free to like or -dislike the condition of things which has produced this phenomenon, -to be alarmed, to utter shrieks of fright at it, is to resign all -pretension to be listened to. We may believe that the whole concern is -going to the dogs, or we may be amusing ourselves by printing Cook's -tickets for a monster excursion to Boothia Felix or other provinces of -Utopia; to be frightened at it, or to think that we can do any good -by scolding it or binding it with chains of tow, is simply silly. It -moves, and it carries the Superior Person with it and in it, like a -mote of dust. - -In considering, therefore, the influence of democracy on literature, -it seems worse than useless to exhort or persuade. All that can in any -degree be interesting must be to study, without prejudice, the signs of -the times, to compare notes about the weather, and cheerfully tap the -intellectual barometer. This form of inquiry is rarely attempted in a -perfectly open spirit, partly, no doubt, because it is unquestionably -one which it is difficult to carry through. It is wonderfully easy to -proclaim the advent of a literary Ragnarok, to say that poetry is dead, -the novel sunken into its dotage, all good writing obsolete, and the -reign of darkness begun. There are writers who do this, and who round -off their periods by attributing the whole condition to the democratic -spirit, like the sailor in that delightful old piece played at the -Strand Theatre, who used to sum up the misfortunes of a lifetime with -the recurrent refrain, "It's all on account of Eliza." - -The "uncreating words" of these pessimists are dispiriting for the -moment, but they mean nothing. Those of the optimist do not mean much -either. A little more effort is required to produce his rose-coloured -picture, but we are not really persuaded that because the brown marries -the blonde all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Nor -is much gained by prophecy. We have been listening to a gentleman, -himself a biographer and an historian, who predicts, with babe-like -_naivete_, that all literary persons will presently be sent by the -democracy to split wood and draw water, except, perhaps, "the historian -or biographer." In this universal splitting of wood, some heads, which -now think themselves mighty clever, may come to be rather disastrously -cracked. It was not Camille Desmoulins whom Fate selected to enter into -his own Promised Land of emancipated literature. - -We gain little by a comparison of our modern situation with that of the -ancient commonwealths. The parallel between the state of literature in -our world and that in Athens or Florence is purely academic. Whatever -the form of government, literature has always been aristocratic, or at -least oligarchic. It has been encouraged or else tolerated; even when -it has been independent, its self-congratulations on its independence -have shown how temporary that liberty was, and how imminent the -relapse into bondage. The peculiar protection given to the arts by -enlightened commonwealths surrounded by barbaric tyrannies was often of -a most valuable character, but it resembled nothing which can recur in -the modern world. The stimulus it gave to the creative temperament was -due in great measure to its exclusiveness, to the fact that the world -was shut out, and the appeal for sympathy made within a restricted -circle. The Republic was a family of highly trained intelligences, -barred and bolted against the vast and stupid world outside. Never can -this condition be re-established. The essence of democracy is that it -knows no narrower bonds than those of the globe, and its success is -marked by the destruction of those very ramparts which protected and -inspirited the old intellectual free States. - -The purest and most elevated form of literature, the rarest and, at -its best, the most valuable, is poetry. If it could be shown that the -influence of the popular advance in power has been favourable to the -growth of great verse, then all the rest might be taken for granted. -Unfortunately, there are many circumstances which interfere with our -vision, and make it exceedingly difficult to give an opinion on this -point. Victor Hugo never questioned that the poetical element was -needed, but he had occasional qualms about its being properly demanded. - - - _Peuples! ecoutez, le poete,_ - _Ecoutez le reveur sacre;_ - _Dans votre nuit, sans lui complete,_ - _Lui seul a le front eclaire!_ - - -he shouted, but the very energy of the exclamation suggests a doubt -in his own mind as to its complete acceptability. In this country, -the democracy has certainly crowded around one poet. It has always -appeared to me to be one of the most singular, as it is one of the most -encouraging features of our recent literary history, that Tennyson -should have held the extraordinary place in the affections of our -people which has now been his for nearly half a century. That it -should be so delicate and so Aeolian a music, so little affected by -contemporary passion, so disdainful of adventitious aids to popularity, -which above all others has attracted the universal ear, and held it -without producing weariness or satiety; this, I confess, appears to me -very marvellous. Some of the Laureate's best-loved lyrics have been -before the public for more than sixty years. Cowley is one of the few -English poets who have been, during their lifetime, praised as much as -Tennyson has been, yet where in 1720 was the fame of Cowley? Where in -the France of to-day are the _Meditations_ and _Harmonies_ of Lamartine? - -If, then, we might take Tennyson as an example of the result of the -action of democracy upon literature, we might indeed congratulate -ourselves. But a moment's reflection shows that to do so is to put -the cart before the horse. The wide appreciation of such delicate -and penetrating poetry is, indeed, an example of the influence of -literature on democracy, but hardly of democracy on literature. We -may examine the series of Tennyson's volumes with care, and scarcely -discover a copy of verses in which he can be detected as directly -urged to expression by the popular taste. This prime favourite of the -educated masses never courted the public, nor strove to serve it. He -wrote to please himself, to win the applause of the "little clan," -and each round of salvos from the world outside seemed to startle him -in his obstinate retirement. If it grew easier and easier for him to -consent to please the masses, it was because he familiarised them more -and more with his peculiar accent. He led literary taste, he did not -dream of following it. - -What is true of Tennyson is true of most of our recent poets. There is -one exception, however, and that a very curious one. The single English -poet of high rank whose works seem to me to be distinctly affected by -the democratic spirit, nay, to be the direct outcome of the influence -of democracy, is Robert Browning. It has scarcely been sufficiently -noted by those who criticise the style of that great writer that the -entire tone of his writings introduces something hitherto unobserved -in British poetry. That something is the repudiation of the recognised -oligarchic attitude of the poet in his address to the public. It is not -that he writes or does not write of the poor. It is a curious mistake -to expect the democratic spirit to be always on its knees adoring the -proletariat. To the true democracy all are veritably of equal interest, -and even a belted earl may be a man and a brother. In his poems Robert -Browning spoke as though he felt himself to be walking through a world -of equals, all interesting to him, all worthy of study. This is the -secret of his abrupt familiar appeal, his "Dare I trust the same to -you?" "Look out, see the gipsy!" "You would fain be kinglier, say, -than I am?" the incessant confidential aside to a cloud of unnamed -witnesses, the conversational tone, things all of which were before his -time unknown in serious verse. Browning is hail-fellow-well-met with -all the world, from queen to peasant, and half of what is called his -dramatic faculty is merely the result of his genius for making friends -with every species of mankind. - -With this exception, however, the principal poetical writers of our -time seem to be unaffected by the pressure of the masses around them. -They select their themes, remain true to the principles of composition -which they prefer, concern themselves with the execution of their -verses, and regard the opinion of the millions as little or even less -than their great forerunners did that of emperor or prince-bishop. -Being born with quick intelligences into an age burdened by social -difficulties, these latter occasionally interest them very acutely, and -they write about them, not, I think, pressed into that service by the -democratic spirit, but yielding to the attraction of what is moving -and picturesque. A wit has lately said of the most popular, the most -democratic of living French poets, M. Francois Coppee, that his blazon -is "des rimes riches sur la blouse proletaire." But the central fact to -a critic about M. Coppee's verse is, not the accident that he writes -about poor people, but the essential point that his rhymes are richer -and his verse more faultless than those of any of his contemporaries. -We may depend upon it that democracy has had no effect on his prosody, -and the rest is a mere matter of selection. - -The fact seems to be that the more closely we examine the highest -examples of the noblest class of literature the more we become -persuaded that democracy has scarcely had any effect upon them at all. -It has not interfered with the poets, least of all has it dictated to -them. It has listened to them with respect; it has even contemplated -their eccentricities with admiration; it had tried, with its millions -of untrained feet, to walk in step with them. And when we turn from -poetry to the best science, the best history, the best fiction, we find -the same phenomenon. Democracy has been stirred to its depths by the -writings of Darwin; but who can trace in those writings the smallest -concession to the judgment or desire of the masses? Darwin became -convinced of certain theories. To the vast mass of the public these -theories were incredible, unpalatable, impious. With immense patience, -without emphasis of any kind, he proceeded to substantiate his views, -to enlarge his exposition; and gradually the cold body of democratic -opposition melted around that fervent atom of heat, and, in response -to its unbroken radiation, became warm itself. All that can be said -is that the new democratic condition is a better conductor than the -old oligarchical one was. Darwin produces his effect more steadily and -rapidly than Galileo or Spinoza, but not more surely, with exactly as -little aid from without. - -As far, then, as the summits of literature are concerned--the great -masters of style, the great discoverers, the great intellectual -illuminators--it may be said that the influence of democracy upon -them is almost _nil_. It affords them a wider hearing, and therefore -a prompter recognition. It gives them more readers, and therefore -a more direct arrival at that degree of material comfort necessary -for the proper conduct of their investigations, or the full polish -of their periods. It may spoil them with its flatteries, or diminish -their merit by seducing them to over-production; but this is a question -between themselves and their own souls. A syndicate of newspapers, -or the editor of a magazine may tempt a writer of to-day, as Villon -was tempted with the wine-shop, or Coleridge with laudanum; but that -is not the fault of the democracy. Nor, if a writer of real power is -neglected, are people more or less to blame in 1892 than they were for -letting Otway starve two hundred years ago. Some people, beloved of -the gods, cannot be explained to mankind by king or caucus. - -So far, therefore, as our present experience goes, we may relinquish -the common fear that the summits of literature will be submerged -by democracy. When the new spirit first began to be studied, many -whose judgment on other points was sound enough were confident that -the instinctive programme of the democratic spirit was to prevent -intellectual capacity of every kind from developing, for fear of the -ascendency which it would exercise. This is communism, and means -democracy pushed to an impossible extremity, to a point from which it -must rebound. No doubt, there is always a chance that a disturbance of -the masses may for a moment wash over and destroy some phase of real -intellectual distinction, just as it may sweep away, also for a moment, -other personal conditions. But it looks as though the individuality -would always reassert itself. The crowd that smashed the porcelain -in the White House to celebrate the election of President Andrew -Jackson had to buy more to take its place. The White House did not -continue, even under Jackson, to subsist without porcelain. In the same -way, edicts may be passed by communal councils forbidding citizens -to worship the idols which the booksellers set up, and even that -consummation may be reached, to which a prophet of our own day looks -forward, when we shall all be forced by the police to walk hand in hand -with "the craziest sot in the village" as our friend and equal; none -the less will human nature, at the earliest opportunity, throw off the -bondage, and openly prefer Darwin and Tennyson to that engaging rustic. -Indeed, all the signs of the times go to suggest that the completer the -democracy becomes, the vaster the gap will be in popular honour between -the great men of letters and "the craziest sot in the village." It is -quite possible that the tyranny of extreme intellectual popularity may -prove as tiresome as other and older tyrannies were. But that's another -story, as the new catchword tells us. - -Literature, however, as a profession or a calling, is not confined to -the writings of the five or six men who, in each generation, represent -what is most brilliant and most independent. From the leaders, in -their indisputable greatness, the intellectual hierarchy descends to -the lowest and broadest class of workers who in any measure hang on -to the skirts of literature, and eke out a living by writing. It is -in the middle ranks of this vast pyramid that we should look to see -most distinctly the signs of the influence of democracy. We shall not -find them in the broad and featureless residuum any more than in the -strongly individualised summits. But we ought to discover them in the -writers who have talent enough to keep them aloft, yet not enough to -make them indifferent to outer support. Here, where all is lost or -gained by a successful appeal to the crowd as it hastens by, we might -expect to see very distinctly the effects of democracy, and here, -perhaps, if we look closely, we may see them. - -It appears to me that even here it is not so easy as one would -imagine that it would be to pin distinct charges to the sleeve of -the much-abused democracy. Let us take the bad points first. The -enlargement of the possible circle of an author's readers may awaken -in the breast of a man who has gained a little success, the desire -to arrive at a greater one in another field, for which he is really -not so well equipped. An author may have a positive talent for church -history, and turning from it, through cupidity, to fiction, may, by -addressing a vastly extended public, make a little more money by his -bad stories than he was able to make by his good hagiology, and so act -to the detriment of literature. Again, an author who has made a hit -with a certain theme, or a certain treatment of that theme, may be held -nailed down to it by the public long after he has exhausted it and -it has exhausted him. Again, the complaisance of the public, and the -loyal eagerness with which it cries "Give, give," to a writer that has -pleased it, may induce that writer to go on talking long after he has -anything to say, and so conduce to the watering of the milk of wit. -Or--and this is more subtle and by no means so easy to observe--the -pressure of commonplace opinion, constantly checking a writer when he -shelves away towards either edge of the trodden path of mediocrity, may -keep him from ever adding to the splendid originalities of literature. -This shows itself in the disease which we may call Mudieitis, the -inflammation produced by the fear that what you are inspired to say, -and know you ought to say, will be unpalatable to the circulating -libraries, that "the wife of a country incumbent," that terror before -which Messrs. Smith fall prone upon their faces, may write up to -headquarters and expostulate. In all these cases, without doubt, we -have instances of the direct influence of democracy upon literature, -and that of a deleterious kind. Not one of them, however, can produce -a bad effect upon any but persons of weak or faulty character, and -these would probably err in some other direction, even at the court of -a grand duke. - -On the other hand, the benefits of democratic surroundings are felt in -these middle walks of literature. The appeal to a very wide audience -has the effect of giving a writer whose work is sound but not of -universal interest, an opportunity of collecting, piecemeal, individual -readers enough to support him. The average sanity of a democracy, and -the habit it encourages of immediate, full, and candid discussion, -preserves the writer whose snare is eccentricity from going too far in -his folly. The celebrated eccentrics of past literature, the Lycophrons -and the Gongoras, the Donnes and the Gombrevilles, were the spokesmen -of small and pedantic circles, disdainful of the human herd, "sets" -whose members rejoiced in the conceits and extravagance of their -respective favourites, and encouraged these talented personages to make -mountebanks of themselves. These leaders were in most cases excessively -clever, and we find their work, or a little of it, very entertaining -as we cross the history of _belles-lettres_. But it is impossible -not to see that, for instance, each of the mysterious writers I -have mentioned would, in a democratic age, and healthily confronted -with public criticism, have been able to make a much wholesomer and -broader use of his cleverness. The democratic spirit, moreover, may be -supposed to encourage directness of utterance, simplicity, vividness, -and lucidity. I say it may be supposed to do so, because I cannot -perceive that with all our liberty the nineteenth century has proceeded -any farther in this direction than the hide-bound eighteenth century -was able to do. On the whole, indeed, I find it very difficult to -discover that democracy, as such, is affecting the quality of such good -literature as we possess in any very general or obvious way. It may be -that we are still under the oligarchic tradition, and that a social -revolution, introducing a sudden breach in our habits, and perhaps -paralysing the profession of letters for a few years, would be followed -by a new literature of a decidedly democratic class. We are speaking of -what we actually see, and not of vague visions which may seem to flit -across the spectral mirror of the future. - -But when we pass from the quality of the best literature to the -quantity of it, then it is impossible to preserve so indifferent or -so optimistic an attitude. The democratic habit does not, if I am -correct, make much difference in the way in which good authors write, -but it very much affects the amount of circulation which their writings -obtain. The literature of which I have hitherto spoken is that of which -analysis can take cognisance, the writing which possesses a measure, -at least, of distinction, of accomplishment, that which, in every -class, belongs to the tradition of good work. It is very easy to draw -a rough line, not too high, above which all may fairly be treated as -literature in _posse_ if not in _esse_. In former ages, almost all -that was published, certainly all that attracted public attention and -secured readers, was of this sort. The baldest and most grotesque -Elizabethan drama, the sickliest romance that lay with Bibles and with -_billets-doux_ on Belinda's toilet-table, the most effete didactic -poem of the Hayley and Seward age, had this quality of belonging to -the literary camp. It was a miserable object, no doubt, and wholly -without value, but it wore the king's uniform. If it could have been -better written, it would have been well written. But, as a result -of democracy, what is still looked upon as the field of literature -has been invaded by camp-followers of every kind, so active and so -numerous, that they threaten to oust the soldiery themselves; persons -in every variety of costume, from court-clothes to rags, but agreeing -only in this, that they are not dressed as soldiers of literature. - -These amateurs and specialists, these writers of books that are not -books, and essays that are not essays, are peculiarly the product of a -democratic age. A love for the distinguished parts of literature, and -even a conception that such parts exist, is not common among men, and -it is not obvious that democracy has led to its encouragement. Hitherto -the tradition of style has commonly been respected; no very open voice -having been as yet raised against it. But with the vast majority of -persons it remains nothing but a mystery, and one which they secretly -regard with suspicion. The enlargement of the circle of readers merely -means an increase of persons who, without an ear, are admitted to -the concert of literature. At present they listen to the traditional -sonatas and mazurkas with bored respect, but they are really longing -for music-hall ditties on the concertina. To this ever-increasing -congregation of the unmusical comes the technical amateur, with his dry -facts and exact knowledge; the flippant amateur, with his comic "bits" -and laughable miscellanies; the didactic and religious amateur, anxious -to mend our manners and save our souls. These people, whose power -must not be slighted, and whose value, perhaps, can only relatively be -denied, have something definite, something serviceable to give in the -form of a paper or a magazine or a book. What wonder that they should -form dangerous rivals to the writer who is assiduous about the way in -which a thing is said, and careful to produce a solid and harmonious -effect by characteristic language? - -It was mainly during the close of the seventeenth and the beginning of -the eighteenth century that this body of technical, professional, and -non-literary writing began to develop. We owe it, without doubt, to the -spread of exact knowledge and the emancipation of speculative thought. -It was from the law first, then from divinity, then from science, and -last from philosophy that the studied graces were excluded--a sacrifice -on the altar of positive expression. If a writer on precise themes -were to adopt to-day the balanced elegance of Evelyn or Shaftesbury's -stately and harmonious periods, he would either be read for his style -and his sentiment or not at all. People would go for their information -elsewhere. No doubt, in a certain sense, this change is due to the -democracy; it is due to the quickening and rarefying of public life, -to the creation of rapid needs, to a breaking down of barriers. But so -long as the books and papers which deal with professional matters do -not utterly absorb the field, so long as they leave time and space for -pure literature, there is no reason why they should positively injure -the latter, though they must form a constant danger to it. At times of -public ferment, when great constitutional or social problems occupy -universal attention, there can be no doubt that the danger ripens into -real injury. When newspapers are full of current events in political -and social life, the graver kind of books are slackly bought, and a -"the higher criticism" disappears from the Reviews. - -We can imagine a state of things in which such a crowding out should -become chronic, when the nervous system of the public should crave such -incessant shocks of actuality, that no time should be left for thought -or sentiment. We might arrive at the condition in which Wordsworth -pictured the France of ninety years ago: - - - _Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!_ - _No single volume paramount, no code,_ - _No master spirit, no determined road;_ - _But equally a want of books and men!_ - - -When we feel inclined to forebode such a shocking lapse into -barbarism, it may help us if we reflect how soon France, in spite of, -or by the aid of, democracy, threw off the burden of emptiness. A -recollection of the intellectual destitution of that country at the -beginning of the century and of the passionate avidity with which, on -the return of political tranquillity, France threw herself back on -literary and artistic avocations, should strengthen the nerves of those -pessimists who, at the slightest approach to a similar condition in -modern England, declare that our intellectual prestige is sunken, never -to revive. There is a great elasticity in the tastes of the average -man, and when they have been pushed violently in one direction they -do not remain fixed there, but swing with equal force to the opposite -side. The aesthetic part of mankind may be obscured, it cannot be -obliterated. - -The present moment appears to me to be a particularly unhappy one for -indulging in gloomy diatribes against the democracy. Books, although -they constitute the most durable part of literature, are not, in -this day, by any means its sole channel. Periodical literature has -certainly been becoming more and more democratic; and if the editors -of our newspapers gauge in any degree the taste of their readers, -that taste must be becoming more and more inclined to the formal and -distinctive parts of writing. A few years ago, the London newspapers -were singularly indifferent to the claims of books and of the men who -wrote them. An occasional stately column of the _Times_ represented -almost all the notice which a daily paper would take of a volume. The -provincial press was still worse provided; it afforded no light at all -for such of its clients as were groping their way in the darkness of -the book-market. - -All this is now changed. One or two of the evening newspapers of -London deserve great commendation for having dared to treat literary -subjects, in distinction from mere reviews of books, as of immediate -public interest. Their example has at length quickened some of the -morning papers, and has spread into the provinces to such a signal -degree that several of the great newspapers of the North of England -are now served with literary matter of a quality and a fulness not -to be matched in a single London daily twenty years ago. When an -eminent man of letters dies, the comments which the London and country -press make upon his career and the nature of his work are often quite -astonishing in their fulness; space being dedicated to these notices -such as, but a few years ago, would have been grudged to a politician -or to a prize-fighter. The newspapers are the most democratic of all -vehicles of thought, and the prominence of literary discussion in their -columns does not look as though the democracy was anxious to be thought -indifferent or hostile to literature. - -In all this bustle and reverberation, however, it may be said that -there is not much place for those who desire, like Jean Chapelain, -to live in innocence, with Apollo and with their books. There can be -no question, that the tendency of modern life is not favourable to -sequestered literary scholarship. At the same time, it is a singular -fact that, even in the present day, when a Thomas Love Peacock or an -Edward FitzGerald hides himself in a careful seclusion, like some rare -aquatic bird in a backwater, his work slowly becomes manifest, and -receives due recognition and honour. Such authors do not enjoy great -sales, even when they become famous, but, in spite of their opposition -to the temper of their time, in spite of all obstacles imposed by their -own peculiarities of temperament, they receive, in the long run, a fair -measure of success. They have their hour, sooner or later. More than -that no author of their type could have under any form of political -government, or at any period of history. They should not, and, in -fairness it must be said they rarely do, complain. They know that "Dieu -paie," as Alphonse Karr said, "mais il ne paie pas tous les samedis." - -It is the writers who want to be paid every Saturday upon whom -democracy produces the worst effect. It is not the neglect of the -public, it is the facility with which the money can be wheedled out -of the pockets of the public on trifling occasions that constitutes -a danger to literature. There is an enormous quantity of almost -unmitigated shoddy now produced and sold, and the peril is that -authors who are capable of doing better things will be seduced into -adding to this wretched product for the sake of the money. We are -highly solicitous nowadays, and it is most proper that we should be, -about adequate payment for the literary worker. But as long as that -payment is in no sort of degree proportioned to the merit of the -article he produces, the question of its scale of payment must remain -one rather for his solicitor than for the critics. The importance of -our own Society of Authors, for instance, lies, it appears to me, -in its constituting a sort of firm of solicitors acting solely for -literary clients. But the moment we go further than this, we get into -difficulties. The money standard tends to become the standard of merit. -At a recent public meeting, while one of the most distinguished of -living technical writers was speaking for the literary profession, -one of those purveyors of tenth-rate fiction, who supply stories, as -they might supply vegetables, to a regular market, was heard to say -with scorn, "Call _him_ an author?" "Why, yes!" her neighbour replied, -"don't you know he has written so and so, and so and so?" "Well," said -the other, "I should like to know what his sales are before I allowed -he was an author." - -It would be highly inopportune to call for a return of the _bona fide_ -sales of those of our leading authors who are not novelists. It is to -be hoped that no such indulgence to the idlest curiosity will ever be -conceded. But if such a thing were done, it would probably reveal some -startling statistics. It would be found that many of those whose names -are only next to the highest in public esteem do not receive more than -the barest pittance from their writings, even from those which are -most commonly in the mouths of their contemporaries. To mention only -two writers, but these of singular eminence and prominence, it was -not until the later years of their lives that either Robert Browning -or Matthew Arnold began to be sure of even a very moderate pecuniary -return on their books. The curious point was that both of them achieved -fame of a wide and brilliant nature long before their books began to -"move," as publishers call it. It is not easy to think of an example -of this curious fact more surprising than this, that _Friendship's -Garland_ during many years did not pass out of one moderate edition. -This book, published when Arnold was filling the mouths of men with his -paradoxical utterances, lighted up all through with such wit and charm -of style as can hardly, of its kind, be paralleled in recent prose; a -masterpiece, not dealing with remote or abstruse questions, but with -burning matters of the day--this entertaining and admirably modern -volume enjoyed a sale which would mean deplorable failure in the case -of a female novelist of a perfectly subterranean order. This case could -be paralleled, no doubt, by a dozen others, equally striking. I have -just taken up a volume of humour, the production of a "funny man" of -the moment, and I see on its title-page the statement that it is in -its one hundred and nineteenth edition. Of this book, 119,000 copies -have been bought during a space of time equal to that in which Matthew -Arnold sold probably about 119 copies of _Friendship's Garland_. In the -face of these facts it is not possible to say that, though it may buy -well, the democracy buys wisely. - -It is this which makes me fear that, as I have said, the democratic -spirit is influencing disadvantageously the quantity rather than the -quality of good literature. It seems to be starving its best men, and -helping its coarsest Jeshuruns to wax fat. The good authors write as -they would have written under any circumstances, valuing their work for -its own sake, and enjoying that state of happiness of which Mr. William -Morris has been speaking, "the happiness only possible to artists and -thieves." But while they produce in this happy mood, the democracy, -which honours their names and displays an inexplicable curiosity about -their persons, is gradually exterminating them by borrowing their books -instead of buying them, and so reducing them to a level just below the -possibility of living by pure literature. The result is, as any list of -the most illustrious living authors (not novelists) will suggest, that -scarcely a single man or woman of them has lived by the production of -books. An amiable poet of the older school, whose name is everywhere -mentioned with honour, used to say that he published books instead -of keeping a carriage, as his fortune would not permit him to afford -both of those luxuries. When we think of the prizes which literature -occasionally offered to serious work in the eighteenth century, it -seems as though there had been a very distinct retrogression in this -respect. - -The novel, in short, tends more and more to become the only -professional branch of literature; and this is unfortunate, because the -novel is the branch which shelters the worst work. In other sections -of pure letters, if work is not in any way good, it is cast forth and -no more heard of. But a novel may be utterly silly, be condemned by -every canon of taste, be ignored by the press, and yet may enjoy a -mysterious success, pass through tens of editions, and start its author -on a career which may lead to opulence. It would be interesting to know -what it is that attracts the masses to books of this kind. How do they -hear of them in the first instance? Why does one vapid and lady-like -novel speed on its way, while eleven others, apparently just like unto -it, sink and disappear? How is the public appetite for this insipidity -to be reconciled with the partiality of the same readers for stories -by writers of real excellence? Why do those who have once pleased the -public continue to please it, whatever lapses into carelessness and -levity they permit themselves? I have put these questions over and -over again to those whose business it is to observe and take advantage -of the fluctuations of the book-market, but they give no intelligible -reply. If the Sphinx had asked Oedipus to explain the position of "Edna -Lyall," he would have had to throw himself from the rock. - -If the novelists, bad or good, showed in their work the influence of -democracy, they would reward study. But it is difficult to perceive -that they do. The good ones, from Mr. George Meredith downwards, write -to please themselves, in their own manner, just as do the poets, the -critics, and the historians, leaving it to the crowd to take their -books or let them lie. The commonplace ones write blindly, following -the dictates of their ignorance and their inexperience, waiting for the -chance that the capricious public may select a favourite from their -ranks. Almost the only direct influence which the democracy, as at -present constituted in England, seems to bring to bear on novels, is -the narrowing of the sphere of incident and emotion within which they -may disport themselves. It would be too complicated and dangerous a -question to ask here, at the end of an essay, whether that restriction -is a good thing or a bad. The undeniable fact is that whenever an -English novelist has risen to protest against it, the weight of the -democracy has been exercised to crush him. He has been voted "not -quite nice," a phrase of hideous import, as fatal to a modern writer -as the inverted thumb of a Roman matron was to a gladiator. But all -we want now is a very young man strong enough, sincere enough, and -popular enough to insist on being listened to when he speaks of real -things--and perhaps we have found him. - -One great novelist our race has however produced, who seems not only to -write under the influence of democracy, but to be absolutely inspired -by the democratic spirit. This is Mr. W. D. Howells, and it is only -by admitting this isolation of his, I think, that we can arrive at -any just comprehension of his place in contemporary literature. It is -the secret of his extreme popularity in America, except in a certain -Europeanised clique; it is the secret of the instinctive dislike of -him, amounting to a blind hereditary prejudice, which is so widely -felt in this country. Mr. Howells is the most exotic, perhaps the only -truly exotic writer of great distinction whom America has produced. -Emerson, and the school of Emerson in its widest sense, being too -self-consciously in revolt against the English oligarchy, out of which -they sprang, to be truly distinguished from it. But England, with -its aristocratic traditions and codes, does not seem to weigh with -Mr. Howells. His books suggest no rebellion against, nor subjection -to, what simply does not exist for him or for his readers. He is -superficially irritated at European pretensions, but essentially, and -when he becomes absorbed in his work as a creative artist, he ignores -everything but that vast level of middle-class of American society out -of which he sprang, which he faithfully represents, and which adores -him. To English readers, the novels of Mr. Howells must always be -something of a puzzle, even if they partly like them, and as a rule -they hate them. But to the average educated American who has not been -to Europe, these novels appear the most deeply experienced and ripely -sympathetic product of modern literature. - -When we review the whole field of which some slight outline has here -been attempted, we see much that may cheer and encourage us, and -something, too, that may cause grave apprehension. The alertness and -receptivity of the enormous crowd which a writer may now hope to -address is a pleasant feature. The hammering away at an idea without -inducing it to enter anybody's ears is now a thing of the past. What -was whispered in London yesterday afternoon was known in New York -this morning, and we have the comments of America upon it with our -five o'clock tea to-day. But this is not an unmixed benefit, for if -an impression is now quickly made, it is as quickly lost, and there -is little profit in seeing people receive an idea which they will -immediately forget. Moreover, for those who write what the millions -read, there is something disturbing and unwholesome in this public -roar that is ever rising in their ears. They ensconce themselves in -their study, they draw the curtains, light the lamp, and plunge into -their books, but from the darkness outside comes that distracting and -agitating cry of the public that demands their presence. This is a new -temptation, and indicates a serious danger. But the popular writers -will get used to it, and when they realise how little it really means -it may cease to disturb them. In the meantime, let no man needlessly -dishearten his brethren in this world of disillusions, by losing faith -in the ultimate survival and continuance of literature. - -_1891._ - - - - -HAS AMERICA PRODUCED A POET? - - - - -Has America Produced a Poet? - - -For the audacious query which stands at the head of this essay, it is -not I, but an American editor, who must bear the blame, if blame there -be. It would never have occurred to me to tie such a firebrand to the -tail of any of my little foxes. He gave it to me, just as Mr. Pepys -gave _Gaze not on Swans_ to ingenious Mr. Birkenshaw, to make the best -I could of a bad argument. On the face of it the question is absurd. -There lies on my table a manual of American poetry by Mr. Stedman, -in which the meed of immortality is awarded to about one hundred of -Columbia's sons and daughters. No one who has a right to express an -opinion is likely to deny that the learning, fidelity, and catholic -taste which are displayed in this book are probably at this time of -day shared, in the same degree, with its author, by no other living -Anglo-Saxon writer. Why, then, should not Mr. Stedman's admirable -volume be taken as a complete and satisfactory answer to our editor's -query? Simply because everything is relative, and because it may be -amusing to apply to the subject of Mr. Stedman's criticism a standard -more cosmopolitan and much less indulgent than his. Mr. Stedman has -mapped out the heavens with a telescope; what can an observer detect -with the naked eye? - -There is an obvious, and yet a very stringent, sense in which no good -critic could for a moment question that America has produced poets. -A poet is a maker, a man or woman who expresses some mood of vital -passion in a new manner and with adequate art. Turning to the accepted -ranks of English literature, Tickell is a poet on the score of his one -great elegy on Addison, and Wolfe, a century later, by his _Burial -of Sir John Moore_. Those poems were wholly new and impassioned, and -time has no effect upon the fame of their writers. So long as English -poetry continues to be studied a little closely, Tickell and Wolfe -will be visible as diminutive fixed stars in our poetical firmament. -But in a rapid and superficial glance, Wolfe and Tickell disappear. -Let the glance be more and more rapid, and only a few planets of the -first magnitude are seen. In the age before Elizabeth, Chaucer alone -remains; of the Elizabethan galaxy, so glittering and rich, we see at -length only Spenser and Shakespeare; then come successive splendours of -Milton, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns; then a cluster again of Wordsworth, -Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats. Last of all, still too low on the -horizon to be definitely measured, Tennyson and Browning. Fifteen names -in all, a sum which might be reduced to ten, perhaps, but never to -fewer than ten, nor expanded, on the same scale, beyond eighteen or -twenty at the outside. These fifteen are the great English poets, the -selected glory and pride of five centuries, the consummation of the -noblest dynasty of verse which the world has ever seen. What I take to -be the problem is, Has America hitherto produced a poet equal to the -least of these, raised as high above any possible vacillation of the -tide of fashion? What an invidious question! - -In the first place, I will have nothing to do with the living. They -do not enter into our discussion. There was never a time, in my -opinion, when America possessed among her citizens so various and so -accomplished singers, gifted in so many provinces of song, as in 1888. -But the time has not arrived, and long may it delay, when we shall be -called upon to discuss the ultimate _status_ of the now living poets of -America. From the most aged of them we have not yet, we hope, received -"sad autumn's last chrysanthemum." Those who have departed will alone -be glanced at in these few words. Death is the great solution of -critical continuity, and the bard whom we knew so well, and who died -last night, is nearer already to Chaucer than to us. I shall endeavour -to state quite candidly what my own poor opinion is with regard to the -claim of any dead American to be classed with those fourteen or fifteen -English inheritors of unassailed renown. - -One word more in starting. If we admit into our criticism any -patriotic or political prejudice, we may as well cease to wrangle on -the threshold of our discussion. I cannot think that American current -criticism is quite free from this taint of prejudice. In this, if I -am right, Americans sin no more nor less than the rest of us English, -and French; but in America, I confess, the error seems to me to be -occasionally more serious than in Europe. In England we are not -guiltless of permitting the most puerile disputes to embitter our -literary arena, and because a certain historian is a home-ruler or a -certain novelist a Tory, each is anathema to the literary tribunal on -the other side. Such judgments are as pitiable as they are ludicrous; -but when I have watched a polite American smile to encounter such -vagaries of taste in our clubs or drawing-rooms, I have sometimes -wondered how the error which prefers the non-political books of a -Gladstonian to those of a Unionist, on political grounds alone, differs -from that which thinks an American writer must have the advantage, or -some advantage, over an English writer. Each prejudice is natural and -amiable, but neither the one nor the other is exempt from the charge of -puerility. Patriotism is a meaningless term in literary criticism. To -prefer what has been written in our own city, or state, or country, for -that reason alone, is simply to drop the balance and to relinquish all -claims to form a judgment. The true and reasonable lover of literature -refuses to be constrained by any meaner or homelier bond than that of -good writing. His brain and his taste persist in being independent of -his heart, like those of the German soldier who fought through the -campaign before Paris, and who was shot at last with an Alfred de -Musset, thumbed and scored, in his pocket. - -One instance of the patriotic fallacy has so often annoyed me that I -will take this opportunity of denouncing it. A commonplace of American -criticism is to compare Keats with a certain Joseph Rodman Drake. -They both died at twenty-five and they both wrote verse. The parallel -ends there. Keats was one of the great writers of the world. Drake -was a gentle imitative bard of the fourth or fifth order, whose gifts -culminated in a piece of pretty fancy called _The Culprit Fay_. Every -principle of proportion is outraged in a conjunction of the names of -Drake and Keats. To compare them is like comparing a graceful shrub -in your garden with the tallest pine that fronts the tempest on the -forehead of Rhodope. - -When the element of prejudice is entirely withdrawn, we have next -to bear in mind the fluctuations of taste in respect to popular -favourites, and the uncertainty that what has pleased us may ever -contrive to please the world again. I have been reminded of the -insecurity of contemporary judgments, and of the process of natural -selection which goes on imperceptibly in criticism, by referring to a -compendium of literature published thirty years ago, and remarkable in -its own time for knowledge, acumen, and candour. In these volumes the -late Robert Carruthers, an excellent scholar in his day and generation, -gives a certain space to the department of American poetry. It is -amusing to think how differently a man of Carruthers's stamp would -cover the same ground to-day. He gives great prominence to Halleck -and Bryant, he treats Longfellow and Poe not inadequately, he spares -brief commendation to Willis and Holmes, and a bare mention to Dana -and Emerson (as a poet). He alludes to no one else; and apart from his -omissions, which are significant enough, nothing can be more curious -than his giving equal _status_ respectively to Halleck and Bryant, -to Willis and Holmes, to Dana and Emerson. Thirty years have passed, -and each of these pairs contains one who has been taken and one who -has been left. Bryant, Holmes, and Emerson exist, and were never more -prominent than to-day; but where are Halleck, Willis, and Dana? Under -the microscope of Mr. Stedman, these latter three together occupy but -half of one page out of four hundred, nor is there the slightest chance -that these writers will ever recover the prominence which they held, -and seemed to hold so securely, little more than a generation ago. The -moral is too obvious to need appending to this suggestive little story. - -It is not in America only that a figure which is not really a great -one gets accidentally raised on a pedestal from which it presently has -to be ignominiously withdrawn. But in America, where the interest in -intellectual problems is so keen, and where the dull wholesome bondage -of tradition is unknown, these sudden exaltations are particularly -frequent. When I was in Baltimore (and I have no happier memories of -travel than my recollections of Baltimore) the only crumple in my -rose-leaf was the difficulty of preserving a correct attitude toward -the local deity. When you enter the gates of Johns Hopkins, the -question that is asked is, "What think you of Lanier"? The writer of -the _Marshes of Glynn_ had passed away before I visited Baltimore, -but I heard so much about him that I feel as though I had seen him. -The delicately-moulded ivory features, the profuse and silken beard, -the wonderful eyes waxing and waning during the feverish action -of lecturing, surely I have witnessed the fascination which these -exercised? Baltimore would not have been Baltimore, would have been -untrue to its graceful, generous, and hospitable instincts, if it -had not welcomed with enthusiasm this beautiful, pathetic Southern -stranger. But I am amazed to find that this pardonable idolatry is -still on the increase, although I think it must surely have found its -climax in a little book which my friend, President Gilman, has been -kind enough to send me this year. In this volume I read that Shelley -and Keats, "before disconsolate," now possess a mate; that "God's -touch set the starry splendour of genius upon Lanier's soul"; and that -all sorts of persons, in all sorts of language, exalt him as one of -the greatest poets that ever lived. I notice, however, with a certain -sly pleasure, that on the occasion of this burst of Lanierolatry a -letter was received from Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "of too private a -character to read." No wonder, for Dr. Holmes is the dupe of no local -enthusiasm, and very well indeed distinguishes between good verse and -bad. - -From Baltimore drunk with loyalty and pity I appeal to Baltimore sober. -What are really the characteristics of this amazing and unparalleled -poetry of Lanier? Reading it again, and with every possible inclination -to be pleased, I find a painful effort, a strain and rage, the most -prominent qualities in everything he wrote. Never simple, never easy, -never in one single lyric natural and spontaneous for more than one -stanza, always forcing the note, always concealing his barrenness and -tameness by grotesque violence of image and preposterous storm of -sound, Lanier appears to me to be as conclusively not a poet of genius -as any ambitious man who ever lived, laboured, and failed. I will judge -him by nothing less than those poems which his warmest admirers point -to as his masterpieces; I take _Corn_, _Sunrise_, and _The Marshes of -Glynn_. I persist in thinking that these are elaborate and learned -experiments by an exceedingly clever man, and one who had read so -much and felt so much that he could simulate poetical expression with -extraordinary skill. But of the real thing, of the genuine traditional -article, not a trace. - - - _I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green_ - _Dying to silent hints of kisses keen_ - _As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen._ - - -This exemplifies the sort of English, the sort of imagination, the sort -of style which are to make Keats and Shelley--who have found Bryant and -Landor, Rossetti and Emerson, unworthy of their company--comfortable -with a mate at last. If these vapid and eccentric lines were -exceptional, if they were even supported by a minority of sane and -original verse, if Lanier were ever simple or genuine, I would seize -on those exceptions and gladly forget the rest; but I find him on -all occasions substituting vague, cloudy rhetoric for passion, and -tortured fancy for imagination, always striving, against the grain, to -say something prophetic and unparalleled, always grinding away with -infinite labour and the sweat of his brow to get that expressed which a -real poet murmurs, almost unconsciously, between a sigh and a whisper. - - - _Wheresoe'er I turn my view,_ - _All is strange, yet nothing new;_ - _Endless labour all along,_ - _Endless labour to be wrong._ - - -Lanier must have been a charming man, and one who exercised a great -fascination over those who knew him. But no reasonable critic can turn -from what has been written about Lanier to what Lanier actually wrote, -and still assert that he was the Great American Poet. - -It is not likely to be seriously contended that there were in 1888 -more than four of the deceased poets of America who need to have their -claims discussed in connection with the highest honours in the art. -These are Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Poe. There is one other name -which, it may seem to some of my readers, ought to be added to this -list. But originality was so entirely lacking in the composition of -that versatile and mellifluous talent to which I allude, that I will -not even mention here the fifth name. I ask permission rapidly to -inquire whether Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson and Poe are worthy of a -rank beside the greatest English twelve. - -In the first place, what are we to say of Longfellow? I am very far -from being one of those who reject the accomplished and delicate work -of this highly-trained artist. If I may say so, no chapter of Mr. -Stedman's book seems to me to surpass in skill that in which he deals -with the works of Longfellow, and steers with infinite tact through -the difficulties of the subject. In the face of those impatient -youngsters who dare to speak of Longfellow and of Tupper in a breath, -I assert that the former was, within his limitations, as true a poet -as ever breathed. His skill in narrative was second only to that of -Prior and of Lafontaine. His sonnets, the best of them, are among the -most pleasing objective sonnets in the language. Although his early, -and comparatively poor, work was exaggeratedly praised, his head was -not turned, but, like a conscientious artist, he rose to better and -better things, even at the risk of sacrificing his popularity. It -is a pleasure to say this at the present day, when Longfellow's fame -has unduly declined; but it is needless, of course, to dwell on the -reverse of the medal, and disprove what nobody now advances, that he -was a great or original poet. Originality and greatness were just the -qualities he lacked. I have pointed out elsewhere that Longfellow -was singularly under Swedish influences, and that his real place is -in Swedish literature, chronologically between Tegner and Runeberg. -Doubtless he seemed at first to his own people more original than he -was, through his habit of reproducing an exotic tone very exactly. - -Bryant appears to me to be a poet of a less attractive but somewhat -higher class than Longfellow. His versification is mannered, and -his expressions are directly formed on European models, but his -sense of style was so consistent that his careful work came to be -recognisable. His poetry is a hybrid of two English stocks, closely -related; he belongs partly to the Wordsworth of _Tintern Abbey_, -partly to the Coleridge of _Mont Blanc_. The imaginative formula is -Wordsworth's, the verse is the verse of Coleridge, and having in very -early youth produced this dignified and novel flower, Bryant did -not try to blossom into anything different, but went on cultivating -the Coleridge-Wordsworth hybrid down to the days of Rossetti and of -Villanelles. But Wordsworth and Coleridge had not stayed at the _Mont -Blanc_ and _Tintern Abbey_ point. They went on advancing, developing, -altering, and declining to the end of their days. The consequence is -that the specimens of the Bryant variety do not strike us as remarkably -like the general work of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. As I have said, -although he borrowed definitely and almost boldly, in the first -instance, the very persistence of Bryant's style, the fact that he -was influenced once by a very exquisite and noble kind of poetry, and -then never any more, through a long life, by any other verse, combined -with his splendid command of those restricted harmonies the secret of -which he had conquered, made Bryant a very interesting and valuable -poet. But in discussing his comparative position, it appears to me to -be impossible to avoid seeing that his want of positive novelty--the -derived character of his sentiment, his verse, and his description--is -absolutely fatal to his claim to a place in the foremost rank. He -is exquisitely polished, full of noble suavity and music, but his -irreparable fault is to be secondary, to remind us always of his -masters first, and only on reflection of himself. In this he contrasts -to a disadvantage with one who is somewhat akin to him in temperament, -Walter Savage Landor. We may admit that Byrant is more refined, more -uniformly exquisite than Landor, but the latter has a flavour of his -own, something quite original and Landorian, which makes him continue -to live, while Byrant's reputation slowly fades away, like the stately -crystal gables of an iceberg in summer. The "Water-Fowl" pursues its -steady flight through the anthologies, but Bryant is not with the great -masters of poetry. - -We ascend, I think, into a sphere where neither Bryant nor Longfellow, -with all their art, have power to wing their way, when we read such -verses as - - - _Musketaquit, a goblin strong,_ - _Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;_ - _They lose their grief who hear his song,_ - _And where he winds is the day of day._ - - _So forth and brighter fares my stream;_ - _Who drinks it shall not thirst again;_ - _No darkness stains its equal gleam,_ - _And ages drop in it like rain._ - - -If Emerson had been frequently sustained at the heights he was -capable of reaching, he would unquestionably have been one of the -sovereign poets of the world. At its very best his phrase is so new -and so magical, includes in its easy felicity such a wealth of fresh -suggestion and flashes with such a multitude of side-lights, that we -cannot suppose that it will ever be superseded or will lose its charm. -He seems to me like a very daring but purblind diver, who flings -himself headlong into the ocean, and comes up bearing, as a rule, -nothing but sand and common shells, yet who every now and then rises -grasping some wonderful and unique treasure. In his prose, of course, -Emerson was far more a master of the medium than in poetry. He never -became an easy versifier; there seems to have been always a difficulty -to him, although an irresistible attraction, in the conduct of a piece -of work confined within rhyme and rhythm. He starts with a burst of -inspiration; the wind drops and his sails flap the mast before he is -out of port; a fresh puff of breeze carries him round the corner; for -another page, the lyrical _afflatus_ wholly gone, he labours with the -oar of logic; when suddenly the wind springs up again, and he dances -into a harbour. We are so pleased to find the voyage successfully -accomplished that we do not trouble to inquire whether or no this -particular port was the goal he had before him at starting. I think -there is hardly one of Emerson's octosyllabic poems of which this will -not be found to be more or less an accurate allegorical description. -This is not quite the manner of Milton or Shelley, although it may -possess its incidental advantages. - -It cannot be in candour denied that we obtain a very strange impression -by turning from what has been written about Emerson to his own poetry. -All his biographers and critics unite, and it is very sagacious of -them to do so, in giving us little anthologies of his best lines and -stanzas, just as writers on _Hudibras_ extract miscellanies of the -fragmentary wit of Butler. Judged by a chain of these selected jewels, -Emerson gives us the impression of high imagination and great poetical -splendour. But the volume of his verse, left to produce its own effect, -does not fail to weaken this effect. I have before me at this moment -his first collected _Poems_, published, as he said, at "the solstice -of the stars of his intellectual firmament." It holds the brilliant -fragments that we know so well, but it holds them as a mass of dull -quartz may sparkle with gold dust. It has odes about Contocook and -Agischook and the Over-God, long nebulous addresses to no one knows -whom, about no one knows what; for pages upon pages it wanders away -into mere cacophonous eccentricity. It is Emerson's misfortune as a -poet that his technical shortcomings are for ever being more severely -reproved by his own taste and censorship than we should dare to -reprove them. To the author of _The World-Soul_, in shocking verses, -we silently commend his own postulate in exquisite prose, that "Poetry -requires that splendour of expression which carries with it the proof -of great thoughts." Emerson, as a verse-writer, is so fragmentary and -uncertain that we cannot place him among the great poets; and yet his -best lines and stanzas seem as good as theirs. Perhaps we ought to -consider him, in relation to Wordsworth and Shelley, as an asteroid -among the planets. - -It is understood that Edgar Allen Poe is still unforgiven in New -England. "Those singularly valueless verses of Poe," was the now -celebrated _dictum_ of a Boston prophet. It is true that, if "that most -beguiling of all little divinities, Miss Walters of the _Transcript_," -is to be implicitly believed, Edgar Poe was very rude and naughty at -the Boston Lyceum in the spring of 1845. But surely bygones should be -bygones, and Massachusetts might now pardon the _Al Aaraaf_ incident. -It is not difficult to understand that there were many sides on which -Poe was likely to be long distasteful to Boston, Cambridge, and -Concord. The intellectual weight of the man, though unduly minimised -in New England, was inconsiderable by the side of that of Emerson. But -in poetry, as one has to be always insisting, the battle is not to the -strong; and apart from all faults, weaknesses, and shortcomings of Poe, -we feel more and more clearly, or we ought to feel, the perennial charm -of his verses. The posy of his still fresh and fragrant poems is larger -than that of any other deceased American writer, although Emerson may -have one or two single blossoms to show which are more brilliant than -any of his. If the range of the Baltimore poet had been wider, if Poe -had not harped so persistently on his one theme of remorseful passion -for the irrecoverable dead, if he had employed his extraordinary, -his unparalleled gifts of melodious invention, with equal skill, in -illustrating a variety of human themes, he must have been with the -greatest poets. For in Poe, in pieces like _The Haunted Palace_, _The -Conqueror Worm_, _The City in the Sea_, and _For Annie_, we find two -qualities which are as rare as they are invaluable, a new and haunting -music, which constrains the hearer to follow and imitate, and a command -of evolution in lyrical work so absolute that the poet is able to do -what hardly any other lyrist has dared to attempt, namely, as in _To -One in Paradise_, to take a normal stanzaic form, and play with it as a -great pianist plays with an air. - -So far as the first of these attributes is concerned, Poe has proved -himself to be the Piper of Hamelin to all later English poets. From -Tennyson to Austin Dobson there is hardly one whose verse-music does -not show traces of Poe's influence. To impress the stamp of one's -personality on a succeeding generation of artists, to be an almost -(although not wholly) flawless technical artist one's self, to charm -within a narrow circle to a degree that shows no sign, after forty -years, of lessening, is this to prove a claim to rank with the Great -Poets? No, perhaps not quite; but at all events it is surely to have -deserved great honour from the country of one's birthright. - -_1889._ - - - - -WHAT IS A GREAT POET? - - - - -What is a Great Poet? - - -The answer to the question, "Has America produced a Poet?" which -was published in the _Forum_, called forth a surprising amount of -attention from the press in England as well as in America. It was quite -impossible, and I did not expect, that such an expression of personal -opinion would pass without being challenged. In America, particularly, -it could not but disturb some traditions and wound some prejudices. But -in the present instance, as always before, it has been my particular -fortune to find that where criticism--by which I mean, not censure, but -analysis--is candid and sincere, it meets in America with sincere and -candid readers. In parenthesis, I may add, that when literary criticism -of this kind is ill received in America, the fault usually lies with -that unhappy system of newspaper reverberation by which "scraps" or -"items," removed from their context and slightly altered at each fresh -removal, go the round of the press, and are presently commented upon -by journalists who have never seen what the critic originally wrote. -In reading some of the principal articles which my essay called forth, -I find one point dwelt upon, in various ways, in almost all of them. I -find a fresh query started as to the standard which we are to take as a -measurement for imaginative writers; and it seems to me that it may be -interesting to carry our original inquiry a step further back, and to -ask, What is a great poet? - -If we are to limit the number of the most illustrious and commanding -names, as I attempted to do, it is plain that we must also confine -the historical range of our inquiry. Some of my reviewers objected to -my selection being made among English poets only, and several of them -attempted lists which included the poets of Europe or of the world. -Yet, without exception, those critics displayed their national bias by -the large proportion of Anglo-Saxon worthies whom they could not bring -themselves to exclude from their dozen. Shakespeare must be there, -and Milton, Chaucer, Wordsworth, and Shelley; already a third of the -majestic company is English. One reviewer, who had been lately studying -the Anthology, could not persuade himself to omit several of those -dying dolphins of Byzantine song that drew the shallop of Agathias up -into the Golden Horn; and this when the whole tale of bards was not to -exceed fifteen at most. One reviewer went to Iceland for a name, and -another to Persia--charming excursions both of them, but calculated to -exhaust our resources prematurely. The least reflection will remind -us that the complexity and excessive fulness of modern interests have -invaded literature also, and the history of literature; to select from -all time a dozen greatest names is a task of doubtful propriety, and -certainly not to be lightly undertaken. It was all very well, in the -morning of time, for the ancient critics to regulate their body-guards -of Apollo by the numbers of the Muses or the Graces. Nothing could be -pleasanter than that tale of the great lyrical poets of the world which -we find so often repeated in slightly varying form: - -"The mighty voice of Pindar has thundered out of Thebes. The lyre of -Simonides modulates a song of delicate melody. What brilliancy in -Ibycus and Stesichorus! What sweetness in Alcman! From the mouth of -Bacchylides there breathe delicious accents. Persuasion exhales from -the lips of Anacreon. In the Aeolian voice of Alcaeus we hear once more -the Lesbian swan; and as for Sappho, that ninth great lyric poet, is -not her place, rather, tenth among the Muses?" - -If we are contributing lists of a dozen great poets, here are -three-fourths of the company already summoned; yet splendid as are -these names, and doubtless of irreproachable genius, the roll is, for -modern purposes, awkwardly overweighted. Even if for those whose works -Time has overwhelmed, we substitute the Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, -Theocritus, whom he has spared, the list is still impracticable and -one-sided. Yet who shall say that these were not great poets in every -possible sense of the word? From each of several modern European -nations, from Italy and from France at least, a magnificent list of -twelve could be selected, not one of whom their compatriots could -afford to lose. Nay, even Sweden or Holland would present us with a -list of twelve which should seem indisputably great to a Dutchman or -a Swede. It is not possible to spread the net so wide as to catch -whales from all the ancient and all the modern languages at once. Let -us restrain our ambition and see what criterion we have for measuring -those of our own tongue and race. - -Passing in review, then, the whole five centuries which divide us from -the youth of Chaucer, we would seek to discover what qualities have -raised a limited number of the poetical writers of those successive -ages of English thought to a station permanently and splendidly -exalted. Among the almost innumerable genuine poets of those five -hundred years, are there ten or twelve who are manifestly greater than -the rest, and if so, in what does their greatness consist? - -We are not here occupied with the old threadbare question, "What is -a poet"? but we may reply to it so far as to insist that when we are -speaking and thinking in English the term excludes all writers, however -pathetic and fanciful, who do not employ the metrical form. In many -modern languages the word poet, _dichter_, includes novelists and -all other authors of prose fiction. I once learned this to my cost, -for having published a short summary of the writings of the living -"poets" of a certain continental country, one of the leading (if not -the leading) novelist of that country, exclusively a writer in prose, -indignantly upbraided me for the obviously personal slight I had shown -him in leaving him entirely unmentioned. In English we possess and -should carefully maintain the advantage which accrues from having a -word so distinct in its meaning; and we may recollect that there is no -trick in literary criticism more lax and silly than that of talking -about "prose poetry" (a contradiction in terms), or about such men as -Carlyle, Mr. Ruskin, or Jefferies as "poets." The greatness we are -discussing to-day is a quality wholly confined to those who have made -it their chief duty to speak to us in verse. - -On these lines, perhaps, the main elements of poetical greatness will -be found to be originality in the treatment of themes, perennial -charm, exquisite finish in execution, and distinction of individual -manner. The great poet, in other words, will be seen, through the -perspectives of history, to have been fresher, stronger, more skilful, -and more personal than his unsuccessful or less successful rival. -When the latter begins to recede into obscurity it will be because -prejudices that blinded criticism are being removed, and because the -candidate for immortality is being found to be lacking in one or all of -these peculiar qualities. And here, of course, comes in the disputed -question of the existence of genius. I confess that that controversy -seems to me to rest on a mere metaphysical quibble. Robert McTavish -is a plough-boy, and ends at the plough's tail. Robert Burns is a -plough-boy, and ends by being set up, like Berenice's hair, as a glory -and a portent in the intellectual zenith of all time. Are they the same -to start with? Is it merely a question of taking pains, of a happy -accident--of luck, in short? A fiddlestick's end for such a theory! -Just as well might we say that a young vine that is to produce, in its -season, a bottle of corton, is the same as a similar stick that will -issue in a wretched draught of _vin bleu_. That which, from its very -cotyledons, has distinguished the corton plant from its base brother, -that is genius. - -But even thus the discussion is vain and empty. What we have to deal -with is the work and not the man. So long as we all feel that there -is some quality of charm, vigour, and brightness which exists in Pope -and is absent in Eusden, is discoverable in a tragedy of Shakespeare -and is wanting in a transpontine melodrama, so long, whether we call -this quality by the good old name of genius, or explain it away in the -jargon of some new-fangled sociography, we shall have basis enough for -the conduct of our particular inquiry. - -Perhaps I may now be permitted to recapitulate the list of a dozen -English poets whom I ventured to quote as the manifest immortals of -our British Parnassus. They are Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, -Dryden, Pope, Gray, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, -Keats. It will be noticed that there are thirteen names here, and my -reviewers have not failed to remind me that it is notoriously difficult -to count the stars. The fact is that Gray, the real thirteenth, was an -after-thought; and I will admit that, although Gray is the author of -what is perhaps the most imposing single short poem in the language, -and although he has charm, skill, and distinction to a marvellous -degree, his originality, his force of production, were so rigidly -limited that he may scarcely be admitted to the first rank. When he -published his collected poems Gray confessed himself "but a shrimp of -an author," and conjectured that the book would be mistaken for "the -works of a flea or a pismire." No doubt the explosive force which eggs -a very great writer on to constant expression was lacking in the -case of Gray, and I yield him--a tender babe, and the only one of my -interesting family which I will consent to throw to the wolves. The -rest are inviolable, and I will defend them to the last; but I can only -put a lance in rest here for two of them. - -The absence of a truly catholic taste, and the survival of an exclusive -devotion to the romantic ideals of the early part of the present -century, must, I suppose, be the cause of a tendency, on the part of -some of those who have replied to me, to question the right of Dryden -and Pope to appear on my list of great poets. It appears that Dryden is -very poorly thought of at Crawfordsville, Indiana, and even at busier -centres of American taste he is reported as being not much of a power. -"Dryden is not read in America," says one of my critics, with jaunty -confidence. They say that we in England are sometimes harsh in our -estimates of America; but I confess I do not know the Englishman bold -enough to have charged America with the shocking want of taste which -these children of her own have so lightly volunteered to attribute to -her. Dryden not read in America! It makes one wonder what is read. -Probably Miss Amelie Rives? - -But to be serious, I can conceive nothing more sinister for the future -of English literature than that to any great extent, or among any -influential circle of reading and writing men, the majesty and sinewy -force of the most masculine of all the English poets should be despised -and rejected. Something of a temper less hurried than that of the man -who runs and reads is no doubt required for the appreciation of that -somewhat heavy-footed and sombre giant of tragic and of narrative song, -John Dryden, warring with dunces, marching with sunken head--"a down -look," as Pope described it--through the unappreciative flat places of -our second Charles and James. Prosaic at times he is, slow, fatigued, -unstimulating; but, at his best, how full of the true sublime, how -uplifted by the wind of tragic passion, how stirred to the depths by -the noblest intellectual and moral enthusiasm! For my own part, there -are moments and moods in which nothing satisfies my ear and my brain -as do the great accents of Dryden, while he marches down the page, -with his elephants and his standards and his kettledrums, "in the full -vintage of his flowing honours." - -There must be something effeminate and feeble in the nervous system of -a generation which cannot bear this grandiose music, this virile tramp -of Dryden's soldiers and camp-followers; something singularly dull and -timid in a spirit that rejects this robust intellectual companion. And, -with all his russet suit of homespun, Dryden is imbued to the core with -the truest and richest blood of poetry. His vehemence is positively -Homeric; we would not give _Mac Flecknoe_ in exchange even for the lost -_Margites_. He possesses in a high degree all the qualities which we -have marked as needed for the attribution of greatness. He is original -to that extent that mainly by his efforts the entire stream of English -poetry was diverted for a century and a half into an unfamiliar -channel; he has an executive skill eminently his own, and is able to -amaze us to-day after so many subsequent triumphs of verse-power; he -has distinction such as an emperor might envy; and after all the poets -of the eighteenth century have, as Mr. Lowell says, had their hands in -his pockets, his best lines are as fresh and as magical as ever. - -Pope I will not defend so warmly, and yet Pope also was a great poet. -Two of my American critics, bent on refuting me, have severally availed -themselves of a somewhat unexpected weapon. Each of them reminds me -that Mr. Lang, in some recent number of a magazine, has said that -Pope is not a poet at all. Research might prove that this heresy is -not entirely unparalleled, yet I am unconvinced. I yield to no one in -respect and affection for Mr. Lang, but in criticising that with which -he feels no personal sympathy, he is merely a "young light-hearted -master of the oar" of temperament. When Mr. Lang blesses, the object is -blest; when he curses, he may bless to-morrow. Some day he will find -himself alone in a country-house with a Horace; old chords will be -touched, the mystery of Pope will reveal itself to him, and we shall -have a panegyric that will make Lady Mary writhe in her grave. Let no -transatlantic, or cisatlantic, infidel of letters be profane at the -expense of a classic by way of pleasing Mr. Lang; his next emotion is -likely to be "_un sentiment obscur d'avoir embrasse la Chimere_." - -To justify one's confidence in the great poetic importance of Pope is -somewhat difficult. It needs a fuller commentary and a longer series -of references than can be given here. But let us recollect that the -nature-worship and nature-study of to-day may grow to seem a complete -fallacy, a sheer persistence in affectation, and that then, to readers -of new tastes and passions, Wordsworth and Shelley will be as Pope is -now, that is to say, supported entirely by their individual merits. -At this moment, to the crowd, he is doubtless less attractive than -they are; he is on the shady side, they on the sunny side of fashion. -But the author of the end of the second book of _The Rape of the -Lock_, of the close of _The New Dunciad_, of the Sporus portrait, and -of the _Third Moral Essay_, has qualities of imagination, applied -to human character, and of distinction, applied to a formal and -delicately-elaborated style, which are unsurpassed, even perhaps by -Horace himself. Satirist after satirist has chirped like a wren from -the head of Pope; where are they now? Where is the great, the terrific, -the cloud-compelling Churchill? Meanwhile, in the midst of a generation -persistently turned away from all his ideas and all his models, the -clear voice of Pope still rings from the arena of Queen Anne. - -After all, this is mere assertion, and what am I that I should pretend -to lay down the law? If we seek, on the authority of whomsoever, to -raise an infallible standard of taste, and to arrange the poets in -classes, like schoolboys, then our inquiry is futile indeed, and worse -than futile. But the interest which this controversy has undoubtedly -called forth seems to prove that there is a side on which such -questions as have been started are not unwelcome nor unworthy of -careful study. It is not useless, I fancy, to remind ourselves now and -then of the very high standard which literature has a right to demand -from its more earnest votaries. In the hurry of life, in the glare of -passing interests, we are apt to lose breadth of sympathy, and to make -our own personal and temporary enjoyment of a book the criterion of its -value. I may take up Selden's _Titles of Honour_, turn over a page or -two, and lay it down in favour of the new number of _Punch_. I must not -for this reason pledge myself to placing the comic paper of to-day in a -niche above the best work of a great Elizabethan prose writer. But when -a modern American says that he finds better poetry in Longfellow than -in Chaucer, he is doing, to a less exaggerated degree, precisely this -very thing. He feels his contemporary sympathies and limited experience -soothed and entertained by the facile numbers of _Evangeline_, and he -does not extract an equal amount of amusement and pleasure from _The -Knight's Tale_. - -From one point of view it is very natural that this should be so, and -a critic would be priggish indeed who should gravely reprove such a -preference. The result would be, not to force the reader to Chaucer, -but to drive him away from poetry altogether. The ordinary man reads -what he finds gives him the pure and wholesome stimulus he needs. But -if such a reader, in the pride of his heart, should take upon himself -to dogmatise, and to tell us that Longfellow's poetry is better than -Chaucer's, we should be obliged to remind him that there are several -factors to be taken into account before he can carry us away with him -on the neck of such a theory. He has to consider how long the charm of -Chaucer has endured, and how short a time the world has had to make -up its mind about Longfellow; he has to appreciate the relation of -Chaucer to his own contemporaries, the boldness of his invasion into -realms until his day unconquered, the inevitable influence of time in -fretting, wasting, and blanching the surface of the masterpieces of the -past. To be just, he has to consider the whirligig of literature, and -to ask himself whether, in the year 2289, after successive revolutions -of taste and repetitions of performance, the works of Longfellow are -reasonably likely to possess the positive value which scholars, at all -events, still find in those of Chaucer. Not until all these, and still -more, irregularities of relative position are taken into account, can -the value of the elder and the later poet be lightly laid in opposite -balances. - -There has been no great disposition to produce English candidates for -the places of any of my original dozen. The _Saturday Review_ thinks -that I ought to have included Walter Scott, and the _St. James's -Gazette_ suggests Marlowe. There is much to be said for the claims of -each of these poets, and I am surprised that no one has put in a plea -for Herrick or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Of Marlowe, indeed, we can -to this day write nothing better than Michael Drayton wrote: - - - _Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs,_ - _Had in him those brave translunary things_ - _That our first poets had; his raptures were_ - _All air and fire, which made his verses clear;_ - _For that fine madness still he did retain,_ - _Which rightly should possess a poet's brain._ - - -He had the freshness and splendour of Heosphoros, the bearer of light, -the kindler of morning; as the dawn-star of our drama, he ascended the -heavens, in the auroral flush of youth, to announce the approaching -majesty of Shakespeare. But his early death, and the unexampled -character of the genius who superseded him, have for centuries -obscured the name of Marlowe, which scintillated half-extinguished -in the blaze of _Hamlet_ and _Othello_. His reputation has, however, -increased during the last generation with greater rapidity than that -of any other of our elder poets, and a time may yet come when we shall -have popularly isolated him from Shakespeare to such a degree as to -enforce a recognition of his individual greatness. At the present -moment to give him a place among the twelve might savour of affectation. - -In the case of Scott, I must still be firm in positively excluding -him, although his name is one of the most beloved in literature. The -_Waverley Novels_ form Scott's great claim to our reverence, and, save -for the songs scattered through them, have nothing to say to us here. -Scott's long narrative poems are really Waverley Novels told in easy, -ambling verse, and to a great measure, I must confess, spoiled, I -think, by such telling. For old memory's sake we enjoy them still, - - - _Full sore amaz'd at the wondrous change,_ - _And frighten'd as a child might be_ - _At the wild yell and visage strange,_ - _And the dark words of gramarye_; - - -but the stuff is rather threadbare, surely. The best passages are -those in which, with skill not less than that of Milton, Scott marshals -heroic lists of Highland proper names. Scott was a very genuine poet -"within his own limitations," as has been said of another favourite, -whose name I will not here repeat. His lyrics, of very unequal merit, -are occasionally of wondrous beauty. I think it will be found, upon -very careful study of his writings, that he published eight absolutely -perfect lyrical pieces, and about as many more that were very good -indeed. This is much, and to how few can so high a tribute be paid! Yet -this is not quite sufficient claim to a place on the summits of English -song. Scott was essentially a great prose-writer, with a singular -facility in verse. - -If this amiable controversy, started in the first instance at the -request of the Editor of the _Forum_, has led us to examine a little -more closely the basis of our literary convictions, and, above all, if -it has led any of us to turn again to the fountain-heads of English -literature, it has not been without its importance. One danger which -I have long foreseen from the spread of the democratic sentiment, is -that of the traditions of literary taste, the canons of literature, -being reversed with success by a popular vote. Up to the present time, -in all parts of the world, the masses of uneducated or semi-educated -persons, who form the vast majority of readers, though they cannot -and do not appreciate the classics of their race, have been content -to acknowledge their traditional supremacy. Of late there have seemed -to me to be certain signs, especially in America, of a revolt of the -mob against our literary masters. In the less distinguished American -newspapers which reach me, I am sometimes startled by the boldness with -which a great name, like Wordsworth's or Dryden's, will be treated -with indignity. If literature is to be judged by a _plebiscite_ and if -the _plebs_ recognises its power, it will certainly by degrees cease -to support reputations which give it no pleasure and which it cannot -comprehend. The revolution against taste, once begun, will land us in -irreparable chaos. It is, therefore, high time that those who recognise -that there is no help for us in literature outside the ancient laws and -precepts of our profession, should vigorously support the fame of those -fountains of inspiration, the impeccable masters of English. - -_1889._ - - - - -MAKING A NAME IN LITERATURE - - - - -Making a Name in Literature - - -An American editor has asked me to say how a literary reputation is -formed. It is like asking one how wood is turned into gold, or how -real diamonds can be manufactured. If I knew the answer, it is not in -the pages of a review that I should print it. I should bury myself in -a cottage in the woods, exercise my secret arts, and wait for Fame -to turn her trumpet into a hunting-horn, and wake the forest-echoes -with my praises. In one of Mr. Stockton's stories a princess sets all -the wise men of her dominions searching for the lost secret of what -root-beer should be made of. The philosophers fail to discover it, and -the magicians exhaust their arts in vain. Not the slightest light is -thrown on the abstruse problem, until at last an old woman is persuaded -to reveal that it ought to be made of roots. In the same way, the only -quite obvious answer to the query, How should a literary reputation -be formed? is to reply, By thinking nothing at all about reputation, -but by writing earnestly and carefully on the subjects and in the -style most congenial to your habits of mind. But this is too obvious, -and leads to no further result. Besides, I see that the question is -not, how should be, but how is, a literary reputation formed. I will -endeavour, then, to give expression to such observations as I may have -formed on this latter subject. - -A literary reputation, as here intended, is obviously not the eternal -fame of a Shakespeare, which appears likely to last for ever, nor -even that of a Dickens, which must endure till there comes a complete -revolution of taste, but the inferior form of repute which is enjoyed -by some dozens of literary people in each generation, and makes a -centre for the admiration or envy of the more enthusiastic or idler -portion of their contemporaries. There is as much cant in denying the -attractiveness of such temporary glory as there is in exaggerating its -weight and importance. To stimulate the minds of those who surround -him, to captivate their attention and excite their curiosity, is -pleasing to the natural man. We look with suspicion on the author -who protests too loudly that he does not care whether he is admired -or not. We shrewdly surmise that inwardly he cares very much indeed. -This instinctive wish for reputation is one of the great incentives to -literary exertion. - -Fame and money--these are the two chief spurs which drive the author -on. The statement may sound ignoble, and the writers of every -generation persist in avowing that they write only to amuse themselves -and to do good in their generation. The noble lady in _Lothair_ -wished that she might never eat, or if at all, only a little fruit by -moonlight on a bank. She, nevertheless, was always punctual at her -dinner; and the author who protests his utter indifference to money and -reputation is commonly excessively sensitive when an attack is made on -his claims in either direction. Literary reputation is relative, of -course. There may be a village fame which does not burn very brightly -in the country town, and provincial stars that look very pale in a -great city. The circumstances, however, under which all the various -degrees of fame are reached, are, I think, closely analogous, and what -is true of the local celebrity is true, relatively, of a Victor Hugo -or of a Tennyson. The importance of the reputation is shown by the -expanse of the area it covers, not by the curve of its advance. The -circle of a great man's fame is extremely wide, but it only repeats on -a vast scale the phenomena attending on the fame of a small man. - -The three principal ways in which a literary reputation is formed -appear to be these: reviews, private conversation among the leaders -of opinion, and the instinctive attraction which leads the general -public to discover for itself what is calculated to give it pleasure. -I will briefly indicate the manner in which these three seem to act -at the present moment on the formation of notoriety and its attendant -success, in the case of English authors. First of all, it is not -unworthy of note that reputation, or fame, and monetary success, are -not identical, although the latter is frequently the satellite of the -former. One extraordinary example of their occasional remoteness, which -may be mentioned without impertinence on the authority of the author -himself, is the position of Mr. Herbert Spencer. In any list of living -Englishmen eminently distinguished for the originality and importance -of their books, Mr. Spencer cannot fail to be ranked high. Yet, as -every student of his later work knows, he stated in the preface of -one of those bald and inexpensive volumes in which he enshrines his -thought, that up to a comparatively recent date the sale of his books -did not cover the cost of their publication. This was the case of a man -famous, it is not too much to say, in every civilised country in the -globe. - -In pure literature there is probably no second existing instance so -flagrant as this. But, to take only a few of the most illustrious -Englishmen of letters, it is matter of common notoriety that the sale -of the books of, say, Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Leslie Stephen, the Bishop -of Oxford (Dr. Stubbs) and Mr. Lecky, considerable as it may now have -become, for a long time by no means responded to the lofty rank which -each of these authors has taken in the esteem of educated people -throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. The reverse is still more curious and -unaccountable. Why is it that there are writers of no merit at all, -who sell their books in thousands where people of genius sell theirs -in scores, yet without ever making a reputation? At the time when -Tupper was far more popular than Tennyson, and Eliza Cook enjoyed ten -times the commercial success of Browning, even the votaries of these -poetasters did not claim a higher place for them, or even a high place -at all. They bought their books because they liked them, but the buyers -evidently did not imagine that purchase gave their temporary favourites -any rank in the hierarchy of fame. These things are a mystery, but the -distinction between commercial success and fame is one which must be -drawn. We are speaking here of reputation, whether attended by vast -sales or only by barren honour. - -Reviews have no longer the power which they enjoyed seventy years ago, -of making or even of marring the fortunes of a book. When there existed -hundreds of private book clubs throughout the country, each one of -which proceeded to buy a copy of whatever the _Edinburgh_ recommended, -then the reviewer was a great personage in the land. We may see in -Lockhart's _Life of Scott_ that Sir Walter, even at the height of his -success, and when, as Ellis said, he was "the greatest elephant in the -world" except himself, was seriously agitated by Jeffrey's cold review -of _Marmion_, not through irritable peevishness, which was wholly -foreign to Scott's magnanimous nature, but because a slighting review -was enough to cripple a book, and a slashing review to destroy it. -There is nothing of this kind now. No newspaper exists in Great Britain -which is able to sell an edition of a book by praising it. I doubt if -any review, under the most favourable circumstances and coming from the -most influential quarter, causes two hundred copies of a book to be -bought. A signed article by Mr. Gladstone is, of course, an exception; -yet some have doubted of late whether a book may not be found so inept -and so heavy as not to stir even at the summons of that voice. - -The reviews in the professional literary papers are still understood -to be useful in the case of unknown writers. A young author without a -friend, if he has merit, and above all if he has striking originality, -is almost sure to attract the notice of some beneficent reviewer, and -be praised in the columns of one or other of the leading weeklies. -These are the circumstances under which the native kindliness of the -irritable race is displayed most freely. The envy which sees merit in -a new man and determines to crush it with silence or malignant attack, -is inhuman, and practically, I fancy, scarcely exists. The entirely -unheard-of writer wounds no susceptibilities, awakens no suspicions, -and even excites a pleasurable warmth of patronage. It is a little -later on, when the new man is quite new no longer, but is becoming a -formidable rival, that evil passions are aroused, or sometimes seem to -have been aroused, in pure literary bosoms. The most sincere reviews -are often those which treat the works of unknown writers, and this is -perhaps the reason why the shrewd public still permits itself to be -moved by these when they are strongly favourable. At any rate, every -new-comer must be introduced to our crowded public to be observed at -all, and to new-comers the review is still the indispensable master of -the ceremonies. - -But the power of reviews to create this form of literary reputation -has of late been greatly circumscribed. The public grows less and less -the dupe of an anonymous judgment, expressed in the columns of one of -the too-numerous organs of public opinion. A more _naive_ generation -than ours was overawed by the nameless authority which moved behind -a review. Ours, on the contrary, is apt to go too far, and pay no -notice, because it does not know the name of a writer. The author who -writhed under the humiliation of attack in a famous paper, little -suspected that his critic was one Snooks, an inglorious creature whose -acquaintance with the matter under discussion was mainly taken from -the book he was reviewing. But, on the other hand, there is that story -of the writer of some compendium of Greek history severely handled -anonymously by the _Athenaeum_, whose scorn of the nameless critic gave -way to horror and shame when he discovered him to have been no other -than Mr. Grote. On the whole, when we consider the careful, learned, -and judicial reviews which are still to be found, like grains of salt, -in the vast body of insipid criticism in the newspapers, it may be held -that the public pays less attention to the reviews than it should. -The fact seems to remain that, except in the case of entirely unknown -writers, periodical criticism possesses an ever-dwindling power of -recommendation. - -It is in conversation that the fame of the best books is made. There -are certain men and women in London who are on the outlook for new -merit, who are supposed to be hard to please, and whose praise is like -rubies. It is those people who, in the smoking-room of the club, or -across the dinner-table, create the fame of writers and the success -of new books. "Seen _Polyanthus_?" says one of these peripatetic -oracles. "No," you answer; "I am afraid I don't know what _Polyanthus_ -is." "Well, it's not half bad; it's this new realistic romance." -"Indeed! By whom is it written?" "Oh! a fellow called--called Binks, -I think--Binks or Bunks; quite a new man. You ought to see it, don't -you know." Some one far down the table ventures to say, "Oh! I think -it was the _Palladium_ said on Saturday that it wasn't a good book -at all, awfully abnormal, or something of that kind." "Well, you -look at it; I think you'll agree with me that it's not half bad." -Such a conversation as this, if held in a fructifying spot among the -best people, does _Polyanthus_ more good than a favourable review. -It excites curiosity, and echoes of the praise ("not half bad" is at -the present moment the most fulsome of existing expressions of London -enthusiasm) reverberate and reverberate until the fortune of the book -is made. At the same time, be it for ever remembered, there must be in -_Polyanthus_ the genuine force and merit which appeal to an impartial -judge and convert reader after reader, or else vainly does the friendly -oracle try to raise the wind. He betrays himself, most likely, by using -the expression, "a very fine book," or "beautifully written." These -phrases have a falsetto air, and lack the persuasive sincerity of the -true modern eulogium, "not half bad." - -But there are reputations formed in other places than in London -dining-rooms and the libraries of clubs. There are certain books which -are not welcomed by the reviews, and which fail to please or even to -meet the eye of experts in literature, which nevertheless, by some -strange and unaccountable attraction, become known to the outer public, -and are eagerly accepted by a very wide circle of readers. I am not -aware that the late Mr. Roe was ever a favourite with the writing or -speaking critics of America. He achieved his extraordinary success not -by the aid, but in spite of the neglect and disapproval of the lettered -classes. I have no close acquaintance with Mr. Roe's novels, but I know -them well enough to despair of discovering why they were found to be so -eminently welcome to thousands of readers. So far as I have examined -them, they have appeared to me to be--if I may speak frankly--neither -good enough nor bad enough to account for their popularity. It is not -that I am such a prig as to disdain Mr. Roe's honourable industry; -far from it. But his books are lukewarm; they have neither the heat -of a rich insight into character, nor the deathly coldness of false -or insincere fiction. They are not ill-constructed, although they -certainly are not well-constructed. It is their lack of salient -character that makes me wonder what enabled them to float where scores -and scores of works not appreciably worse or better than they have sunk. - -Most countries possess at any given moment an author of this class. -In England we have the lady who signs her eminently reputable novels -by the pseudonym of "Edna Lyall." I do not propose to say what the -lettered person thinks of the author of _Donovan_; I would only point -out that the organs of literary opinion do not recognise her existence. -I cannot recollect ever noticing a prominent review of one of her books -in any leading paper. I never heard them so much as mentioned by any -critical reader. To find out something about "Edna Lyall" I have just -consulted the latest edition of _Men of the Time_, but she is unknown -to that not excessively austere compendium. And now for the reverse -of the medal. I lately requested the mistress of a girls' school, a -friend of mine, to ask her elder classes to write down the name of the -greatest English author. The universal answer was "Shakespeare." What -could be more respectable? But the second question was, "Who is your -favourite English author?" And this time, by a large majority, Edna -Lyall bore off the bell. - -I think this amiable lady may be consoled for the slight which _Men -of the Time_ puts upon her. It seems plain that she is a very great -personage indeed to all the girls of the time. But if you ask me how -such a subterranean reputation as this is formed, what starts it, -how it is supported, I can only say I have failed, after some not -unindustrious search, to discover. I may but conjecture that, as I -have suggested, the public instinctively feels the attraction of the -article that satisfies its passing requirement. These illiterate -successes--if I may use the word "illiterate" in its plain meaning and -without offence--are exceedingly ephemeral, and sink into the ground as -silently and rapidly as they rose from it. What has become of Mrs. Gore -and Mrs. March? Who wrote _Emilia Wyndham_, and to what elegant pen did -the girls who are now grandmothers owe _Ellen Middleton_? Alas! it has -taken only forty years to strew the poppy of oblivion over these once -thrilling titles. - -For we have to face the fact that reputations are lost as well as -won. What destroys the fame of an accepted author? This, surely, is a -question not less interesting than that with which we started, and -a necessary corollary to it. Not unfavourable reviews, certainly. An -unjust review may annoy and depress the author, it may cheer a certain -number of his enemies and cool the ardour of a few of his friends, -but in the long run it is sure to be innocuous in proportion to its -injustice. I have in my mind the mode in which Mr. Browning's poems -were treated in certain quarters twenty years ago. I remember more -than one instance in which critics were permitted, in newspapers which -ought to have known better, to exemplify that charge of needless -obscurity which it was then the fashion to bring against the poet, by -the quotation of mutilated fragments, and even by the introduction -of absurd mistakes into the transcription of the text. Now, in this -case, a few persons were possibly deterred from the further perusal -of a writer who appeared, by these excerpts, to be a lunatic; but I -think far more were roused into vehement sympathy for Mr. Browning by -comparing the quotations with the originals, and so finding out that -the reviewers had lied. - -It rests with the author, not the critic, to destroy his own -reputation. No one, as Bentley said, was ever written down except by -himself, and the public is quite shrewd enough to do a rough sort -of justice to the critic who accuses as well as to the author who is -arraigned. As Dangle observes, "it certainly does hurt an author of -delicate feelings to see the liberties the reviews take" with his -writings; but if he is worth his salt at all, he will comfort himself -by thinking, with Sir Fretful, that "their abuse is, after all, the -best panegyric." To an author who is smarting under a more than common -infliction of this kind of peppering, one consolatory consideration may -be hinted--namely, that not to be spoken about at all is even worse -than being maligned. - -One of the most insidious perils that waylay the modern literary life -is an exaggerated success at the outset of a career. A very remarkable -instance of this has been seen in our time. Thirteen years ago a -satire was published, which, although essentially destructive, and -therefore not truly promising, was set forth with so much novelty -of execution, brightness of wit, and variety of knowledge that the -world was taken by storm. The author of that work was received with -plaudits of the most exaggerated kind, and his second book was looked -forward to with unbounded anticipation. It came, and though fresh and -witty, it had less distinction, less vitality than the first. Book -after book has marked ever a further step in steady decline, and now -that once flattered and belaureled writer's name is one no more to -conjure with. This, surely, is a pathetic fate. I can imagine no form -of failure so desperately depressing as that which comes disguised in -excessive juvenile success. In literature, at least as much as in other -professions, the race is not to the swift, although the battle must -eventually be to the strong. There is a blossoming, like that of forced -annuals, which pays for its fulness and richness by a plague of early -sterility. - -What the young writer of wholesome ambition should pray for is, not -to flash like a meteor on the astonished world of fashion, but by -solid and admirable writing slowly to win a place which has a firm and -wide basis. There is such a fate as to suffer through life from the -top-heaviness of an initial success. Such a struggle as Thackeray's may -be painful at the time, and may call for the exercise of a great deal -of patience and good temper. It is, nevertheless, a better thing in the -long run to serve a novitiate in Grub Street, than, like Samuel Warren, -to be famous at thirty, and die almost forgotten at seventy. There -is a deadly tendency in the mind which too easily has found others -captivated by his effusions, to fancy that anything is good enough -for the public. A precocious favourite conceives that he has only to -whistle and the world will at any moment come back to him. The soldier -who meets with no resistance throws aside his armour and relaxes his -ambition. He forgets that, as Andrew Marvell says: - - - _The same art that did gain_ - _A power, must it maintain._ - - -Some danger to a partially established reputation is to be met with -from the fickleness of public taste and the easy satiety of readers. -If an imaginative writer has won the attention of the public by a -vigorous and original picture of some unhackneyed scene of life which -is thoroughly familiar to himself, he is apt to find himself on the -horns of a dilemma. If he turns to a new class of subjects, the public -which has already "placed" him as an authority on a particular subject, -will be disappointed; on the other hand, if he sticks to his last, he -runs the chance of fatiguing his readers and of exhausting his own -impressions. For such an author, ultimate success probably lies on the -side of courage. He must reject the temptation to indulge the public -with what he knows it wants, and must boldly force it to like another -and still unrecognised phase of his talent. He ought, however, to make -very sure that he is right, and not his readers, before he insists -upon a change. It is not every one who possesses the versatility of -the first Lord Lytton, and can conquer new worlds under a pseudonym -at the age of fifty. There are plenty of instances of men of letters -who, weary of being praised for what they did well, have tried to -force down the throats of the public what everybody but themselves -could see was ill-done. I remember Hans Christian Andersen, in the -last year of his life, telling me that the books he should really be -remembered by were his dramas and his novels, not the fairy-stories -that everybody persisted in making so much fuss about. He had gone -through life without gaining the least skill in gauging his own -strength or weakness. Andersen, however, was exceptionally uncritical; -and the author who is not blinded by vanity can generally tell, before -he reaches middle life, in what his real power consists. - -Yet, when we sum up the whole question, we have to confess that we -know very little about the causes which lead to the distribution of -public praise. The wind of fame bloweth where it listeth, and we -hear the sound of it without knowing whence it cometh. This, however, -appears to be certain, that, except in the case of those rare authors -of exceptionally sublime genius who conquer attention by their force -of originality, a great deal more than mere cleverness in writing is -needful to make a reputation. Sagacity in selection, tact in dealing -with other people, suppleness of character, rapidity in appreciation, -and adroitness in action--all these are qualities which go to the -formation of a broad literary reputation. In these days an author must -be wide awake, and he must take a vast deal of trouble. The age is gone -by when he could sit against the wall and let the gooseberries fall -into his mouth. The increased pressure of competition tells upon the -literary career as much as upon any other branch of professional life, -and the author who wishes to continue to succeed must keep his loins -girded. - -_1889._ - - - - -THE LIMITS OF REALISM IN FICTION - - - - -The Limits of Realism in Fiction - - -In the last new Parisian farce, by M. Sarcey's clever young son-in-law, -there is a conscientious painter of the realistic school who is -preparing for the Salon a very serious and abstruse production. The -young lady of his heart says, at length: "It's rather a melancholy -subject; I wonder you don't paint a sportsman, crossing a rustic -bridge, and meeting a pretty girl." This is the climax, and the artist -breaks off his relations with Young Lady No. 1. Toward the end of the -play, while he is still at work on his picture, Young Lady No. 2 says: -"If I were you, I should take another subject. Now, for instance, why -don't you paint a pretty girl, crossing a rustic bridge, and met by a -sportsman?" - -This is really an allegory, whether M. Gandillot intends it or not. -Thus have those charming, fresh, ingenuous, ignorant, and rather -stupid young ladies, the English and American publics, received the -attempts which novelists have made to introduce among them what is -called, outside the Anglo-Saxon world, the experimental novel. The -present writer is no defender of that class of fiction; least of all -is he an exclusive defender of it; but he is tired to death of the -criticism on both sides of the Atlantic, which refuses to see what the -realists are, whither they are tending, and what position they are -beginning to hold in the general evolution of imaginative literature. -He is no great lover of what they produce, and most certainly does not -delight in their excesses; but when they are advised to give up their -studies and paint pretty girls on rustic bridges, he is almost stung -into partisanship. The present essay will have no interest whatever for -persons who approve of no more stringent investigation into conduct -than Miss Yonge's, and enjoy no action nearer home than Zambeziland; -but to those who have perceived that in almost every country in the -world the novel of manners has been passing through a curious phase, it -may possibly not be uninteresting to be called upon to inquire what the -nature of that phase has been, and still more what is to be the outcome -of it. - -So far as the Anglo-Saxon world is concerned, the experimental or -realistic novel is mainly to be studied in America, Russia, and France. -It exists now in all the countries of the European Continent, but -we know less about its manifestations there. It has had no direct -development in England, except in the clever but imperfect stories of -Mr. George Moore. Ten years ago the realistic novel, or at all events -the naturalist school, out of which it proceeded, was just beginning -to be talked about, and there was still a good deal of perplexity, -outside Paris, as to its scope and as to the meaning of its name. -Russia, still unexplored by the Vicomte de Vogue and his disciples, was -represented to western readers solely by Turgeneff, who was a great -deal too romantic to be a pure naturalist. In America, where now almost -every new writer of merit seems to be a realist, there was but one, Mr. -Henry James, who, in 1877, had inaugurated the experimental novel in -the English language, with his _American_. Mr. Howells, tending more -and more in that direction, was to write on for several years before he -should produce a thoroughly realistic novel. - -Ten years ago, then, the very few people who take an interest in -literary questions were looking with hope or apprehension, as the case -might be, to Paris, and chiefly to the study of M. Zola. It was from -the little villa at Medan that revelation on the subject of the coming -novel was to be awaited; and in the autumn of 1880 the long-expected -message came, in the shape of the grotesque, violent, and narrow, -but extremely able volume of destructive and constructive criticism -called _Le Roman Experimental_. People had complained that they did -not know what M. Zola was driving at; that they could not recognise -a "naturalistic" or "realistic" book when they saw it; that the -"scientific method" in fiction, the "return to nature," "experimental -observation" as the basis of a story, were mere phrases to them, vague -and incomprehensible. The Sage of Medan determined to remove the -objection and explain everything. He put his speaking-trumpet to his -lips, and, disdaining to address the crassness of his countrymen, he -shouted his system of rules and formulas to the Russian public, that -all the world might hear. - -In 1880 he had himself proceeded far. He had published the -Rougon-Macquart series of his novels, as far as _Une Page d'Amour_. -He has added since then six or seven novels to the bulk of his works, -and he has published many forcible and fascinating and many repulsive -pages. But since 1880 he has not altered his method or pushed on to any -further development. He had already displayed his main qualities--his -extraordinary mixture of versatility and monotony, his enduring force, -his plentiful lack of taste, his cynical disdain for the weaknesses -of men, his admirable constructive power, his inability to select the -salient points in a vast mass of observations. He had already shown -himself what I must take the liberty of saying that he appears to me -to be--one of the leading men of genius in the second half of the -nineteenth century, one of the strongest novelists of the world; and -that in spite of faults so serious and so eradicable that they would -have hopelessly wrecked a writer a little less overwhelming in strength -and resource. - -Zola seems to me to be the Vulcan among our later gods, afflicted -with moral lameness from his birth, and coming to us sooty and brutal -from the forge, yet as indisputably divine as any Mercury-Hawthorne -or Apollo-Thackeray of the best of them. It is to Zola, and to Zola -only, that the concentration of the scattered tendencies of naturalism -is due. It is owing to him that the threads of Flaubert and Daudet, -Dostoiefsky and Tolstoi, Howells and Henry James can be drawn into -anything like a single system. It is Zola who discovered a common -measure for all these talents, and a formula wide enough and yet close -enough to distinguish them from the outside world and bind them to one -another. It is his doing that for ten years the experimental novel has -flowed in a definite channel, and has not spread itself abroad in a -thousand whimsical directions. - -To a serious critic, then, who is not a partisan, but who sees how -large a body of carefully composed fiction the naturalistic school -has produced, it is of great importance to know what is the formula -of M. Zola. He has defined it, one would think, clearly enough, but -to see it intelligently repeated is rare indeed. It starts from the -negation of fancy--not of imagination, as that word is used by the -best Anglo-Saxon critics, but of fancy--the romantic and rhetorical -elements that novelists have so largely used to embroider the home-spun -fabric of experience with. It starts with the exclusion of all that -is called "ideal," all that is not firmly based on the actual life of -human beings, all, in short, that is grotesque, unreal, nebulous, or -didactic. I do not understand Zola to condemn the romantic writers of -the past; I do not think he has spoken of Dumas _pere_ or of George -Sand as Mr. Howells has allowed himself to speak of Dickens. He has a -phrase of contempt--richly deserved, it appears to me--for the childish -evolution of Victor Hugo's plots, and in particular of that of _Notre -Dame de Paris_; but, on the whole, his aim is rather to determine the -outlines of a new school than to attack the recognised masters of the -past. If it be not so, it should be so; there is room in the Temple of -Fame for all good writers, and it does not blast the laurels of Walter -Scott that we are deeply moved by Dostoiefsky. - -With Zola's theory of what the naturalistic novel should be, it seems -impossible at first sight to quarrel. It is to be contemporary; it is -to be founded on and limited by actual experience; it is to reject -all empirical modes of awakening sympathy and interest; its aim is to -place before its readers living beings, acting the comedy of life as -naturally as possible. It is to trust to principles of action and to -reject formulas of character; to cultivate the personal expression; -to be analytical rather than lyrical; to paint men as they are, not -as you think they should be. There is no harm in all this. There is -not a word here that does not apply to the chiefs of one of the two -great parallel schools of English fiction. It is hard to conceive of -a novelist whose work is more experimental than Richardson. Fielding -is personal and analytical above all things. If France counts George -Sand among its romanticists, we can point to a realist who is greater -than she, in Jane Austen. There is not a word to be found in M. Zola's -definitions of the experimental novel that is not fulfilled in the -pages of _Emma_; which is equivalent to saying that the most advanced -realism may be practised by the most innocent as well as the most -captivating of novelists. Miss Austen did not observe over a wide -area, but within the circle of her experience she disguised nothing, -neglected nothing, glossed over nothing. She is the perfection of the -realistic ideal, and there ought to be a statue of her in the vestibule -of the forthcoming Academie des Goncourts. Unfortunately, the lives of -her later brethren have not been so sequestered as hers, and they, too, -have thought it their duty to neglect nothing and to disguise nothing. - -It is not necessary to repeat here the rougher charges which have been -brought against the naturalist school in France--charges which in -mitigated form have assailed their brethren in Russia and America. On -a carefully reasoned page in the copy of M. Zola's essay _Du Roman_ -which lies before me, one of those idiots who write in public books has -scribbled the remark, "They see nothing in life but filth and crime." -This ignoble wielder of the pencil but repeats what more ambitious -critics have been saying in solemn terms for the last fifteen years. -Even as regards Zola himself, as the author of the delicate comedy -of _La Conquete de Plassans_, and the moving tragedy of _Une Page -d'Amour_, this charge is utterly false, and in respect of the other -leaders it is simply preposterous. None the less, there are sides -upon which the naturalistic novelists are open to serious criticism -in practice. It is with no intention of underrating their eminent -qualities that I suggest certain points at which, as it appears to me, -their armour is conspicuously weak. There are limits to realism, and -they seem to have been readily discovered by the realists themselves. -These weak points are to be seen in the jointed harness of the -strongest book that the school has yet produced in any country, _Le -Crime et le Chatiment_. - -When the ideas of Zola were first warmly taken up, about ten years ago, -by the most earnest and sympathetic writers who then were young, the -theory of the experimental novel seemed unassailable, and the range -within which it could be worked to advantage practically boundless. But -the fallacies of practice remained to be experienced, and looking back -upon what has been written by the leaders themselves, the places where -the theory has broken down are patent. It may not be uninteresting to -take up the leading dogmas of the naturalistic school, and to see what -elements of failure, or, rather, what limitations to success, they -contained. The outlook is very different in 1890 from what it was in -1880; and a vast number of exceedingly clever writers have laboured -to no avail, if we are not able at the latter date to gain a wider -perspective than could be obtained at the earlier one. - -Ten years ago, most ardent and generous young authors, outside the -frontiers of indifferent Albion, were fired with enthusiasm at the -results to be achieved by naturalism in fiction. It was to be the -Revealer and the Avenger. It was to display society as it is, and to -wipe out all the hypocrisies of convention. It was to proceed from -strength to strength. It was to place all imagination upon a scientific -basis, and to open boundless vistas to sincere and courageous young -novelists. We have seen with what ardent hope and confidence its -principles were accepted by Mr. Howells. We have seen all the Latin -races, in their coarser way, embrace and magnify the system. We -have seen Zola, like a heavy father in high comedy, bless a budding -generation of novel-writers, and prophesy that they will all proceed -further than he along the road of truth and experiment. Yet the -naturalistic school is really less advanced, less thorough, than it was -ten years ago. Why is this? - -It is doubtless because the strain and stress of production have -brought to light those weak places in the formula which were -not dreamed of. The first principle of the school was the exact -reproduction of life. But life is wide, and it is elusive. All that -the finest observer can do is to make a portrait of one corner of it. -By the confession of the master-spirit himself, this portrait is not -to be a photograph. It must be inspired by imagination, but sustained -and confined by the experience of reality. It does not appear at first -sight as though it should be difficult to attain this, but in point -of fact it is found almost impossible to approach this species of -perfection. The result of building up a long work on this principle -is, I hardly know why, to produce the effect of a reflection in a -convex mirror. The more accurately experimental some parts of the -picture are, the more will the want of balance and proportion in other -parts be felt. I will take at random two examples. No better work in -the naturalistic direction has been done than is to be found in the -beginning of M. Zola's _La Joie de Vivre_, or in the early part of -the middle of Mr. James's _Bostonians_. The life in the melancholy -Norman house upon the cliff, the life among the uncouth fanatic -philanthropists in the American city, these are given with a reality, -a brightness, a personal note which have an electrical effect upon the -reader. But the remainder of each of these remarkable books, built -up as they are with infinite toil by two of the most accomplished -architects of fiction now living, leaves on the mind a sense of a -strained reflection, of images blurred or malformed by a convexity of -the mirror. As I have said, it is difficult to account for this, which -is a feature of blight on almost every specimen of the experimental -novel; but perhaps it can in a measure be accounted for by the inherent -disproportion which exists between the small flat surface of a book -and the vast arch of life which it undertakes to mirror, those studies -being least liable to distortion which reflect the smallest section of -life, and those in which ambitious masters endeavour to make us feel -the mighty movements of populous cities and vast bodies of men being -the most inevitably misshapen. - -Another leading principle of the naturalists is the disinterested -attitude of the narrator. He who tells the story must not act the part -of Chorus, must not praise or blame, must have no favourites; in short, -must not be a moralist but an anatomist. This excellent and theoretical -law has been a snare in practice. The nations of continental Europe are -not bound down by conventional laws to the same extent as we English -are. The Anglo-Saxon race is now the only one that has not been touched -by that pessimism of which the writings of Schopenhauer are the most -prominent and popular exponent. This fact is too often overlooked when -we scornfully ask why the foreign nations allow themselves so great a -latitude in the discussion of moral subjects. It is partly, no doubt, -because of our beautiful Protestant institutions; because we go to -Sunday-schools and take a lively interest in the souls of other people; -because, in short, we are all so virtuous and godly, that our novels -are so prim and decent. But it is also partly because our hereditary -dulness in perceiving delicate ethical distinctions has given the -Anglo-Saxon race a tendency to slur over the dissonances between man -and nature. This tendency does not exist among the Latin races, who run -to the opposite extreme and exaggerate these discords. The consequence -has been that they have, almost without exception, being betrayed by -the disinterested attitude into a contemplation of crime and frailty -(notoriously more interesting than innocence and virtue) which has -given bystanders excuse for saying that these novelists are lovers -of that which is evil. In the same way they have been tempted by the -Rembrandtesque shadows of pain, dirt, and obloquy to overdash their -canvases with the subfusc hues of sentiment. In a word, in trying to -draw life evenly and draw it whole, they have introduced such a brutal -want of tone as to render the portrait a caricature. The American -realists, who were guarded by fashion from the Scylla of brutality, -have not wholly escaped, on their side and for the same reason, the -Charybdis of insipidity. - -It would take us too far, and would require a constant reference to -individual books, to trace the weaknesses of the realistic school of -our own day. Human sentiment has revenged itself upon them for their -rigid regulations and scientific formulas, by betraying them into -faults the possibility of which they had not anticipated. But above -all other causes of their limited and temporary influence, the most -powerful has been the material character which their rules forced upon -them, and their excess of positivism and precision. In eliminating the -grotesque and the rhetorical they drove out more than they wished to -lose; they pushed away with their scientific pitchfork the fantastic -and intellectual elements. How utterly fatal this was may be seen, not -in the leaders, who have preserved something of the reflected colour -of the old romance, but in those earnest disciples who have pushed the -theory to its extremity. In their sombre, grimy, and dreary studies in -pathology, clinical bulletins of a soul dying of atrophy, we may see -what the limits of realism are, and how impossible it is that human -readers should much longer go on enjoying this sort of literary aliment. - -If I have dwelt upon these limitations, however, it has not been to -cast a stone at the naturalistic school. It has been rather with the -object of clearing away some critical misconceptions about the future -development of it. Anglo-Saxon criticism of the perambulating species -might, perhaps, be persuaded to consider the realists with calmer -judgment, if it looked upon them, not as a monstrous canker that was -slowly spreading its mortal influence over the whole of literature, -which it would presently overwhelm and destroy, but as a natural and -timely growth, taking its due place in the succession of products, and -bound, like other growths, to bud and blossom and decline. I venture -to put forth the view that the novel of experiment has had its day; -that it has been made the vehicle of some of the loftiest minds of our -age; that it has produced a huge body of fiction, none of it perfect, -perhaps, much of it bad, but much of it, also, exceedingly intelligent, -vivid, sincere, and durable; and that it is now declining, to leave -behind it a great memory, the prestige of persecution, and a library of -books which every highly educated man in the future will be obliged to -be familiar with. - -It would be difficult, I think, for any one but a realistic novelist -to overrate the good that realism in fiction has done. It has cleared -the air of a thousand follies, has pricked a whole fleet of oratorical -bubbles. Whatever comes next, we cannot return, in serious novels, to -the inanities and impossibilities of the old "well-made" plot, to the -children changed at nurse, to the madonna heroine and the god-like -hero, to the impossible virtues and melodramatic vices. In future, -even those who sneer at realism and misrepresent it most wilfully, -will be obliged to put in their effects in ways more in accord with -veritable experience. The public has eaten of the apple of knowledge, -and will not be satisfied with mere marionettes. There will still be -novel-writers who address the gallery, and who will keep up the gaudy -old convention and the clumsy _Family Herald_ evolution, but they will -no longer be distinguished people of genius. They will no longer sign -themselves George Sand and Charles Dickens. - -In the meantime, wherever I look I see the novel ripe for another -reaction. The old leaders will not change. It is not to be expected -that they will write otherwise than in the mode which has grown mature -with them. But in France, among the younger men, every one is escaping -from the realistic formula. The two young athletes for whom M. Zola -predicted ten years ago an "experimental" career more profoundly -scientific than his own, are realists no longer. M. Guy de Maupassant -has become a psychologist, and M. Huysmans a mystic. M. Bourget, who -set all the ladies dancing after his ingenious, musky books, never -has been a realist; nor has Pierre Loti, in whom, with a fascinating -freshness, the old exiled romanticism comes back with a laugh and a -song. All points to a reaction in France; and in Russia, too, if what -we hear is true, the next step will be one toward the mystical and -the introspective. In America it would be rash for a foreigner to say -what signs of change are evident. The time has hardly come when we -look to America for the symptoms of literary initiative. But it is my -conviction that the limits of realism have been reached; that no great -writer who has not already adapted the experimental system will do so; -and that we ought now to be on the outlook to welcome (and, of course, -to persecute) a school of novelists with a totally new aim, part of -whose formula must unquestionably be a concession to the human instinct -for mystery and beauty. - -_1890._ - - - - -IS VERSE IN DANGER? - - - - -Is Verse in Danger? - - -We are passing through a period obviously unfavourable to the -development of the art of poetry. A little while ago there was an -outburst of popular appreciation of living verse, but this is now -replaced, for the moment, by an almost ostentatious indifference. These -alternations of curiosity and disdain deceive no one who looks at the -history of literature with an eye which is at all philosophical. It is -easy to say, as is commonly said, that they depend on the merit of the -poetry which is being produced. But this is not always, or even often, -the case. About twenty years ago a ferment of interest and enthusiasm -was called forth, all over the English-speaking world, by the early -writings of Mr. Swinburne and by those of the late Mr. Rossetti. This -was deserved by the merit of those productions; but the disdain which, -twenty years earlier, the verse of Mr. Robert Browning and Mr. Matthew -Arnold had met with, cannot be so accounted for. It is wiser to admit -that sons never look at life with their fathers' eyes, and that taste -is subject to incessant and almost regular fluctuations. At the present -moment, though men should sing with the voice of angels, the barbarian -public would not listen, and a new Milton would probably be less warmly -welcomed in 1890 than a Pomfret was two centuries ago or a Bowles was -in 1790. Literary history shows that a demand for poetry does not -always lead to a supply, and that a supply does not always command a -market. He who doubts this fact may compare the success of Herrick with -that of Erasmus Darwin. - -The only reason for preluding a speculation on the future of the art -of poetry with these remarks, is to clear the ground of any arguments -based on the merely momentary condition of things. The eagerness or -coldness of the public, the fertility or exhaustion of the poets, -at this particular juncture, are elements of no real importance. If -poetry is to continue to be one of the living arts of humanity, it -does not matter an iota whether poetry is looked upon with contempt by -the members of a single generation. If poetry is declining, and, as a -matter of fact, is now moribund, the immense vogue of Tennyson at a -slightly earlier period will take its place among the insignificant -phenomena of a momentary reaction. The problem is a more serious -one. It is this: Is poetry, in its very essence, an archaic and -rudimentary form of expression, still galvanised into motion, indeed, -by antiquarianism, but really obsolete and therefore to be cultivated -only at the risk of affectation and insincerity; or is it an art -capable of incessant renovation--a living organism which grows, on the -whole, with the expansion of modern life? In other words, is the art of -verse one which, like music or painting, delights and consoles us with -a species of expression which can never be superseded, because it is -in danger of no direct rivalry from a similar species; or was poetry -merely the undeveloped, though in itself the extremely beautiful, -infancy of a type which is now adult, and which has relinquished its -charming puerilities for a mode of expression infinitely wider and of -more practical utility? Sculptors, singers, painters must always exist; -but need we have poets any longer, since the world has discovered how -to say all it wants to say in prose? Will any one who has anything -of importance to communicate be likely in the future to express it -through the medium of metrical language? - -These questions are not to be dismissed with a smile. A large number of -thoughtful persons at the present time are, undoubtedly, disposed to -answer them in the affirmative, although a certain decency forbids them -openly to say so. Plenty of clever people secretly regard the Muse as -a distinguished old lady, of good family, who has been a beauty and a -wit in her day, but who really rules only by sufferance in these years -of her decline. They whisper that she is sinking into second childhood, -that she repeats herself when she converses, and that she has exchanged -her early liberal tastes for a love of what is puerile, ingenious, and -"finikin." A great Parisian critic has just told us that each poet is -read only by the other poets, and he gives as the reason that the art -of verse has become so refined and so elaborate that it passes over -the heads of the multitude. But may it not be that this refinement is -only a decrepitude--the amusement of an old age that has sunk to the -playing of more and more helplessly ingenious games of patience? That -is what those hint who, more insidious by far than the open enemies of -literature, suggest that poetry has had its reign, its fascinating and -imperial tyranny, and that it must now make way for the democracy of -prose. - -Probably there would have been no need to face this question, either -in this generation or for many generations to come, if it had not -been for a single circumstance. The great enemies of the poets of -the present are the poets of the past, and the antiquarian spirit of -the nineteenth century has made the cessation of the publication of -fresh verse a possibility. The intellectual condition of our times -differs from that of all preceding ages in no other point so much as -in its attitude toward the writings of the dead. In those periods of -renovation which have refreshed the literatures of the world, the -tendency has always been to study some one class of deceased writers -with affection. In English history, we have seen the romantic poets of -Italy, the dramatists of Spain, the Latin satirists, and the German -ballad-mongers, exercise, at successive moments, a vivid influence on -English writers. But this study was mainly limited to those writers -themselves, and did not extend to the circle of their readers; while -even with the writers it never absorbed at a single moment the whole -range of poetry. We may take one instance. Pope was the disciple of -Horace and of the French Jesuits, of Dryden and of the conceit-creating -school of Donne. But he was able to use Boileau and Crashaw so freely -because he addressed a public that had never met with the first and had -forgotten the second; and when he passed outside this narrow circle -he was practically without a rival. To the class whom he addressed, -Shakespeare and Milton were phantoms, Chaucer and Spenser not so much -as names. The only doubt was whether Alexander Pope was man enough to -arrest attention by the intrinsic merits of his poetry. If his verse -was admitted to be good, his public were not distracted by a preference -for other verse which they had known for a longer time. - -This remained true until about a generation ago. The great romantic -poets of the beginning of this century found the didactic and -rhetorical verse-writers of the eighteenth century in possession of the -field, but they found no one else there. Their action was of the nature -of a revolt--a revolution so successful that it became constitutional. -All that Wordsworth and Keats had to do was to prove their immediate -predecessors to be unworthy of public attention, and when once they -had persuaded the reading world that what they had to offer was more -pleasing than what Young and Churchill and Darwin had offered, the -revolution was complete. But, in order to draw attention to the merits -of the proposed change, the romantic poets of the Georgian age pointed -to the work of the writers of the Elizabethan age, whom they claimed as -their natural predecessors--the old stock cast out at the Restoration -and now reinstated. The public had entirely forgotten the works of -these writers, except to some extent those of the dramatists, and it -became necessary to reprint them. A whole galaxy of poetic stars was -revealed when the cloud of prejudice was blown away, and a class of -dangerous rivals to the modern poet was introduced. - -The activity of the dead is now paramount, and threatens to paralyse -original writing altogether. The revival of the old poets who were in -direct sympathy with Keats and Wordsworth has extended far beyond the -limits which those who inaugurated it desired to lay down. Every poetic -writer of any age precedent to our own has now a chance of popularity, -often a very much better chance than he possessed during his own -lifetime. Scarcely a poet, from Chaucer downward, remains inedited. -The imitative lyrist who, in a paroxysm of inspiration, wrote one good -sonnet under the sway of James I., but was never recognised as a poet -even by his friends, rejoices now in a portly quarto, and lives for the -first time. The order of nature is reversed, and those who were only -ghosts in the seventeenth century come back to us clothed in literary -vitality. - -In this great throng of resuscitated souls, all of whom have forfeited -their copyright, how is the modern poet to exist? He has no longer to -compete--as "his great forefathers did, from Homer down to Ben"--with -the leading spirits of his own generation, but with the picked genius -of the world. He writes an epic; Mr. Besant and the Society of Authors -oblige him to "retain his rights," to "publish at a royalty," and to -keep the rules of the game. But Milton has no rights and demands no -royalty. The new poet composes lyrics and publishes them in a volume. -They are sincere and ingenious; but why should the reader buy that -volume, when he can get the best of Shelley and Coleridge, of Gray and -Marvell, in a cheaper form in _The Golden Treasury_? At every turn the -thronging company of the ghosts impedes and disheartens the modern -writer, and it is no wonder if the new Orpheus throws down his lyre -in despair when the road to his desire is held by such an invincible -army of spectres. In the golden age of the Renaissance an enthusiast -is said to have offered up a manuscript by Martial every year, as a -burnt sacrifice to Catullus, an author whom he distinctly preferred. -The modern poet, if he were not afraid of popular censure, might make -a yearly holocaust of editions of the British classics, in honour of -the Genius of Poetry. There are many enemies of the art abroad, but -among them all the most powerful and insidious are those of its own -household. The poets of to-day might contrive to fish the murex up, and -to eat turtle, if it were not for the intolerable rivalry of "souls of -poets dead and gone." - -On the whole, however, it is highly unlikely that the antiquarian -passion of our age will last. Already it gives signs of wearing -out, and it will probably be succeeded by a spirit of unreasonable -intolerance of the past. Intellectual invention will not allow itself -to be pinioned for ever by these soft and universal cords of tradition, -each as slight as gossamer in itself, but overwhelming in the immense -mass. As for the old poets, young verse-writers may note with glee -that these rivals of theirs are being caught in the butterfly net of -education, where they will soon find the attractive feathers rubbed -off their wings. One by one they pass into text-books and are lost. -Chaucer is done for, and so is Milton; Goldsmith is annotated, Scott -is prepared for "local examinations," and even Byron, the loose, the -ungrammatical, is edited as a school book. The noble army of extension -lecturers will scarcely pause in their onward march. We shall see -Wordsworth captured, Shelley boiled down for the use of babes, and -Keats elaborately annotated, with his blunders in classical mythology -exposed. The schoolmaster is the only friend the poet of the future -dares to look to, for he alone has the power to destroy the loveliness -and mystery which are the charm of the old poets. Even a second-rate -verse-writer may hope to live by the side of an Elizabethan poet edited -for the Clarendon Press. - -This remedy may, however, be considered fantastic, and it would -scarcely be wise to trust to it. There is, nevertheless, nothing -ironical in the statement that an exaggerated attention paid to -historical work leaves no time and no appetite for what contemporaries -produce. The neglect of poetry is so widespread that if the very small -residuum of love of verse is expended lavishly on the dead, the living -are likely to come off badly indeed. The other arts, which can better -defend themselves, are experiencing the same sense of being starved -by the old masters. The bulk of the public neither buys books nor -invests in pictures, nor orders statuary according to its own taste, -but according to the fashion; and if the craze is antiquarian, we may -produce Raphaels in dozens and Shelleys in shoals; they will have to -subsist as the bears and the pelicans do. - -Let us abandon ourselves, however, to the vain pleasure of prophesying. -Let us suppose, for the humour of it, that what very young gentlemen -call "the might of poesy" is sure to reassert itself, that the votaries -of modern verse will always form a respectable minimum, and that some -alteration in fashion will reduce the tyranny of antiquarianism to -decent proportions. Admit that poetry, in whatever lamentable condition -it may be at the present time, is eternal in its essence, and must -offer the means of expression to certain admirable talents in each -generation. What, then, is the form which we may reasonably expect it -to take next? This is, surely, a harmless kind of speculation, and the -moral certainty of being fooled by the event need not restrain us -from indulging in it. We will prophesy, although fully conscious of -the wild predictions on the same subject current in England in 1580, -1650, and 1780, and in France in 1775 and 1825. We may be quite sure of -one thing, that when the Marlowe or the Andre Chenier is coming, not -a single critic will be expecting him. But in the meantime why show a -front less courageous than that of the history-defying Zadkiel? - -It is usually said, in hasty generalisation, that the poetry of the -present age is unique in the extreme refinement of its exterior -mechanism. Those who say this are not aware that the great poets whose -virile simplicity and robust carelessness of detail they applaud--thus -building tombs to prophets whom they have never worshipped--have, -almost without exception, been scrupulously attentive to form. No -modern writer has been so learned in rhythm as Milton, so faultless -in rhyme-arrangement as Spenser. But what is true is that a care for -form, and a considerable skill in the technical art of verse, have -been acquired by writers of a lower order, and that this sort of -perfection is no longer the hall-mark of a great master. We may expect -it, therefore, to attract less attention in the future; and although, -assuredly, the bastard jargon of Walt Whitman, and kindred returns to -sheer barbarism, will not be accepted, technical perfection will more -and more be taken as a matter of course, as a portion of the poet's -training which shall be as indispensable, and as little worthy of -notice, as that a musician should read his notes correctly. - -Less effort, therefore, is likely to be made, in the immediate -future, to give pleasure by the manner of poetry, and more skill -will be expended on the subject-matter. By this I do not understand -that greater concession will be made than in the past to what may be -called the didactic fallacy, the obstinate belief of some critics in -the function of poetry as a teacher. The fact is certain that nothing -is more obsolete than educational verse, the literary product which -deliberately supplies information. We may see another Sappho; it is -even conceivable that we might see another Homer; but a new Hesiod, -never. Knowledge has grown to be far too complex, exact, and minute to -be impressed upon the memory by the artifice of rhyme; and poetry had -scarcely passed its infancy before it discovered that to stimulate, to -impassion, to amuse, were the proper duties of an art which appeals to -the emotions, and to the emotions only. The curious attempts, then, -which have been made by poets of no mean talent to dedicate their verse -to botany, to the Darwinian hypothesis, to the loves of the fossils, -and to astronomical science, are not likely to be repeated, and if they -should be repeated, they would scarcely attract much popular attention. -Nor is the epic, on a large scale--that noble and cumbersome edifice -with all its blank windows and corridors that lead to nothing--a -species of poetic architecture which the immediate future can be -expected to indulge in. - -Leaving the negative for the positive, then, we may fancy that one -or two probabilities loom before us. Poetry, if it exist at all, -will deal, and probably to a greater degree than ever before, with -those more frail and ephemeral shades of emotion which prose scarcely -ventures to describe. The existence of a delicately organised human -being is diversified by divisions and revulsions of sensation, -ill-defined desires, gleams of intuition, and the whole gamut of -spiritual notes descending from exultation to despair, none of which -have ever been adequately treated except in the hieratic language of -poetry. The most realistic novel, the closest psychological analysis in -prose, does no more than skim the surface of the soul; verse has the -privilege of descending into its depths. In the future, lyrical poetry -will probably grow less trivial and less conventional, at the risk of -being less popular. It will interpret what prose dares not suggest. -It will penetrate further into the complexity of human sensation, -and, untroubled by the necessity of formulating a creed, a theory, or -a story, will describe with delicate accuracy, and under a veil of -artistic beauty, the amazing, the unfamiliar, and even the portentous -phenomena which it encounters. - -The social revolution or evolution which most sensible people are -now convinced is imminent, will surely require a species of poetry -to accompany its course and to celebrate its triumphs. If we could -foresee what form this species will take, we should know all things. -But we must believe that it will be democratic, and that to a -degree at present unimaginable. The aristocratic tradition is still -paramount in all art. Kings, princesses, and the symbols of chivalry -are as essential to poetry, as we now conceive it, as roses, stars, -or nightingales. The poet may be a pronounced socialist; he may be -Mr. William Morris; but the oligarchic imagery pervades his work as -completely as if he were a troubadour of the thirteenth century. It is -difficult to understand what will be left if this romantic phraseology -is destroyed, but it is still more difficult to believe that it can -survive a complete social revolution. - -A kind of poetry now scarcely cultivated at all may be expected to -occupy the attention of the poets, whether socialism hastens or delays. -What the Germans understand by epic verse--that is to say, short and -highly finished studies in narrative--is a class of literature which -offers unlimited opportunities. What may be done in this direction is -indicated in France by the work of M. Coppee. In England and America -we have at present nothing at all like it, the idyllic stories of Mr. -Coventry Patmore presenting the closest parallel. The great danger -which attends the writing of these narratives in English is the -tendency to lose distinction of style, to become humorous in dealing -with the grotesque and tame in describing the simple. Blank verse will -be wholly eschewed by those who in the future sing the annals of the -humble; they will feel that the strictest art and the most exquisite -ornament of rhyme and metre will be required for the treatment of -such narratives. M. Coppee himself, who records the adventures of -seamstresses and engine-drivers, of shipwrecked sailors and retail -grocers, with such simplicity and moving pathos, has not his rival -in all France for purity of phrase and for exquisite propriety of -versification. - -The modern interest in the drama, and the ever-growing desire to -see literature once more wedded to the stage, will, it can hardly -be doubted, lead to a revival of dramatic poetry. This will not, -of course, have any relation to the feeble lycean plays of the -hour--spectacular romances enshrined in ambling blank verse--but will, -in its form and substance alike, offer entertainment to other organs -than the eye. Probably the puritanic limitations which have so long -cramped the English theatre will be removed, and British plays, while -remaining civilised and decent, will once more deal with the realities -of life and not with its conventions. Neither the funeral baked meats -of the romantic English novel, nor the spiced and potted dainties of -the French stage, will satisfy our playgoers when once we have strong -and sincere playwrights of our own. - -In religious verse something, and in philosophical verse much, remains -to be done. The wider hope has scarcely found a singer yet, and the -deeper speculation has been very imperfectly and empirically celebrated -by our poets. Whether love, the very central fountain of poetic -inspiration in the past, can yield many fresh variations, remains to be -seen. That passion will, however, in all probability be treated in the -future less objectively and with a less obtrusive landscape background. -The school which is now expiring has carried description, the -consciousness of exterior forms and colours, the drapery and upholstery -of nature, to its extreme limit. The next development of poetry is -likely to be very bare and direct, unembroidered, perhaps even arid, -in character. It will be experimental rather than descriptive, human -rather than animal. So at least we vaguely conjecture. But whatever -the issue may be, we may be confident that the art will retain that -poignant charm over undeveloped minds, and that exquisite fascination, -which for so many successive generations have made poetry the wisest -and the fairest friend of youth. - -_1891._ - - - - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER - - - - -Tennyson--and After - - -As we filed slowly out of the Abbey on the afternoon of Wednesday, the -12th of October, 1892, there must have occurred to others, I think, -as to myself, a whimsical and half-terrifying sense of the symbolic -contrast between what we had left and what we emerged upon. Inside, -the grey and vitreous atmosphere, the reverberations of music moaning -somewhere out of sight, the bones and monuments of the noble dead, -reverence, antiquity, beauty, rest. Outside, in the raw air, a tribe -of hawkers urging upon the edges of a dense and inquisitive crowd a -large sheet of pictures of the pursuit of a flea by a "lady," and more -insidious salesmen doing a brisk trade in what they falsely pretended -to be "Tennyson's last poem." - -Next day we read in our newspapers affecting accounts of the emotion -displayed by the vast crowds outside the Abbey--horny hands dashing -away the tear, seamstresses holding the "the little green volumes" to -their faces to hide their agitation. Happy for those who could see -these things with their fairy telescopes out of the garrets of Fleet -Street. I, alas!--though I sought assiduously--could mark nothing -of the kind. Entering the Abbey, conducted by courteous policemen -through unparalleled masses of the curious, we distinguished patience, -good behaviour, cheerful and untiring inquisitiveness, a certain -obvious gratitude for an incomprehensible spectacle provided by the -authorities, but nothing else. And leaving the Abbey, as I say, the -impression was one almost sinister in its abrupt transition. Poetry, -authority, the grace and dignity of life, seemed to have been left -behind us for ever in that twilight where Tennyson was sleeping with -Chaucer and with Dryden. - -In recording this impression I desire nothing so little as to appear -censorious. Even the external part of the funeral at Westminster -seemed, as was said of the similar scene which was enacted there nearly -two hundred years ago, "a well-conducted and uncommon public ceremony, -where the philosopher can find nothing to condemn, nor the satirist -to ridicule." But the contrast between the outside and the inside of -the Abbey, a contrast which may possibly have been merely whimsical -in itself, served for a parable of the condition of poetry in England -as the burial of Tennyson has left it. If it be only the outworn body -of this glorious man which we have relinquished to the safeguard of -the Minster, gathered to his peers in the fulness of time, we have no -serious ground for apprehension, nor, after the first painful moment, -even for sorrow. His harvest is ripe, and we hold it in our granaries. -The noble physical presence which has been the revered companion of -three generations has, indeed, sunk at length: - - - _Yet would we not disturb him from his tomb,_ - _Thus sleeping in his Abbey's friendly shade,_ - _And the rough waves of life for ever laid._ - - -But what if this vast and sounding funeral should prove to have -really been the entombment of English poetry? What if it should be -the prestige of verse that we left behind us in the Abbey? That is a -question which has issues far more serious than the death of any one -man, no matter how majestic that man may be. - -Poetry is not a democratic art. We are constantly being told by the -flexible scribes who live to flatter the multitude that the truest -poetry is that which speaks to the million, that moves the great -heart of the masses. In his private consciousness no one knows better -than the lettered man who writes such sentences that they are not -true. Since the pastoral days in which poets made great verses for a -little clan, it has never been true that poetry of the noblest kind -was really appreciated by the masses. If we take the bulk of what are -called educated people, but a very small proportion are genuinely fond -of reading. Sift this minority, and but a minute residue of it will -be found to be sincerely devoted to beautiful poetry. The genuine -lovers of verse are so few that if they could be made the subject of a -statistical report, we should probably be astounded at the smallness of -their number. From the purely democratic point of view it is certain -that they form a negligible quantity. They would produce no general -effect at all if they were not surrounded by a very much larger -number of persons who, without taste for poetry themselves, are yet -traditionally impressed with its value, and treat it with conventional -respect, buying it a little, frequently conversing about it, pressing -to gaze at its famous professors, and competing for places beside the -tombs of its prophets. The respect for poetry felt by these persons, -although in itself unmeaning, is extremely valuable in its results. It -supports the enthusiasm of the few who know and feel for themselves, -and it radiates far and wide into the outer masses, whose darkness -would otherwise be unreached by the very glimmer of these things. - -There is no question, however, that the existence in prominent public -honour of an art in its essence so aristocratic as poetry--that is to -say, so dependent on the suffrages of a few thousand persons who happen -to possess, in greater or lesser degree, certain peculiar qualities -of mind and ear--is, at the present day, anomalous, and therefore -perilous. All this beautiful pinnacled structure of the glory of verse, -this splendid position of poetry at the summit of the civil ornaments -of the Empire, is built of carven ice, and needs nothing but that the -hot popular breath should be turned upon it to sink into so much water. -It is kept standing there, flashing and sparkling before our eyes, by a -succession of happy accidents. To speak rudely, it is kept there by an -effort of bluff on the part of a small influential class. - -In reflecting on these facts, I have found myself depressed and -terrified at an ebullition of popularity which seems to have struck -almost everybody else with extreme satisfaction. It has been very -natural that the stupendous honour apparently done to Tennyson, not -merely by the few who always valued him, but by the many who might be -supposed to stand outside his influence, has been welcomed with delight -and enthusiasm. But what is so sinister a circumstance is the excessive -character of this exhibition. I think of the funeral of Wordsworth at -Grasmere, only forty-two years ago, with a score of persons gathering -quietly under the low wall that fenced them from the brawling Rotha; -and I turn to the spectacle of the 12th, the vast black crowd in the -street, the ten thousand persons refused admission to the Abbey, -the whole enormous popular manifestation.[1] What does it mean? Is -Tennyson, great as he is, a thousand times greater than Wordsworth? Has -poetry, in forty years, risen at this ratio in the public estimation? -The democracy, I fear, doth protest too much, and there is danger in -this hollow reverence. - -The danger takes this form. It may at any moment come to be held -that the poet, were he the greatest that ever lived, was greater -than poetry; the artist more interesting than his art. This was a -peril unknown in ancient times. The plays of Shakespeare and his -contemporaries were scarcely more closely identified with the men -who wrote them than Gothic cathedrals were with their architects. -Cowley was the first English poet about whom much personal interest -was felt outside the poetic class. Dryden is far more evident to us -than the Elizabethans were, yet phantasmal by the side of Pope. Since -the age of Anne an interest in the poet, as distinguished from his -poetry, has steadily increased; the fashion for Byron, the posthumous -curiosity in Shelley and Keats, are examples of the rapid growth of -this individualisation in the present century. But since the death -of Wordsworth it has taken colossal proportions, without, so far as -can be observed, any parallel quickening of the taste for poetry -itself. The result is that a very interesting or picturesque figure, -if identified with poetry, may attract an amount of attention and -admiration which is spurious as regards the poetry, and of no real -significance. Tennyson had grown to be by far the most mysterious, -august, and singular figure in English society. He represented poetry, -and the world now expects its poets to be as picturesque, as aged, and -as individual as he was, or else it will pay poetry no attention. I -fear, to be brief, that the personal, as distinguished from the purely -literary, distinction of Tennyson may strike, for the time being, a -serious blow at the vitality of poetry in this country. - -Circumstances have combined, in a very curious way, to produce this -result. If a supernatural power could be conceived as planning a scenic -effect, it could hardly have arranged it in a manner more telling, or -more calculated to excite the popular imagination, than has been the -case in the quick succession of the death of Matthew Arnold, of Robert -Browning, and of Tennyson. - - - _Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?_ - _Thy shaft few thrice; and thrice our peace was slain._ - - -A great poet was followed by a greater, and he by the greatest of the -century, and all within five years. So died, but not with this crescent -effect, Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Raleigh; so Vanbrugh, Congreve, -Gay, Steele, and Defoe; so Byron, Shelley, and Keats; so Scott, -Coleridge, and Lamb. But in none of these cases was the field left -so exposed as it now is in popular estimation. The deaths of Keats, -Shelley, and Byron were really momentous to an infinitely greater -degree than those of Arnold, Browning, and Tennyson, because the former -were still in the prime of life, while the latter had done their work; -but the general public was not aware of this, and, as is well known, -Shelley and Keats passed away without exciting a ripple of popular -curiosity. - -The tone of criticism since the death of Tennyson has been very much -what might, under the circumstances, have been expected. Their efforts -to overwhelm his coffin with lilies and roses have seemed paltry to -the critics, unless they could succeed, at the same time, in laying -waste all the smaller gardens of his neighbours. There is no doubt -that the instinct for suttee lies firmly embedded in human nature, and -that the glory of a dead rajah is dimly felt by us all to be imperfect -unless some one or other is immolated on his funeral pile. But when -we come to think calmly on this matter, it will be seen that this -offering up of the live poets as a burnt sacrifice to the memory of -their dead master is absurd and grotesque. We have boasted all these -years that we possessed the greatest of the world's poets since Victor -Hugo. We did well to boast. But he is taken from us at a great age, -and we complain at once, with bitter cries--because we have no poet -left so venerable or so perfect in ripeness of the long-drawn years of -craftsmanship--that poetry is dead amongst us, and that all the other -excellent artists in verse are worthless scribblers. This is natural, -perhaps, but it is scarcely generous and not a little ridiculous. It -is, moreover, exactly what the critics said in 1850, when Arnold, -Browning, and Tennyson had already published a great deal of their most -admirable work. - -The ingratitude of the hour towards the surviving poets of England pays -but a poor compliment to the memory of that great man whose fame it -professes to honour. I suppose that there has scarcely been a writer -of interesting verse who has come into anything like prominence within -the lifetime of Tennyson who has not received from him some letter of -praise--some message of benevolent indulgence. More than fifty years -ago he wrote, in glowing terms, to congratulate Mr. Bailey on his -_Festus_; it is only yesterday that we were hearing of his letters to -Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. William Watson. Tennyson did not affect to -be a critic--no man, indeed, can ever have lived who less _affected_ -to be anything--but he loved good verses, and he knew them when he -saw them, and welcomed them indulgently. No one can find it more -distasteful to him to have it asserted that Tennyson was, and will be, -"the last of the English poets" than would Tennyson himself. - -It was not my good fortune to see him many times, and only twice, at an -interval of about twelve years, did I have the privilege of hearing him -talk at length and ease. On each of those occasions, however, it was -noticeable with what warmth and confidence he spoke of the future of -English poetry, with what interest he evidently followed its progress, -and how cordially he appreciated what various younger men were doing. -In particular, I hope it is not indiscreet to refer to the tone in -which he spoke to me on each of these occasions of Mr. Swinburne, -whose critical conscience had, it must not be forgotten, led him to -refer with no slight severity to several of the elder poet's writings. -In 1877 Mr. Swinburne's strictures were still recent, and might not -unreasonably have been painfully recollected. Yet Tennyson spoke of -him almost as Dryden did two hundred years ago to Congreve: - - - _And this I prophesy--thou shalt be seen_ - _(Though with some short parenthesis between)_ - _High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,_ - _Not mine (that's little), but thy laurel wear._ - - -It would never have occurred to this great and wise man that his own -death could be supposed to mark the final burning up and turning to -ashes of the prophetic bays. - -These are considerations, however--to return to my original -parable--for the few within the Abbey. They are of no force in guiding -opinion among the non-poetical masses outside. These, dangerously moved -for the nonce to observe the existence of poetry, may make a great -many painful and undesirable reflections before the subject quits -their memory. There is always a peril in a popular movement that is -not founded on genuine feeling, and the excitement about Tennyson's -death has been far too universal to be sincere. It is even now not too -early for us to perceive, if we will face it calmly, that elements of -a much commoner and emptier nature than reverence for a man of genius -have entered into the stir about the Laureate's burial. The multitude -so stirred into an excited curiosity about a great poet will presently -crave, of course, a little more excitement still over another poet, -and this stimulant will not be forthcoming. We have not, and shall not -have for a generation at least, such another sacrifice to offer to the -monster. It will be in the retreat of the wave, in the sense of popular -disappointment at the non-recurrence of such intellectual shocks as the -deaths of Browning and Tennyson have supplied, that the right of poetry -to take precedence among the arts of writing will for the first time -come to be seriously questioned. Our critics will then, too late, begin -to regret their suttee of the Muses; but if they try to redeem their -position by praising this living poet or that, the public will only too -glibly remind them of their own dictum that "poetry died with Tennyson." - -In old days the reading public swept the literature of its fathers -into the dust-bin, and read Horace while its immediate contemporaries -were preparing works in prose and verse to suit the taste of the -moment. But nowadays each great writer who passes out of physical life -preserves his intellectual existence intact and becomes a lasting -rival to his surviving successor. The young novelist has no living -competitor so dangerous to him as Dickens and Thackeray are, who are -nevertheless divided from him by time almost as far as Milton was from -Pope. It is nearly seventy years since the earliest of Macaulay's -_Essays_ appeared, and the least reference to one of them would now -be recognised by "every schoolboy." Less than seventy years after -the death of Bacon his _Essays_ were so completely forgotten that -when extracts from them were discovered in the common-place book of -a deceased lady of quality, they were supposed to be her own, were -published and praised by people as clever as Congreve, went through -several editions, and were not detected until within the present -century. When an age made a palimpsest of its memory in this way it was -far easier to content it with contemporary literary excellence than it -is now, when every aspirant is confronted with the quintessence of the -centuries. - -It is not, however, from the captious taste of the public that most is -to be feared, but from its indifference. Let it not be believed that, -because a mob of the votaries of Mr. Jerome and Mr. Sims have been -drawn to the precincts of the Abbey to gaze upon a pompous ceremonial, -these admirable citizens have suddenly taken to reading _Lucretius_ -or _The Two Voices_. What their praise is worth no one among us would -venture to say in words so unmeasured as those of the dead Master -himself, who, with a prescience of their mortuary attentions, spoke of -these irreverent admirers as those - - - _Who make it seem more sweet to be_ - _The little life of bank and brier,_ - _The bird who pipes his lone desire_ - _And dies unheard within his tree,_ - - _Than he that warbles long and loud,_ - _And drops at Glory's temple-gates,_ - _For whom the carrion-vulture waits_ - _To tear his heart before the crowd._ - - -If this is more harsh reproof than a mere idle desire to be excited by -a spectacle or by an event demands, it may nevertheless serve us as -an antidote to the vain illusion that these multitudes are suddenly -converted to a love of fine literature. They are not so converted, and -fine literature--however scandalous it may sound in the ears of this -generation to say it--is for the few. - -How long, then, will the many permit themselves to be brow-beaten by -the few? At the present time the oligarchy of taste governs our vast -republic of readers. We tell them to praise the Bishop of Oxford for -his history, and Mr. Walter Pater for his essays, and Mr. Herbert -Spencer for his philosophy, and Mr. George Meredith for his novels. -They obey us, and these are great and illustrious personages about -whom newspaper gossip is continually occupied, whom crowds, when they -have the chance, hurry to gaze at, but whose books (or I am cruelly -misinformed) brave a relatively small circulation. These reputations -are like beautiful churches, into which people turn to cross themselves -with holy water, bow to the altar, and then hurry out again to spend -the rest of the morning in some snug tavern. - -Among these churches of living fame, the noblest, the most exquisite -was that sublime cathedral of song which we called Tennyson; and -there, it is true, drawn by fashion and by a choral service of extreme -beauty, the public had formed the habit of congregating. But at length, -after a final ceremony of incomparable dignity, this minster has been -closed. Where will the people who attended there go now? The other -churches stand around, honoured and empty. Will they now be better -filled? Or will some secularist mayor, of strong purpose and an enemy -to sentiment, order them to be deserted altogether? We may, at any -rate, be quite sure that this remarkable phenomenon of the popularity -of Tennyson, however we regard it, is but transitory and accidental, -or at most personal to himself. That it shows any change in the public -attitude of reserved or grumbling respect to the best literature, and -radical dislike to style, will not be seriously advanced. - -What I dread, what I long have dreaded, is the eruption of a sort -of Commune in literature. At no period could the danger of such an -outbreak of rebellion against tradition be so great as during the -reaction which must follow the death of our most illustrious writer. -Then, if ever, I should expect to see a determined resistance made to -the pretensions of whatever is rare, or delicate, or abstruse. At no -time, I think, ought those who guide taste amongst us to be more on -their guard to preserve a lofty and yet generous standard, to insist on -the merits of what is beautiful and yet unpopular, and to be unaffected -by commercial tests of distinction. We have lived for ten years in a -fool's paradise. Without suspecting the truth, we have been passing -through a period of poetic glory hardly to be paralleled elsewhere -in our history. One by one great luminaries were removed--Rossetti, -Newman, Arnold, Browning sank, each star burning larger as it neared -the horizon. Still we felt no apprehension, saying, as we turned -towards Farringford: - - - "_Mais le pere est la-bas, dans l'ile._" - - -Now he is gone also, and the shock of his extinction strikes us for the -moment with a sense of positive and universal darkness. - -But this very natural impression is a mistaken one. As our eyes grow -accustomed to the absence of this bright particular planet, we shall -be more and more conscious of the illuminating power of the heavenly -bodies that are left. We shall, at least, if criticism directs us -carefully and wholesomely. With all the losses that our literature -has sustained, we are, still, more richly provided with living poets -of distinction than all but the blossoming periods of our history -have been. In this respect we are easily deceived by a glance at some -chart of the course of English literature, where the lines of life of -aged writers overlap those of writers still in their early youth. The -worst pessimist amongst us will not declare that our poetry seems to -be in the utterly and deplorably indigent condition in which the death -of Burns appeared to leave it in 1796. Then the beholder, glancing -round, would see nothing but Crabbe, grown silent for eleven years, -Cowper insane, Blake undeveloped and unrecognised; the pompous, florid -Erasmus Darwin left solitary master of the field. But we, who look at -the chart, see Wordsworth and Coleridge on the point of evolution, -Campbell and Moore at school, Byron and Shelley in the nursery, and -Keats an infant. Who can tell what inheritors of unfulfilled renown may -not now be staining their divine lips with the latest of this season's -blackberries? - -But we are not left to these conjectural consolations. I believe that -I take very safe ground when I say that our living poets present a -variety and amplitude of talent, a fulness of tone, an accomplishment -in art, such as few other generations in England, and still fewer -elsewhere, have been in a position to exult in. It would be invidious, -and it might indeed be very difficult and tedious, to go through the -list of those who do signal honour to our living literature in this -respect. Without repeating the list so patiently drawn up and so -humorously commented upon by Mr. Traill, it would be easy to select -from it fifteen names, not one of which would be below the fair -meridian of original merit, and many of which would rise far above it. -Could so much have been said in 1592, or in 1692, or in 1792? Surely, -no. I must not be led to multiply names, the mere mention of which in -so casual a manner can hardly fail to seem impertinent; yet I venture -to assert that a generation which can boast of Mr. Swinburne and Miss -Christina Rossetti, of Mr. William Morris and Mr. Coventry Patmore, of -Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Robert Bridges, has no reason to complain of -lack of fire or elevation, grace or versatility. - -It was only in Paradise, so we learn from St. Basil, that roses ever -grew without thorns. We cannot have the rose of such an exceptional -life as Tennyson's without suffering for it. We suffer by the void its -cessation produces, the disturbance in our literary hierarchy that -it brings, the sense of uncertainty and insufficiency that follows -upon it. The death of Victor Hugo led to precisely such a rocking and -swaying of the ship of literature in France, and to this day it cannot -be said that the balance there is completely restored. I cannot think -that we gain much by ignoring this disturbance, which is inevitable, -and still less by folding our hands and calling out that it means that -the vessel is sinking. It means nothing of the kind. What it does mean -is that when a man of the very highest rank in the profession lives to -an exceptionally great age, and retains his intellectual gifts to the -end, combining with these unusual advantages the still more fortuitous -ones of being singular and picturesque in his personality and the -object of much ungratified curiosity, he becomes the victim, in the -eyes of his contemporaries, of a sort of vertical mirage. He is seen -up in the sky where no man could be. I trust I shall not be accused of -anything like disrespect to the genius of Tennyson--which I loved and -admired as nearly to the pitch of idolatry as possible--when I say that -his reputation at this moment is largely mirage. His gifts were of the -very highest order; but in the popular esteem, at this moment, he holds -a position which is, to carry on the image, topographically impossible. -No poet, no man, ever reached that altitude above his fellows. - -The result of seeing one mountain in vertical mirage, and various -surrounding acclivities (if that were possible) at their proper -heights, would be to falsify the whole system of optical proportion. -Yet this is what is now happening, and for some little time will -continue to happen _in crescendo_, with regard to Tennyson and his -surviving contemporaries. There is no need, however, to cherish "those -gloomy thoughts led on by spleen" which the melancholy events of the -past month have awakened. The recuperative force of the arts has never -yet failed the human race, and will not fail us now. All the _Tit-Bits_ -and _Pearson's Weeklies_ in the world will not be able to destroy a -fragment of pure and original literature, although the tastes they -foster may delay its recognition and curtail its rewards. - -The duty of all who have any influence on the public is now clear. So -far from resigning the responsibility of praise and blame, so far from -opening the flood-gates to what is bad--on the ground that the best -is gone, and that it does not matter--it behoves those who are our -recognised judges of literary merit to resist more strenuously than -ever the inroads of mere commercial success into the Temple of Fame. -The Scotch ministry preserve that interesting practice of "fencing the -tables" of the Lord by a solemn searching of would-be communicants. Let -the tables of Apollo be fenced, not to the exclusion or the discomfort -of those who have a right to his sacraments, but to the chastening of -those who have no other mark of his service but their passbook. And -poetry, which survived the death of Chaucer, will recover even from the -death of Tennyson. - -_1892._ - -FOOTNOTE: - -[1] See Mr. Hall Caine's interesting article in the _Times_ for October -17th, 1892. - - - - -SHELLEY in 1892 - - - - -Shelley in 1892 - -_Centenary Address delivered at Horsham, August 11, 1892_ - - -We meet to-day to celebrate the fact that, exactly one hundred -years ago, there was born, in an old house in this parish, one of -the greatest of the English poets, one of the most individual and -remarkable of the poets of the world. This beautiful county of Sussex, -with its blowing woodlands and its shining downs, was even then not -unaccustomed to poetic honours. One hundred and thirty years before, -it had given birth to Otway; seventy years before, to Collins. But -charming as these pathetic figures were and are, not Collins and -not Otway can compare for a moment with that writer who is the -main intellectual glory of Sussex, the ever-beloved and ethereally -illustrious Percy Bysshe Shelley. It has appeared to me that you might, -as a Sussex audience, gathered in a Sussex town, like to be reminded, -before we go any further, of the exact connection of our poet with -the county--of the stake, as it is called, which his family held in -Sussex, and of the period of his own residence in it. You will see -that, although his native province lost him early, she had a strong -claim upon his interests and associations. - -When Shelley was born, on the 4th of August, 1792, his grandfather, -afterwards a baronet, Sir Bysshe Shelley, was ensconced at Goring -Castle, while his father, the heir to the title, Mr. Timothy Shelley, -inhabited that famous house, Field Place, which lies here at your -doors. Mr. Timothy Shelley had married a lady from your nearest eastern -neighbour, the town of Cuckfield; he was M.P. for another Sussex -borough, Shoreham; in the next Parliament he was to represent, if I am -not mistaken, Horsham itself. The names which meet us in the earliest -pages of the poet's biographies are all Sussex names. It was at Warnham -that he was taught his earliest lessons, and it was in Warnham Pond -that the great tortoise lurked which was the earliest of his visions. -St. Irvine's, in whose woods he loved to wander by moonlight, has -disappeared, but Strode is close to you still, and if St. Leonard's -Forest has shrunken somewhat to the eastward since Shelley walked and -raved in its allies, you still possess it in your neighbourhood. - -Until Shelley was expelled from Oxford, Field Place was his constant -residence out of school and college hours. Nor, although his father at -first forbade him to return, was his connection with Sussex broken even -then. The house of his uncle, Captain Pilfold, was always open to him -at Cuckfield, and when the Duke of Norfolk made his kind suggestion -that the young man should enter Parliament, as a species of moral -sedative, it was to a Sussex borough that he proposed to nominate -him. Shelley's first abortive volume of poems was set up by a Horsham -printer, and it was from Hurstpierpoint that Miss Hitchener, afterwards -known as the "Brown Demon," started on her disastrous expedition into -the lives of the Shelleys. It was not until 1814, on the eve of his -departure for the Continent, that Shelley came to Sussex for the last -time, paying that furtive visit to his mother and sisters, on which, -in order to conceal himself from his father, he buttoned the scarlet -jacket of a guardsman round his attenuated form. - -If I have endeavoured, by thus grouping together all the Sussex names -which are connected with Shelley, to attract your personal and local -sympathy around the career of the poet, it is with no intention to -claim for him a provincial significance. Shelley does not belong to -any one county, however rich and illustrious that county may be; he -belongs to Europe--to the world. The tendency of his poetry and its -peculiar accent were not so much English as European. He might have -been a Frenchman, or an Italian, a Pole, or a Greek, in a way in which -Wordsworth, for instance, or even Byron, could never have been anything -but an Englishman. He passes, as we watch the brief and sparkling -record of his life, from Sussex to the world. One day he is a child, -sailing paper boats among the reeds in Warnham Pond; next day we look, -and see, scarcely the son of worthy Mr. Timothy Shelley of Field Place, -but a spirit without a country, "a planet-crested shape sweeping by -on lightning-braided pinions" to scatter the liquid joy of life over -humanity. - -Into the particulars of this strange life I need not pass. You -know them well. No life so brief as Shelley's has occupied so much -curiosity, and for my part I think that even too minute inquiry has -been made concerning some of its details. The "Harriet problem" leaves -its trail across one petal of this rose; minuter insects, not quite -so slimy, lurk where there should be nothing but colour and odour. -We may well, I think, be content to-day to take the large romance -of Shelley's life, and leave any sordid details to oblivion. He -died before he was quite thirty years of age, and the busy piety of -biographers has peeped into the record of almost every day of the last -ten of those years. What seems to me most wonderful is that a creature -so nervous, so passionate, so ill-disciplined as Shelley was, should -be able to come out of such an unprecedented ordeal with his shining -garments so little specked with mire. Let us, at all events, to-day, -think of the man only as "the peregrine falcon" that his best and -oldest friends describe him. - -We may, at all events, while a grateful England is cherishing Shelley's -memory, and congratulating herself on his majestic legacy of song to -her, reflect almost with amusement on the very different attitude of -public opinion seventy and even fifty years ago. That he should have -been pursued by calumny and prejudice through his brief, misrepresented -life, and even beyond the tomb, can surprise no thinking spirit. It was -not the poet who was attacked; it was the revolutionist, the enemy of -kings and priests, the extravagant and paradoxical humanitarian. It is -not needful, in order to defend Shelley's genius aright, to inveigh -against those who, taught in the prim school of eighteenth-century -poetics, and repelled by political and social peculiarities which they -but dimly understood, poured out their reprobation of his verses. -Even his reviewers, perhaps, were not all of them "beaten hounds" -and "carrion kites"; some, perhaps, were very respectable and rather -narrow-minded English gentlemen, devoted to the poetry of Shenstone. -The newer a thing is, in the true sense, the slower people are to -accept it, and the abuse of the _Quarterly Review_, rightly taken, was -but a token of Shelley's opulent originality. - -To this unintelligent aversion there succeeded in the course of years -an equally blind, although more amiable, admiration. Among a certain -class of minds the reaction set in with absolute violence, and once -more the centre of attention was not the poet and his poetry, but -the faddist and his fads. Shelley was idealised, etherealised, and -canonised. Expressions were used about his conduct and his opinions -which would have been extravagant if employed to describe those of a -virgin-martyr or of the founder of a religion. Vegetarians clustered -around the eater of buns and raisins, revolutionists around the -enemy of kings, social anarchists around the husband of Godwin's -daughter. Worse than all, those to whom the restraints of religion -were hateful, marshalled themselves under the banner of the youth who -had rashly styled himself an atheist, forgetful of the fact that all -his best writings attest that, whatever name he might give himself, -he, more than any other poet of the age, saw God in everything. This -also was a phase, and passed away. The career of Shelley is no longer -a battlefield for fanatics of one sort or the other; if they still -skirmish a little in its obscurer corners, the main tract of it is -not darkened with the smoke from their artillery. It lies, a fair -open country of pure poetry, a province which comes as near to being -fairyland as any that literature provides for us. - -We cannot, however, think of this poet as of a writer of verses in the -void. He is anything but the "idle singer of an empty day." Shelley was -born amid extraordinary circumstances into an extraordinary age. On the -very day, one hundred years ago, when the champagne was being drunk -in the hall of Field Place in honour of the birth of a son and heir -to Mr. Timothy Shelley, the thunder-cloud of revolution was breaking -over Europe. Never before had there been felt within so short a space -of time so general a crash of the political order of things. Here, in -England, we were spectators of the wild and sundering stress, in which -the other kingdoms of Europe were distracted actors. The faces of Burke -and of his friends wore "the expression of men who are going to defend -themselves from murderers," and those murderers are called, during the -infancy of Shelley, by many names, Mamelukes and Suliots, Poles and -Swedes, besides the all-dreaded one of _sansculottes_. In the midst of -this turmoil Shelley was born, and the air of revolution filled his -veins with life. - -In Shelley we see a certain type of revolutionist, born out of due -time, and directed to the bloodless field of literature. The same -week that saw the downfall of La Fayette saw the birth of Shelley, -and we might believe the one to be an incarnation of the hopes of the -other. Each was an aristocrat, born with a passionate ambition to play -a great part in the service of humanity; in neither was there found -that admixture of the earthly which is needful for sustained success -in practical life. Had Shelley taken part in active affairs, his will -and his enthusiasm must have broken, like waves, against the coarser -type of revolutionist, against the Dantons and the Robespierres. Like -La Fayette, Shelley was intoxicated with virtue and glory; he was -chivalrous, inflammable, and sentimental. Happily for us, and for -the world, he was not thrown into a position where these beautiful -qualities could be displayed only to be shattered like a dome of -many-coloured glass. He was the not unfamiliar figure of revolutionary -times, the _grand seigneur_ enamoured of democracy. But he was much -more than this; as Mr. Swinburne said long ago, Shelley "was born a -son and soldier of light, an archangel winged and weaponed for angel's -work." Let us attempt to discover what sort of prophecy it was that he -blew through his golden trumpet. - -It is in the period of youth that Shelley appeals to us most directly, -and exercises his most unquestioned authority over the imagination. In -early life, at the moment more especially when the individuality begins -to assert itself, a young man or a young woman of feeling discovers in -this poet certain qualities which appear to be not merely good, but -the best, not only genuine, but exclusively interesting. At that age -we ask for light, and do not care how it is distributed; for melody, -and do not ask the purpose of the song; for colour, and find no hues -too brilliant to delight the unwearied eye. Shelley satisfies these -cravings of youth. His whole conception of life is bounded only by -its illusions. The brilliancy of the morning dream, the extremities -of radiance and gloom, the most pellucid truth, the most triumphant -virtue, the most sinister guilt and melodramatic infamy, alone contrive -to rivet the attention. All half-lights, all arrangements in grey or -russet, are cast aside with impatience, as unworthy of the emancipated -spirit. Winged youth, in the bright act of sowing its intellectual wild -oats, demands a poet, and Horsham, just one hundred years ago, produced -Shelley to satisfy that natural craving. - -It is not for grey philosophers, or hermits wearing out the evening -of life, to pass a definitive verdict on the poetry of Shelley. It -is easy for critics of this temper to point out weak places in the -radiant panoply, to say that this is incoherent, and that hysterical, -and the other an ethereal fallacy. Sympathy is needful, a recognition -of the point of view, before we can begin to judge Shelley aright. We -must throw ourselves back to what we were at twenty, and recollect -how dazzling, how fresh, how full of colour, and melody, and odour, -this poetry seemed to us--how like a May-day morning in a rich Italian -garden, with a fountain, and with nightingales in the blossoming boughs -of the orange-trees, with the vision of a frosty Apennine beyond the -belt of laurels, and clear auroral sky everywhere above our heads. We -took him for what he seemed, "a pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift," -and we thought to criticise him as little as we thought to judge the -murmur of the forest or the reflections of the moonlight on the lake. -He was exquisite, emancipated, young like ourselves, and yet as wise -as a divinity. We followed him unquestioning, walking in step with his -panthers, as the Bacchantes followed Dionysus out of India, intoxicated -with enthusiasm. - -If our sentiment is no longer so rhapsodical, shall we blame the poet? -Hardly, I think. He has not grown older, it is we who are passing -further and further from that happy eastern morning where the light is -fresh, and the shadows plain and clearly defined. Over all our lives, -over the lives of those of us who may be seeking to be least trammelled -by the commonplace, there creeps ever onward the stealthy tinge of -conventionality, the admixture of the earthly. We cannot honestly -wish it to be otherwise. It is the natural development, which turns -kittens into cats, and blithe-hearted lads into earnest members of -Parliament. If we try to resist this inevitable tendency, we merely -become eccentric, a mockery to others, and a trouble to ourselves. -Let us accept our respectability with becoming airs of gravity; it -is another thing to deny that youth was sweet. When I see an elderly -professor proving that the genius of Shelley has been overrated, I -cannot restrain a melancholy smile. What would he, what would I, give -for that exquisite ardour, by the light of which all other poetry than -Shelley's seemed dim? You recollect our poet's curious phrase, that to -go to him for common sense was like going to a gin-palace for mutton -chops. The speech was a rash one, and has done him harm. But it is -true enough that those who are conscious of the grossness of life, and -are over-materialised, must go to him for the elixir and ether which -emancipate the senses. - -If I am right in thinking that you will all be with me in considering -this beautiful passion of youth, this recapturing of the illusions, -as the most notable of the gifts of Shelley's poetry to us, you will -also, I think, agree with me in placing only second to it the witchery -which enables this writer, more than any other, to seize the most -tumultuous and agitating of the emotions, and present them to us -coloured by the analogy of natural beauty. Whether it be the petulance -of a solitary human being, to whom the little downy owl is a friend, -or the sorrows and desires of Prometheus, on whom the primal elements -attend as slaves, Shelley is able to mould his verse to the expression -of feeling, and to harmonise natural phenomena to the magnitude or the -delicacy of his theme. No other poet has so wide a grasp as he in this -respect, no one sweeps so broadly the full diapason of man in nature. -Laying hold of the general life of the universe with a boldness that is -unparalleled, he is equal to the most sensitive of the naturalists in -his exact observation of tender and humble forms. - -And to the ardour of fiery youth and the imaginative sympathy of -pantheism, he adds what we might hardly expect from so rapt and -tempestuous a singer, the artist's self-restraint. Shelley is none -of those of whom we are sometimes told in these days, whose mission -is too serious to be transmitted with the arts of language, who are -too much occupied with the substance to care about the form. All that -is best in his exquisite collection of verse cries out against this -wretched heresy. With all his modernity, his revolutionary instinct, -his disdain of the unessential, his poetry is of the highest and most -classic technical perfection. No one, among the moderns, has gone -further than he in the just attention to poetic form, and there is so -severe a precision in his most vibrating choruses that we are taken -by them into the company, not of the Ossians and the Walt Whitmans, -not of those who feel, yet cannot control their feelings, but of those -impeccable masters of style, - - - _who dwelt by the azure sea_ - _Of serene and golden Italy,_ - _Or Greece the mother of the free._ - - -And now, most inadequately and tamely, yet, I trust, with some sense of -the greatness of my theme, I have endeavoured to recall to your minds -certain of the cardinal qualities which animated the divine poet whom -we celebrate to-day. I have no taste for those arrangements of our -great writers which assign to them rank like schoolboys in a class, and -I cannot venture to suggest that Shelley stands above or below this -or that brother immortal. But of this I am quite sure, that when the -slender roll is called of those singers, who make the poetry of England -second only to that of Greece (if even of Greece), however few are -named, Shelley must be among them. To-day, under the auspices of the -greatest poet our language has produced since Shelley died, encouraged -by universal public opinion and by dignitaries of all the professions, -yes, even by prelates of our national church, we are gathered here as a -sign that the period of prejudice is over, that England is in sympathy -at last with her beautiful wayward child, understands his great -language, and is reconciled to his harmonious ministry. A century has -gone by, and once more we acknowledge the truth of his own words: - - - _The splendours of the firmament of time_ - _May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;_ - _Like stars to their appointed height they climb._ - - - - -SYMBOLISM AND M. STEPHANE MALLARME - - - - -Symbolism and M. Stephane Mallarme - - -The name which stands at the head of this essay is that of a writer -who is at the present time more talked about, more ferociously -attacked, more passionately beloved and defended, and at the same -time less understood, than perhaps any other man of his intellectual -rank in Europe. Even in the ferocious world of Parisian letters his -purity of motive and dignity of attitude are respected. Benevolent to -those younger than himself, exquisitely courteous and considerate in -controversy, a master of that suavity and reserve the value of which -literary persons so rarely appreciate, M. Mallarme, to one who from a -distance gazes with curiosity into the Parisian hurly-burly, appeals -first by the beautiful amenity of his manners--a dreamy Sir Launcelot -riding through a forest of dragons to help the dolorous lady of Poesy -from pain. In the incessant pamphlet-wars of his party, others seem to -strike for themselves, M. Mallarme always for the cause; and when the -battle is over, and the rest meet to carouse round a camp-fire, he is -always found stealing back to the ivory tower of contemplation. Before -we know the rights of the case, or have read a line of his verses, we -are predisposed towards a figure so pure and so distinguished. - -But though the personality of M. Mallarme is so attractive, and though -he marches at the head of a very noisy rabble, exceedingly little -seems to be clearly known about him in this country. Until now, he has -published in such a rare and cryptic manner, that not half a dozen of -any one of his books can have reached England. Two or three abstruse -essays in prose, published in the _National Observer_, have lately -amazed the Philistines. Not thus did Mr. Lillyvick understand that -the French language was to be imparted to Morleena Kenwigs. Charming -stories float about concerning Scotch mammas who subscribed to the -_National Observer_ for the use of their girls, and discovered that -the articles were written in Moldo-Wallachian. M. Mallarme's theories -have been ridiculed and travestied, his style parodied, his practice -gravely rebuked; but what that practice and style and theories are, -has scarcely been understood. M. Mallarme has been wrapped up in -the general fog which enfolds our British notions of symbolists and -impressionists. If the school has had a single friend in England, it -has been Mr. Arthur Symons, one of the most brilliant of our younger -poets; and even he has been interested, I think, more in M. Verlaine -than in the Symbolists and Decadents proper. - -It was in 1886 that the Decadents first began to be talked about. Then -it was that Arthur Rimbaud's famous sonnet about the colours of the -vowels flashed into celebrity, and everybody was telling everybody else -that - - - _A's black; E, white; I, blue; O, red; V, yellow;_ - _But purple seeks in vain a vowel-fellow._ - - -Those were the days, already ancient now! of Noel Loumo and Marius -Tapera, when the inexpressible Adore Floupette published _Les -Deliquescences_. Where are the deliquescents of yesteryear? Where -is the once celebrated scene in the "boudoir oblong aux cycloides -bigarrures" which enlivened _Le The chez Miranda_ of M. Jean Moreas? -These added to the gaiety of nations, and have been forgotten; brief -life was here their portion. Fresh oddities come forward, poets -in shoals and schools, Evolutivo-instrumentists, Cataclysmists, -Trombonists--even while we speak, have they not faded away? But amidst -all this world of phantasmagoria, among these fugitive apparitions -and futile individualities, dancing once across the stereopticon and -seen no more--one figure of a genuine man of letters remains, that of -M. Stephane Mallarme, the solitary name among those of the so-called -Decadents which has hitherto proved its right to serious consideration. - -If the dictionaries are to be trusted, M. Mallarme was born in 1842. -His career seems to have been the most uneventful on record. He has -always been, and I think still is, professor of English at the Lycee -Fontanes in Paris. About twenty years ago he paid a short visit to -London, carrying with him, as I well remember, the vast portfolio of -his translation of Poe's _Raven_, with Manet's singular illustrations. -His life has been spent in a Buddhistic calm, in meditation. He -has scarcely published anything, disliking, so it is said, the -"exhibitionnisme" involved in bringing out a book, the banality of -types and proofs and revises. - -His revolutionary ideas with regard to style were formulated about -1875, when the _Parnasse Contemporain_, edited by the friends -and co-evals of M. Mallarme, rejected his first important poem, -_L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune_, which appeared at length in 1876, as a -quarto pamphlet, illustrated by Manet. In the same year he gave his -earliest example of the new prose in the shape of an essay prefixed to -a beautiful reprint of Beckford's _Vathek_, a volume bound in vellum, -tied with black and crimson silk, and produced in a very small edition. -Ridicule was the only welcome vouchsafed to these two couriers of the -Decadance. Perhaps M. Mallarme was somewhat discouraged, although -absolutely unsubdued. - -He remained long submerged, but with the growth of his school he was -persuaded to reappear. In 1887 one fascicule only of his complete poems -was brought out in an extraordinary form, photolithographed from the -original manuscript. In 1888 followed a translation of the poems of -Edgar Poe. But until 1893 the general reader has had no opportunity, -even in France, of forming an opinion on the prose or verse of M. -Mallarme. Meanwhile, his name has become one of the most notorious in -contemporary literature. A thousand eccentricities, a thousand acts of -revolt against tradition, have been perpetrated under the banner of -his tacit encouragement. It is high time to try and understand what M. -Mallarme's teaching really is, and what his practice. - -To ridicule the Decadents, or to insist upon their extravagance, is -so easy as to be unworthy of a serious critic. It would be quite -simple for some crusty Christopher to show that the poems of master -and scholars alike are monstrous, unintelligible, ludicrously inept, -and preposterous. M. Mallarme has had hard words, not merely from the -old classical critics such as M. Brunetiere, but from men from whom -the extremity of sympathy might have been looked. Life-long friends -like M. Leconte de Lisle confess that they understood him once, but, -alas! understand him no longer; or, like M. Francois Coppee, avoid all -discussion of his verses, and obstinately confine themselves to "son -esprit eleve, sa vie si pure, si belle." When such men as these profess -themselves unable to comprehend a writer of their own age and language, -it seems presumptuous for a foreigner to attempt to do so, nor do I -pretend that in the formal and minute sense I am able to comprehend -the poems of M. Mallarme. He remains, under the most loving scrutiny, -a most difficult writer. But, at all events, I think that sympathy -and study may avail to enable the critic to detect the spirit which -inspires this strange and cryptic figure. Study and sympathy I have -given, and I offer some results of them, not without diffidence. - -Translated into common language, then, the main design of M. Mallarme -and his friends seems to be to refresh the languid current of French -style. They hold--and in this view no English critic can dare to join -issue with them--that art is not a stable nor a definite thing, and -that success for the future must lie along paths not exactly traversed -in the immediate past. They are tired of the official versification -of France, and they dream of new effects which all the handbooks tell -them are impossible to French prosody. They make infinite experiments, -they feel their way; and I have nothing to reproach them with except -their undue haste (but M. Mallarme has not been hasty) in publishing -their "tentatives." Their aims are those of our own Areopagites of -1580, met "for the general surceasing and silence of bold Rymers, and -also of the very best of them too"--"our new famous enterprise for the -exchange of barbarous rymes for artificial verses." We must wish for -the odd productions of these modern Parisian euphuists a better fate -than befell the trimeter iambics of Master Drant and Master Preston. -But the cause of their existence is plain enough. It is the exhaustion, -the enervation of the language, following upon the activities of -Victor Hugo and his contemporaries. It is, morever, a reaction -towards freedom, directly consequent upon the strict and impersonal -versification of the Parnassians. When the official verse has been -burnished and chased to the metallic perfection of M. de Heredia's -sonnets, nothing but to withdraw to the wilderness in sheepskins is -left to would-be poets of the next generation. - -To pass from Symbolism generally to M. Mallarme and his particular -series of theories, he presents himself to us above all as an -individualist. The poets of the last generation were a flock of -singing-birds, trained in a general aviary. They met, as on the marble -pavement of some new Serapeum, to contend in public for the rewards -of polished verse. In contrast with these rivalries and congregations -M. Mallarme has always shown himself solitary and disengaged. As he -has said: "The poet is a man who isolates himself that he may carve -the sculptures of his own tomb." He refuses to obey that hierarchical -tradition of which Victor Hugo was the most formidable pontiff. He -finds the alexandrine, as employed in the intractable prosody of -modern France, a rigid and puerile instrument, from which melodies can -nowadays no more be extracted. So far as I comprehend the position, M. -Mallarme does not propose, as do some of his disciples, to reject this -noble verse-form altogether, and to slide into a sort of rhymed Walt -Whitmanism. I cannot trace in his published poems a single instance -of such a determination. But it is plain that he takes the twelve -syllables of the line as forming, not six notes, but twelve, and he -demands permission to form with these twelve as many combinations as -he pleases. Melody, to be gained at any sacrifice of the old Jesuit -laws, is what he desiderates: harmony of versification, obtained in new -ways, by extracting the latent capabilities of the organ until now too -conventionally employed. - -So much, very briefly, for the prosodical innovation. For the language -he demands an equal refreshment, by the rejection of the old worn -phrases in favour of odd, exotic, and archaic terms. He takes up -and adopts literally the idea of Theophile Gautier that words are -precious stones, and should be so set as to flash and radiate from -the page. More individually characteristic of M. Mallarme I find a -certain preference for enigma. Language, to him, is given to conceal -definite thought, to draw the eye away from the object. The Parnassians -defined, described, analysed the object until it stood before us as in -a coloured photograph. M. Mallarme avoids this as much as possible. -He aims at allusion only; he wraps a mystery around his simplest -utterance; the abstruse and the symbolic are his peculiar territory. -His aim, or I greatly misunderstand him, is to use words in such -harmonious combinations as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition which is not mentioned in the text, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition. To the -conscious aiming at this particular effect are, it appears to me, due -the more curious characteristics of his style, and much of the utter -bewilderment which it produces on the brain of an indolent reader -debauched by the facilities of realism. - -The longest and the most celebrated of the poems of M. Mallarme is -_L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune_. It appears in the "florilege" which he has -just published, and I have now read it again, as I have often read it -before. To say that I understand it bit by bit, phrase by phrase, -would be excessive. But if I am asked whether this famous miracle of -unintelligibility gives me pleasure, I answer, cordially, Yes. I even -fancy that I obtain from it as definite and as solid an impression as -M. Mallarme desires to produce. This is what I read in it: A faun--a -simple, sensuous, passionate being--wakens in the forest at daybreak -and tries to recall his experience of the previous afternoon. Was he -the fortunate recipient of an actual visit from nymphs, white and -golden goddesses, divinely tender and indulgent? Or is the memory he -seems to retain nothing but the shadow of a vision, no more substantial -than the "arid rain" of notes from his own flute? He cannot tell. Yet -surely there was, surely there is, an animal whiteness among the brown -reeds of the lake that shines out yonder? Were they, are they, swans? -No! But Naiads plunging? Perhaps! - -Vaguer and vaguer grows the impression of this delicious experience. -He would resign his woodland godship to retain it. A garden of lilies, -golden-headed, white-stalked, behind the trellis of red roses? Ah! the -effort is too great for his poor brain. Perhaps if he selects one lily -from the garth of lilies, one benign and beneficent yielder of her cup -to thirsty lips, the memory, the ever-receding memory, may be forced -back. So, when he has glutted upon a bunch of grapes, he is wont to -toss the empty skins into the air and blow them out in a visionary -greediness. But no, the delicious hour grows vaguer; experience or -dream, he will now never know which it was. The sun is warm, the -grasses yielding; and he curls himself up again, after worshipping the -efficacious star of wine, that he may pursue the dubious ecstasy into -the more hopeful boskages of sleep. - -This, then, is what I read in the so excessively obscure and -unintelligible _L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune_; and, accompanied as it is -with a perfect suavity of language and melody of rhythm, I know not -what more a poem of eight pages could be expected to give. It supplies -a simple and direct impression of physical beauty, of harmony, of -colour; it is exceedingly mellifluous, when once the ear understands -that the poet, instead of being the slave of the alexandrine, weaves -his variations round it like a musical composer. Unfortunately, -_L'Apres-Midi_ was written fifteen years ago, and his theories have -grown upon M. Mallarme as his have on Mr. George Meredith. In the -new collection of _Vers et Prose_ I miss some pieces which I used -to admire--in particular, surely, _Placet_, and the delightful poem -called _Le Guignon_. Perhaps these were too lucid for the worshippers. -In return, we have certain allegories which are terribly abstruse, -and some subfusc sonnets. I have read the following, called _Le -Tombeau d'Edgard Poe_, over and over and over. I am very stupid, but -I cannot tell what it _says_. In a certain vague and vitreous way I -think I perceive what it _means_; and we are aided now by its being -punctuated, which was not the case in the original form in which I met -with it. But, "O my Brothers, ye the Workers," is it not still a little -difficult? - - - _Tel qu'en Lui-meme enfin l'eternite le change,_ - _Le Poete suscite avec un glaive nu_ - _Son siecle epouvante de n'avoir pas connu_ - _Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix etrange!_ - _Eux, comme un vil sursaut d'hydre oyant jadis l'ange_ - _Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu_ - _Proclamerent tres haut le sortilege bu_ - _Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir melange._ - _Du sol et de la nue hostiles, o grief!_ - _Si notre idee avec ne sculpte un bas-relief_ - _Dont la tombe de Poe eblouissante s'orne_ - _Calme bloc ici-bas chu d'un desastre obscur_ - _Que ce granit du moins montre a jamais sa borne_ - _Aux noirs vols du Blaspheme epars dans le futur._ - - -Of the prose of M. Mallarme, I can here speak but briefly. He has -not published very much of it; and it is all polished and cadenced -like his verse, with strange transposed adjectives and exotic nouns -fantastically employed. It is even more distinctly to be seen in his -prose than in his verse that he descends directly from Baudelaire, and -in the former that streak of Lamartine that marks his poems is lacking. - -The book called _Pages_ can naturally be compared with the _Poemes -en Prose_ of Baudelaire. Several of the sketches so named are -now reprinted in _Vers et Prose_, and they strike me as the most -distinguished and satisfactory of the published writings of M. -Mallarme. They are difficult, but far more intelligible than the -enigmas which he calls his sonnets. _La Pipe_, in which the sight -of an old meerschaum brings up dreams of London and the solitary -lodgings there; _Le Nenuphar Blanc_, recording the vision of a lovely -lady, visible for one tantalising moment to a rower in his boat; -_Frisson d'Hiver_, the wholly fantastic and nebulous reverie of -archaic elegances evoked by the ticking of a clock of Dresden china; -each of these, and several more of these exquisite _Pages_, give -just that impression of mystery and allusion which the author deems -that style should give. They are exquisite--so far as they go--pure, -distinguished, ingenious; and the fantastic oddity of their vocabulary -seems in perfect accord with their general character. - -Here is a fragment of _La Penultieme_, on which the reader may try his -skill in comprehending the New French: - -"Mais ou s'installe l'irrecusable intervention du surnaturel, et le -commencement de l'angoisse sous laquelle agonise mon esprit naguere -seigneur, c'est quand je vis, levant les yeux, dans la rue des -antiquaires instinctivement suivie, que j'etais devant la boutique d'un -luthier vendeur de vieux instruments pendus au mur, et, a terre, des -palmes jaunes et les ailes enfouies en l'ombre, d'oiseaux anciens. Je -m'enfuis, bizarre, personne condamnee a porter probablement le deuil de -l'inexplicable Penultieme." - -As a translator, all the world must commend M. Mallarme. He has put -the poems of Poe into French in a way which is subtle almost without -parallel. Each version is in simple prose, but so full, so reserved, -so suavely mellifluous, that the metre and the rhymes continue to sing -in an English ear. None could enter more tenderly than he into the -strange charm of _Ulalume_, of _The Sleeper_, or of _The Raven_. It is -rarely indeed that a word suggests that the melody of one, who was a -symbolist and a weaver of enigmas like himself, has momentarily evaded -the translator. - -M. Mallarme, who understands English so perfectly, has perhaps seen the -poems of Sydney Dobell. He knows, it is possible, that thirty or forty -years ago there was an English poet who cultivated the symbol, who -deliquesced the language, as he himself does in French. Sydney Dobell -wrote lovely, unintelligible things, that broke, every now and then, -into rhapsodies of veritable beauty. But his whole system was violent. -He became an eccentric cometary nebula, whirling away from our poetic -system at a tangent. He whirled away, for all his sincere passion, into -oblivion. This is what one fears for the Symbolists: that being read -with so great an effort by their own generation, they may, by the next, -not be read at all, and what is pure and genuine in their artistic -impulses be lost. Something of M. Mallarme will, however, always be -turned back to with respect and perhaps with enthusiasm, for he is a -true man of letters. - -_1893._ - - - - -TWO PASTELS - - - - -I - -Mr. R. L. Stevenson as a Poet - - -A pretty little anthology might be made of poems by distinguished -writers who never for a moment professed to be poets, and who only -"swept, with hurried hand, the strings" when they thought nobody was -listening. The elegant technical people of the eighteenth century, -who never liked to be too abstruse to seem polite, would contribute -a great many of these flowers that were born to bloom unseen. It is -not everybody who is aware that the majestic Sir William Blackstone -was "guilty," as people put it, of a set of one hundred octosyllabic -verses which would do credit to any laurelled master on Parnassus. We -might, indeed, open our little volume with _The Lawyers Farewell to -his Muse_. Then, of course, there would be Bishop Berkeley's unique -poem, _Westward the Course of Empire takes its Way_; and Oldys, -the antiquary, would spare us his _Busy, curious, thirsty Fly_. We -should appeal to Burton for the prefatory verses in the _Anatomy of -Melancholy_, and to Bacon for _The World's Bubble_. If I had any finger -in that anthology, Smollett's _Ode to Leven Water_ should by no means -be omitted. It would be a false pride that would reject Holcroft's -_Gaffer Gray_, or Sydney Smith's _Receipt for a Salad_, which latter -Herrick might have been glad to sign. Hume's solitary poem should be -printed by itself, or with some of Carlyle's lyrics, and George Eliot's -sonnets, in an appendix, as an awful warning. - -As we come down to recent times the task of editing our anthology would -grow difficult. In our day, the prose writers have either been coy -or copious with their verses. If Professor Tyndall has never essayed -the Lydian measure it is very surprising, but we have not yet been -admitted to hear his shell; nor has Mr. Walter Besant, to the best of -my belief, published an ode to anything. Let the shades of Berkeley and -Smollett administer reproof. Until quite lately, however, we should -have been contented to close our selection with "The bed was made, the -room was fit," from _Travels with a Donkey_. But Mr. Stevenson is now -ineligible--he has published books of poems. - -That this departure is not quite a new one might be surmised by any one -who has followed closely the publications of the essayist and novelist -whom a better man than I am has called "the most exquisite and original -of our day." Though Mr. Stevenson's prose volumes are more than twelve -in number, and though he had been thought of essentially as a prose -writer, the ivory shoulder of the lyre has peeped out now and then. I -do not refer to his early collections of verse, to _Not I, and other -Poems_, to _Moral Emblems_, and to _The Graver and the Pen_. (I mention -these scarce publications of the Davos press in the hope of rousing -wicked passions in the breasts of other collectors, since my own set -of them is complete.) These volumes were decidedly occult. A man might -build upon them a reputation as a sage, but hardly as a poet. Their -stern morality came well from one whose mother's milk has been the -_Shorter Catechism;_ they are books which no one can read and not be -the better for; but as mere verse, they leave something to be desired. -_Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda_, if you happen to be lucky enough -to possess them, _e passa_. Where the careful reader has perceived -that Mr. Stevenson was likely to become openly a poet has been in -snatches of verse published here and there in periodicals, and of a -quality too good to be neglected. Nevertheless, the publication of _A -Child's Garden of Verses_ (Longmans, 1885) was something of a surprise, -and perhaps the new book of grown-up poems, _Underwoods_ (Chatto and -Windus, 1887) is more surprising still. There is no doubt about it any -longer. Mr. Stevenson is a candidate for the bays. - -The _Child's Garden of Verses_ has now been published long enough to -enable us to make a calm consideration of its merits. When it was -fresh, opinion was divided, as it always is about a new strong thing, -between those who, in Mr. Longfellow's phrase about the little girl, -think it very, very good, and those who think it is horrid. After -reading the new book, the _Underwoods_, we come back to _A Child's -Garden_ with a clearer sense of the writer's intention, and a wider -experience of his poetical outlook upon life. The later book helps us -to comprehend the former; there is the same sincerity, the same buoyant -simplicity, the same curiously candid and confidential attitude -of mind. If any one doubted that Mr. Stevenson was putting his own -childish memories into verse in the first book, all doubt must cease in -reading the second book, where the experiences, although those of an -adult, have exactly the same convincing air of candour. The first thing -which struck the reader of _A Child's Garden_ was the extraordinary -clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager -childhood were reproduced in it. People whose own childish memories had -become very vague, and whose recollections of their games and dreams -were hazy in the extreme, asked themselves how far this poet's visions -were inspired by real memory and how far by invention. The new book -sets that question at rest; the same hand that gave us-- - - - _My bed is like a little boat;_ - _Nurse helps me in when I embark;_ - _She girds me in my sailor's coat,_ - _And starts me in the dark;_ - - -and the even more delicious-- - - - _Now, with my little gun, I crawl_ - _All in the dark along the wall,_ - _And follow round the forest-track_ - _Away behind the sofa-back,--_ - - -now gives us pictures like the following: - - - My house, _I say. But hark to the sunny doves,_ - _That make my roof the arena of their loves_, - _That gyre about the gable all day long_ - _And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:_ - Our house, _they say; and_ mine, _the cat declares,_ - _And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;_ - _And_ mine _the dog, and rises stiff with wrath_ - _If any alien foot profane the path._ - _So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces,_ - _Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;_ - _Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode_ - _And his late kingdom, only from the road._ - - -We now perceive that it is not invention, but memory of an -extraordinarily vivid kind, patiently directed to little things, and -charged with imagination; and we turn back with increased interest -to _A Child's Garden_, assured that it gives us a unique thing, a -transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, -but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a -photograph. Long ago, in one of the very earliest, if I remember right, -of those essays by R. L. S. for which we used so eagerly to watch the -_Cornhill Magazine_ in Mr. Leslie Stephen's time, in the paper called -"Child Play," this retention of what is wiped off from the memories of -the rest of us was clearly displayed. Out of this rarely suggestive -essay I will quote a few lines, which might have been printed as an -introduction to _A Child's Garden_: - -"In the child's world of dim sensation, play is all in all. 'Making -believe' is the gist of his whole life, and he cannot so much as take -a walk except in character. I could not learn my alphabet without some -suitable _mise-en-scene_, and had to act a business-man in an office -before I could sit down to my book.... I remember, as though it were -yesterday, the expansion of spirit, the dignity and self-reliance, that -came with a pair of mustachios in burnt cork, even when there was none -to see. Children are even content to forego what we call the realities, -and prefer the shadow to the substance. When they might be speaking -intelligently together, they chatter gibberish by the hour, and are -quite happy because they are making believe to speak French." - -Probably all will admit the truth of this statement of infant fancy, -when it is presented to them in this way. But how many of us, in -perfect sincerity, not relying upon legends of the nursery, not -refreshed by the study of our own children's "make-believe," can -say that we clearly recollect the method of it? We shall find that -our memories are like a breath upon the glass, like the shape of a -broken wave. Nothing is so hopelessly lost, so utterly volatile, as -the fancies of our childhood. But Mr. Stevenson, alone amongst us all, -appears to have kept daguerreotypes of the whole series of his childish -sensations. Except the late Mrs. Ewing, he seems to be without a rival -in this branch of memory as applied to literature. - -The various attitudes of literary persons to the child are very -interesting. There are, for instance, poets like Victor Hugo and Mr. -Swinburne who come to admire, who stay to adore, and who do not disdain -to throw their purple over any humble article of nursery use. They are -so magnificent in their address to infancy, they say so many brilliant -and unexpected things, that the mother is almost as much dazzled as she -is gratified. We stand round, with our hats off, and admire the poet -as much as he admires the child; but we experience no regret when he -presently turns away to a discussion of grown-up things. We have an -ill-defined notion that he reconnoitres infancy from the outside, and -has not taken the pains to reach the secret mind of childhood. It is to -be noted, and this is a suspicious circumstance, that Mr. Swinburne -and Victor Hugo like the child better the younger it is. - - - _What likeness may define, and stray not_ - _From truth's exactest way,_ - _A baby's beauty? Love can say not,_ - _What likeness may._ - - -This is charming; but the address is to the mother, is to the grown-up -reflective person. To the real student of child-life the baby contains -possibilities, but is at present an uninteresting chrysalis. It cannot -carry a gun through the forest, behind the sofa-back; it is hardly so -useful as a cushion to represent a passenger in a railway-train of -inverted chairs. - -Still more remote than the dithyrambic poets are those writers about -children--and they are legion--who have ever the eye fixed upon -morality, and carry the didactic tongue thrust in the cheek of fable. -The late Charles Kingsley, who might have made so perfect a book of -his _Water-Babies_, sins notoriously in this respect. The moment a -wise child perceives the presence of allegory, or moral instruction, -all the charm of a book is gone. Parable is the very antipodes of -childish "make-believe," into which the element of ulterior motive or -secondary moral meaning never enters for an instant. The secret of the -charm of Mrs. Gatty's _Parables from Nature_, which were the fairest -food given to very young minds in my day, was that the fortunate child -never discovered that they were parables at all. I, for one, used to -read and re-read them as realistic statements of fact, the necessity of -pointing a moral merely having driven the amiable author to the making -of her story a little more fantastic, and therefore more welcome, than -it would otherwise be. It was explained to me one hapless day that the -parables were of a nature to instil nice principles into the mind; and -from that moment Mrs. Gatty became a broken idol. Lewis Carroll owed -his great and deserved success to his suppleness in bending his fancy -to the conditions of a mind that is dreaming. It has never seemed to -me that the _Adventures in Wonderland_ were specially childish; dreams -are much the same, whether a child or a man is passive under them, and -it is a fact that Lewis Carroll appeals just as keenly to adults as to -children. In Edward Lear's rhymes and ballads the love of grotesque -nonsense in the grown-up child is mainly appealed to; and these are -certainly appreciated more by parents than by children. - -It would be easy, by multiplying examples, to drive home my contention -that only two out of the very numerous authors who have written -successfully on or for children have shown a clear recollection of -the mind of healthy childhood itself. Many authors have achieved -brilliant success in describing children, in verbally caressing them, -in amusing, in instructing them; but only two, Mrs. Ewing in prose, -and Mr. Stevenson in verse, have sat down with them without disturbing -their fancies, and have looked into the world of "make-believe" with -the children's own eyes. If Victor Hugo should visit the nursery, -every head of hair ought to be brushed, every pinafore be clean, and -nurse must certainly be present, as well as mamma. But Mrs. Ewing or -Mr. Stevenson might lead a long romp in the attic when nurse was out -shopping, and not a child in the house should know that a grown-up -person had been there. There are at least a dozen pieces in the -_Child's Garden_ which might be quoted to show what is meant. "The -Lamplighter" will serve our purpose as well as any other: - - - _My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;_ - _It's time to take the window to see Learie going by;_ - _For every night at tea-time, and before you take your seat,_ - _With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street,_ - - _Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,_ - _And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;_ - _But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,_ - _O Learie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!_ - - _For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,_ - _And Learie stops to light it as he lights so many more;_ - _And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,_ - _O Learie, see a little child, and nod to him to-night._ - - -In publishing this autumn a second volume, this time of grown-up -verses, Mr. Stevenson has ventured on a bolder experiment. His -_Underwoods_, with its title openly borrowed from Ben Jonson, is an -easy book to appreciate and enjoy, but not to review. In many respects -it is plainly the work of the same fancy that described the Country -of Counterpane and the Land of Story-books, but it has grown a little -sadder, and a great deal older. There is the same delicate sincerity, -the same candour and simplicity, the same artless dependence on -the good faith of the public. The ordinary themes of the poets are -untouched; there is not one piece from cover to cover which deals -with the passion of love. The book is occupied with friendship, with -nature, with the honourable instincts of man's moral machinery. Above -all, it enters with great minuteness, and in a very confidential -spirit, into the theories and moods of the writer himself. It will be -to many readers a revelation of the every-day life of an author whose -impersonal writings have given them so much and so varied pleasure. -Not a dozen ordinary interviewers could have extracted so much of the -character of the man himself as he gives us in these one hundred and -twenty pages. - -The question of admitting the personal element into literature is -one which is not very clearly understood. People try to make rules -about it, and say that an author may describe his study, but not his -dining-room, and his wife, but not her cousin. The fact is that no -rules can possibly be laid down in a matter which is one of individual -sympathy. The discussion whether a writer may speak of himself or no -is utterly vain until we are informed in what voice he has the habit -of speaking. It is all a question which depends on the _timbre_ of -the literary voice. As in life there are persons whose sweetness of -utterance is such that we love to have them warbling at our side, no -matter on what subject they speak, and others to whom we have scarcely -patience to listen if they want to tell us that we have inherited a -fortune, so it is in literature. Except that little class of stoic -critics who like to take their books _in vacuo_, most of us prefer to -know something about the authors we read. But whether we like them to -tell it us themselves, or no, depends entirely on the voice. Thackeray -and Fielding are never confidential enough to satisfy us; Dickens and -Smollett set our teeth on edge directly they start upon a career of -confidential expansion; and this has nothing to do with any preference -for _Tom Jones_ over _Peregrine Pickle_. There is no doubt that Mr. -Stevenson is one of those writers the sound of whose personal voices -is pleasing to the public, and there must be hundreds of his admirers -who will not miss one word of "To a Gardener" or "The Mirror Speaks," -and who will puzzle out each of the intimate addresses to his private -friends with complete satisfaction. - -The present writer is one of those who are most under the spell. For -me Mr. Stevenson may speak for ever, and chronicle at full length all -his uncles and his cousins and his nurses. But I think if it were my -privilege to serve him in the capacity of Moliere's old woman, or to be -what a friend of mine would call his "foolometer," I should pluck up -courage to represent to him that this thing can be overdone. I openly -avow myself an enthusiast, yet even I shrink before the confidential -character of the prose inscription to _Underwoods_. This volume is -dedicated, if you please, to eleven physicians, and it is strange that -one so all compact of humour as Mr. Stevenson should not have noticed -how funny it is to think of an author seated affably in an armchair, -simultaneously summoning by name eleven physicians to take a few words -of praise each, and a copy of his little book. - -The objective side of Mr. Stevenson's mind is very rich and full, and -he has no need to retire too obstinately upon the subjective. Yet -I know not that anything he has written in verse is more worthily -dignified than the following little personal fragment, in which he -refers, of course, to the grandfather who died a few weeks before his -birth, and to the father whom he had just conducted to the grave, both -heroic builders of lighthouses: - - - _Say not of me that weakly I declined_ - _The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,_ - _The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,_ - _To play at home with paper like a child._ - _But rather say: In the afternoon of time_ - _A strenuous family dusted from its hands_ - _The sand of granite, and beholding far_ - _Along the sounding coast its pyramids_ - _And tall memorials catch the dying sun,_ - _Smiled well content, and to this childish task_ - _Around the fire addressed its evening hours._ - - -This is a particularly happy specimen of Mr. Stevenson's blank verse, -in which metre, as a rule, he does not show to advantage. It is not -that his verses are ever lame or faulty, for in the technical portion -of the art he seldom fails, but that his rhymeless iambics remind the -ear too much now of Tennyson, now of Keats. He is, on the contrary, -exceedingly happy and very much himself in that metre of eight or seven -syllables, with couplet-rhymes, which served so well the first poets -who broke away from heroic verse, such as Swift and Lady Winchilsea, -Green and Dyer. If he must be affiliated to any school of poets it is -to these, who hold the first outworks between the old classical camp -and the invading army of romance, to whom I should ally him. Martial -is with those octo-syllabists of Queen Anne, and to Martial might well -have been assigned, had they been in old Latin, the delicately homely -lines, "To a Gardener." How felicitous is this quatrain about the -onion-- - - - _Let first the onion flourish there,_ - _Rose among roots, the maiden fair,_ - _Wine-scented and poetic soul_ - _Of the capacious salad-bowl._ - - -Or this, in more irregular measure, and enfolding a loftier fancy-- - - - _Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still,_ - _Sing truer, or no longer sing!_ - _No more the voice of melancholy Jacques_ - _To make a weeping echo in the hill;_ - _But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,_ - _From the green elm a living linnet takes,_ - _One natural verse recapture--then be still._ - - -It would be arrogant in the extreme to decide whether or no Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's poems will be read in the future. They are, however, so -full of character, so redolent of his own fascinating temperament, -that it is not too bold to suppose that so long as his prose is -appreciated those who love that will turn to this. There have been -prose writers whose verse has not lacked accomplishment or merit, but -has been so far from interpreting their prose that it rather disturbed -its effect and weakened its influence. Cowley is an example of this, -whose ingenious and dryly intellectual poetry positively terrifies the -reader away from his eminently suave and human essays. Neither of Mr. -Stevenson's volumes of poetry will thus disturb his prose. Opinions may -be divided as to their positive value, but no one will doubt that the -same characteristics are displayed in the poems, the same suspicion -of "the abhorred pedantic sanhedrim," the same fulness of life and -tenderness of hope, the same bright felicity of epithet as in the -essays and romances. The belief, however, may be expressed without -fear of contradiction that Mr. Stevenson's fame will rest mainly upon -his verse and not upon his prose, only in that dim future when Mr. -Matthew Arnold's prophecy shall be fulfilled and Shelley's letters -shall be preferred to his lyrical poems. It is saying a great deal to -acknowledge that the author of _Kidnapped_ is scarcely less readable in -verse than he is in prose. - -_1887._ - - - - -II - -Mr. Rudyard Kipling's Short Stories - - -Two years ago there was suddenly revealed to us, no one seems to -remember how, a new star out of the East. Not fewer distinguished men -of letters profess to have "discovered" Mr. Kipling than there were -cities of old in which Homer was born. Yet, in fact, the discovery was -not much more creditable to them than it would be, on a summer night, -to contrive to notice a comet flaring across the sky. Not only was this -new talent robust, brilliant, and self-asserting, but its reception -was prepared for by a unique series of circumstances. The fiction of -the Anglo-Saxon world, in its more intellectual provinces, had become -curiously feminised. Those novel-writers who cared to produce subtle -impressions upon their readers, in England and America, had become -extremely refined in taste and discreet in judgment. People who were -not content to pursue the soul of their next-door neighbour through -all the burrows of self-consciousness had no choice but to take ship -with Mr. Rider Haggard for the Mountains of the Moon. Between excess -of psychological analysis and excess of superhuman romance there was -a great void in the world of Anglo-Saxon fiction. It is this void -which Mr. Kipling, with something less than one hundred short stories, -one novel, and a few poems, has filled by his exotic realism and his -vigorous rendering of unhackneyed experience. His temperament is -eminently masculine, and yet his imagination is strictly bound by -existing laws. The Evarras of the novel had said: - - - _Thus gods are made,_ - _And whoso makes them otherwise shall die,_ - - -when, behold, a young man comes up out of India, and makes them quite -otherwise, and lives. - -The vulgar trick, however, of depreciating other writers in order to -exalt the favourite of a moment was never less worthy of practice than -it is in the case of the author of _Soldiers Three_. His relation to -his contemporaries is curiously slight. One living writer there is, -indeed, with whom it is not unnatural to compare him--Pierre Loti. -Each of these men has attracted the attention, and then the almost -exaggerated admiration, of a crowd of readers drawn from every class. -Each has become popular without ceasing to be delightful to the -fastidious. Each is independent of traditional literature, and affects -a disdain for books. Each is a wanderer, a lover of prolonged exile, -more at home among the ancient races of the East than among his own -people. Each describes what he has seen in short sentences, with highly -coloured phrases and local words, little troubled to obey the laws of -style if he can but render an exact impression of what the movement -of physical life has been to himself. Each produces on the reader a -peculiar thrill, a voluptuous and agitating sentiment of intellectual -uneasiness, with the spontaneous art of which he has the secret. -Totally unlike in detail, Rudyard Kipling and Pierre Loti have these -general qualities in common, and if we want a literary parallel to the -former, the latter is certainly the only one that we can find. Nor is -the attitude of the French novelist to his sailor friends at all unlike -that of the Anglo-Indian civilian to his soldier chums. To distinguish -we must note very carefully the difference between Mulvaney and _mon -frere Yves_; it is not altogether to the advantage of the latter. - -The old rhetorical manner of criticism was not meant for the discussion -of such writers as these. The only way in which, as it seems to me, we -can possibly approach them, is by a frank confession of their personal -relation to the feelings of the critic. I will therefore admit that -I cannot pretend to be indifferent to the charm of what Mr. Kipling -writes. From the first moment of my acquaintance with it it has held -me fast. It excites, disturbs, and attracts me; I cannot throw off its -disquieting influence. I admit all that is to be said in its disfavour. -I force myself to see that its occasional cynicism is irritating and -strikes a false note. I acknowledge the broken and jagged style, the -noisy newspaper bustle of the little peremptory sentences, the cheap -irony of the satires on society. Often--but this is chiefly in the -earlier stories--I am aware that there is a good deal too much of the -rattle of the piano at some cafe concert. But when all this is said, -what does it amount to? What but an acknowledgment of the crudity of a -strong and rapidly developing young nature? You cannot expect a creamy -smoothness while the act of vinous fermentation is proceeding. - - - _Wit will shine_ - _Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line;_ - _A noble error, and but seldom made,_ - _When poets are by too much force betray'd;_ - _Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,_ - _Still show a quickness, and maturing time_ - _But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rime._ - - -In the following pages I shall try to explain why the sense of these -shortcomings is altogether buried for me in delighted sympathy -and breathless curiosity. Mr. Kipling does not provoke a critical -suspension of judgment. He is vehement, and sweeps us away with him; -he plays upon a strange and seductive pipe, and we follow him like -children. As I write these sentences, I feel how futile is this attempt -to analyse his gifts, and how greatly I should prefer to throw this -paper to the winds and listen to the magician himself. I want more -and more, like Oliver Twist. I want all those "other stories"; I wish -to wander down all those bypaths that we have seen disappear in the -brushwood. If one lay very still and low by the watch-fire, in the -hollow of Ortheris's greatcoat, one might learn more and more of the -inextinguishable sorrows of Mulvaney. One might be told more of what -happened, out of the moonlight, in the blackness of Amir Nath's Gully. -I want to know how the palanquin came into Dearsley's possession, and -what became of Kheni Singh, and whether the seal-cutter did really -die in the House of Suddhoo. I want to know who it is who dances the -_Halli Hukk_, and how, and why, and where. I want to know what happened -at Jagadhri, when the Death Bull was painted. I want to know all the -things that Mr. Kipling does not like to tell--to see the devils of the -East "rioting as the stallions riot in spring." It is the strength of -this new story-teller that he reawakens in us the primitive emotions -of curiosity, mystery, and romance in action. He is the master of a -new kind of terrible and enchanting peepshow, and we crowd around him -begging for "just one more look." When a writer excites and tantalises -us in this way, it seems a little idle to discuss his style. Let -pedants, then, if they will, say that Mr. Kipling has no style; yet, if -so, how shall we designate such passages as this, frequent enough among -his more exotic stories? - -"Come back with me to the north and be among men once more. Come back -when this matter is accomplished and I call for thee. The bloom of the -peach-orchards is upon all the valley, and _here_ is only dust and a -great stink. There is a pleasant wind among the mulberry-trees, and -the streams are bright with snow-water, and the caravans go up and the -caravans go down, and a hundred fires sparkle in the gut of the pass, -and tent-peg answers hammer-nose, and pony squeals to pony across the -drift-smoke of the evening. It is good in the north now. Come back with -me. Let us return to our own people. Come!" - - -I - -The private life of Mr. Rudyard Kipling is not a matter of public -interest, and I should be very unwilling to exploit it, even if I had -the means of doing so. The youngest of living writers should really be -protected for a few years longer against those who chirp and gabble -about the unessential. All that needs to be known, in order to give him -his due chronological place, is that he was born in Bombay in Christmas -week, 1865. The careful student of what he has published will collect -from it the impression that Mr. Kipling was resident in India at an age -when few European children remain there; that he returned to England -for a brief period; that he began a career on his own account in India -at an unusually early age; that he has led a life of extraordinary -vicissitude, as a journalist, as a war correspondent, as a civilian -in the wake of the army; that an insatiable curiosity has led him to -shrink from no experience that might help to solve the strange riddles -of Oriental existence; and that he is distinguished from other active, -adventurous, and inquisitive persons in that his capacious memory -retains every impression that it captures. - -Beyond this, all that must here be said about the man is that his -stories began to be published--I think about eight years ago--in local -newspapers of India, that his first book of verse, _Departmental -Ditties_, appeared in 1886, while his prose stories were not collected -from a Lahore journal, of which he was the sub-editor, until 1888, when -a volume of _Plain Tales from the Hills_ appeared in Calcutta. In the -same year six successive pamphlets or thin books appeared in an _Indian -Railway Library_, published at Allahabad, under the titles of _Soldiers -Three_, _The Gadsbys_, _In Black and White_, _Under the Deodars_, _The -Phantom 'Rickshaw_, and _Wee Willie Winkle_. These formed the literary -baggage of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, when, in 1889, he came home to find -himself suddenly famous at the age of twenty-three. - -Since his arrival in England Mr. Kipling has not been idle. In 1890 -he brought out a Christmas annual called _The Record of Badalia -Herodsfoot_, and a short novel, _The Light that Failed_. Already in -1891 he has published a fresh collection of tales called (in America) -_Mine Own People_, and a second miscellany of verses. This is by no -means a complete record of his activity, but it includes the names -of all his important writings. At an age when few future novelists -have yet produced anything at all, Mr. Kipling is already voluminous. -It would be absurd not to acknowledge that a danger lies in this -precocious fecundity. It would probably be an excellent thing for every -one concerned if this brilliant youth could be deprived of pens and -ink for a few years and be buried again somewhere in the far East. -There should be a "close time" for authors no less than for seals, and -the extraordinary fulness and richness of Mr. Kipling's work does not -completely reassure us. - -The publications which I have named above have not, as a rule, any -structural cohesion. With the exception of _Badalia Herodsfoot_ and -_The Light that Failed_, which deal with phases of London life, their -contents might be thrown together without much loss of relation. The -general mass so formed could then be redivided into several coherent -sections. It may be remarked that Mr. Kipling's short stories, of -which, as I have said, we hold nearly a hundred, mainly deal with three -or four distinct classes of Indian life. We may roughly distinguish -these as the British soldier in India, the Anglo-Indian, the Native, -and the British child in India. In the following pages, I shall -endeavour to characterise his treatment of these four classes. I retain -the personal impression that it is pre-eminently as a poet that we -shall eventually come to regard him. For the present his short stories -fill the popular mind in connection with his name. - - -II - -There can be no question that the side upon which Mr. Kipling's talent -has most delicately tickled British curiosity, and British patriotism -too, is his revelation of the soldier in India. A great body of our -countrymen are constantly being drafted out to the East on Indian -service. They serve their time, are recalled, and merge in the mass -of our population; their strange temporary isolation between the -civilian and the native, and their practical inability to find public -expression for their feelings, make these men--to whom, though we so -often forget it, we owe the maintenance of our Empire in the East--an -absolutely silent section of the community. Of their officers we may -know something, although _A Conference of the Powers_ may perhaps have -awakened us to the fact that we know very little. Still, people like -Tick Boileau and Captain Mafflin of the Duke of Derry's Pink Hussars -are of ourselves; we meet them before they go out and when they come -back; they marry our sisters and our daughters; and they lay down the -law about India after dinner. Of the private soldier, on the other -hand, of his loves and hates, sorrows and pleasures, of the way in -which the vast, hot, wearisome country and its mysterious inhabitants -strike him, of his attitude towards India, and of the way in which -India treats him, we know, or knew until Mr. Kipling enlightened us, -absolutely nothing. It is not surprising, then, if the novelty of this -portion of his writings has struck ordinary English readers more than -that of any other. - -This section of Mr. Kipling's work occupies the seven tales called -_Soldiers Three_, and a variety of stories scattered through his other -books. In order to make his point of view that of the men themselves, -not spoiled by the presence of superior officers, or by social -restraint of any sort, the author takes upon himself the character of -an almost silent young civilian who has gained the warm friendship of -three soldiers, whose intimate companion and chum he becomes. Most of -the military stories, though not all, are told by one of these three, -or else recount their adventures or caprices. - -Before opening the book called _Soldiers Three_, however, the reader -will do well to make himself familiar with the opening pages of a -comparatively late story, _The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney_, in -which the characteristics of the famous three are more clearly defined -than elsewhere. Mulvaney, the Irish giant, who has been the "grizzled, -tender, and very wise Ulysses" to successive generations of young and -foolish recruits, is a great creation. He is the father of the craft -of arms to his associates; he has served with various regiments from -Bermuda to Halifax; he is "old in war, scarred, reckless, resourceful, -and in his pious hours an unequalled soldier." Learoyd, the second of -these friends, is "six and a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed -Yorkshireman, born on the wolds, bred in the dales, and educated -chiefly among the carriers' carts at the back of York railway-station." -The third is Ortheris, a little man as sharp as a needle, "a -fox-terrier of a cockney," an inveterate poacher and dog-stealer. - -Of these three strongly contrasted types the first and the third live -in Mr. Kipling's pages with absolute reality. I must confess that -Learoyd is to me a little shadowy, and even in a late story, _On -Greenhow Hill_, which has apparently been written in order to emphasise -the outline of the Yorkshireman, I find myself chiefly interested in -the incidental part, the sharp-shooting of Ortheris. It seems as though -Mr. Kipling required, for the artistic balance of his cycle of stories, -a third figure, and had evolved Learoyd while he observed and created -Mulvaney and Ortheris, nor am I sure that places could not be pointed -out where Learoyd, save for the dialect, melts undistinguishably into -an incarnation of Mulvaney. The others are studied from the life, -and by an observer who goes deep below the surface of conduct. How -penetrating the study is, and how clear the diagnosis, may be seen -in one or two stories which lie somewhat outside the popular group. -It is no superficial idler among men who has taken down the strange -notes on military hysteria which inspire _The Madness of Ortheris_ and -_In the Matter of a Private_, while the skill with which the battered -giant Mulvaney, who has been a corporal and then has been reduced for -misconduct, who to the ordinary view and in the eyes of all but the -wisest of his officers is a dissipated blackguard, is made to display -the rapidity, wit, resource, and high moral feeling which he really -possesses, is extraordinary. - -We have hitherto had in English literature no portraits of private -soldiers like these, and yet the soldier is an object of interest -and of very real, if vague and inefficient, admiration to his -fellow-citizens. Mr. Thomas Hardy has painted a few excellent soldiers, -but in a more romantic light and a far more pastoral setting. -Other studies of this kind in fiction have either been slight and -unsubstantial, or else they have been, as in the baby-writings of a -certain novelist who has enjoyed popularity for a moment, odious in -their sentimental unreality. There seems to be something essentially -volatile about the soldier's memory. His life is so monotonous, so -hedged in by routine, that he forgets the details of it as soon as the -restraint is removed, or else he looks back upon it to see it bathed -in a fictitious haze of sentiment. The absence of sentimentality in -Mr. Kipling's version of the soldier's life in India is one of its -great merits. What romance it assumes under his treatment is due to the -curious contrasts it encourages. We see the ignorant and raw English -youth transplanted, at the very moment when his instincts begin to -develop, into a country where he is divided from everything which can -remind him of his home, where by noon and night, in the bazar, in -barracks, in the glowing scrub jungle, in the ferny defiles of the -hills, everything he sees and hears and smells and feels produces on -him an unfamiliar and an unwelcome impression. How he behaves himself -under these new circumstances, what code of laws still binds his -conscience, what are his relaxations and what his observations, these -are the questions which we ask and which Mr. Kipling essays for the -first time to answer. - -Among the short stories which Mr. Kipling has dedicated to the British -soldier in India there are a few which excel all the rest as works of -art. I do not think that any one will deny that of this inner selection -none exceeds in skill or originality _The Taking of Lungtungpen_. Those -who have not read this little masterpiece have yet before them the -pleasure of becoming acquainted with one of the best short stories, -not merely in English, but in any language. I do not know how to -praise adequately the technical merit of this little narrative. It -possesses to the full that masculine buoyancy, that power of sustaining -an extremely spirited narrative in a tone appropriate to the action, -which is one of Mr. Kipling's rare gifts. Its concentration, which -never descends into obscurity, its absolute novelty, its direct and -irresistible appeal to what is young and daring and absurdly splendid, -are unsurpassed. To read it, at all events to admire and enjoy it, is -to recover for a moment a little of that dare-devil quality that lurks -somewhere in the softest and the baldest of us. Only a very young man -could have written it, perhaps, but still more certainly only a young -man of genius. - -A little less interesting, in a totally different way, is _The Daughter -of the Regiment_, with its extraordinarily vivid account of the -breaking-out of cholera in a troop-train. Of _The Madness of Ortheris_ -I have already spoken; as a work of art this again seems to me somewhat -less remarkable, because carried out with less completeness. But it -would be hard to find a parallel, of its own class, to _The Rout of -the White Hussars_, with its study of the effects of what is believed -to be supernatural on a gathering of young fellows who are absolutely -without fear of any phenomenon of which they comprehend the nature. -In a very late story, _The Courting of Dinah Shadd_, Mr. Kipling has -shown that he is able to deal with the humours and matrimonial amours -of Indian barrack-life just as rapidly, fully, and spiritedly as with -the more serious episodes of a soldier's career. The scene between Judy -Sheehy and Dinah, as told by Mulvaney in that story, is pure comedy, -without a touch of farce. - -On the whole, however, the impression left by Mr. Kipling's military -stories is one of melancholy. Tommy Atkins, whom the author knows so -well and sympathises with so truly, is a solitary being in India. In -all these tales I am conscious of the barracks as of an island in a -desolate ocean of sand. All around is the infinite waste of India, -obscure, monotonous, immense, inhabited by black men and pariah dogs, -Pathans and green parrots, kites and crocodiles, and long solitudes -of high grass. The island in this sea is a little collection of young -men, sent out from the remoteness of England to serve "the Widder," -and to help to preserve for her the rich and barbarous empire of the -East. This microcosm of the barracks has its own laws, its own morals, -its own range of emotional sentiment. What these are the new writer -has not told us (for that would be a long story), but shown us that he -himself has divined. He has held the door open for a moment, and has -revealed to us a set of very human creations. One thing, at least, the -biographer of Mulvaney and Ortheris has no difficulty in persuading -us--namely, that "God in his wisdom has made the heart of the British -soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of -a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers -into tight and nasty places." - - -III - -The Anglo-Indians with whom Mr. Kipling deals are of two kinds. I -must confess that there is no section of his work which appears to -me so insignificant as that which deals with Indian "society." The -eight tales which are bound together as _The Story of the Gadsbys_ -are doubtless very early productions. I have been told, but I know -not whether on good authority, that they were published in serial -form before the author was twenty-one. Judged as the observation of -Anglo-Indian life by so young a boy, they are, it is needless to say, -astonishingly clever. Some pages in them can never, I suppose, come -to seem unworthy of his later fame. The conversation in _The Tents of -Kedar_, where Captain Gadsby breaks to Mrs. Herriott that he is engaged -to be married, and absolutely darkens her world to her during "a Naini -Tal dinner for thirty-five," is of consummate adroitness. What a "Naini -Tal dinner" is I have not the slightest conception, but it is evidently -something very sumptuous and public, and if any practised hand of the -old social school could have contrived the thrust and parry under the -fire of seventy critical eyes better than young Mr. Kipling has done, -I know not who that writer is. In quite another way the pathos of the -little bride's delirium in _The Valley of the Shadow_ is of a very -high, almost of the highest, order. - -But, as a rule, Mr. Kipling's "society" Anglo-Indians are not drawn -better than those which other Indian novelists have created for our -diversion. There is a sameness in the type of devouring female, and -though Mr. Kipling devises several names for it, and would fain -persuade us that Mrs. Herriott, and Mrs. Reiver, and Mrs. Hauksbee -possess subtle differences which distinguish them, yet I confess I am -not persuaded. They all--and the Venus Annodomini as well--appear to -me to be the same high-coloured, rather ill-bred, not wholly spoiled -professional coquette. Mr. Kipling seems to be too impatient of what -he calls "the shiny toy-scum stuff people call civilisation" to paint -these ladies very carefully. _The Phantom 'Rickshaw_, in which a -hideously selfish man is made to tell the story of his own cruelty -and of his mechanical remorse, is indeed highly original, but here it -is the man, not the woman, in whom we are interested. The proposal of -marriage in the dust-storm in _False Dawn_, a theatrical, lurid scene, -though scarcely natural, is highly effective. The archery contest in -_Cupid's Arrows_ needs only to be compared with a similar scene in -_Daniel Deronda_ to show how much more closely Mr. Kipling keeps his -eye on detail than George Eliot did. But these things are rare in this -class of his stories, and too often the Anglo-Indian social episodes -are choppy, unconvincing, and not very refined. - -All is changed when the central figure is a man. Mr. Kipling's -officials and civilians are admirably vivid and of an amazing variety. -If any one wishes to know why this new author has been received -with joy and thankfulness by the Anglo-Saxon world, it is really not -necessary for him to go further for a reason than to the moral tale of -_The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin_. Let the author of that tract -speak for himself: - -"Every man is entitled to his own religious opinions; but no man--least -of all a junior--has a right to thrust these down other men's throats. -The Government sends out weird civilians now and again; but McGoggin -was the queerest exported for a long time. He was clever--brilliantly -clever--but his cleverness worked the wrong way. Instead of keeping -to the study of the vernaculars, he had read some books written by a -man called Comte, I think, and a man called Spencer, and a Professor -Clifford. [You will find these books in the Library.] They deal with -people's insides from the point of view of men who have no stomachs. -There was no order against his reading them, but his mamma should have -smacked him.... I do not say a word against this creed. It was made -up in town, where there is nothing but machinery and asphalte and -building--all shut in by the fog.... But in this country [India], where -you really see humanity--raw, brown, naked humanity--with nothing -between it and the blazing sky, and only the used-up, over-handled -earth underfoot, the notion somehow dies away, and most folk come back -to simpler theories." - -Those who will not come back to simpler theories are prigs, for whom -the machine-made notion is higher than experience. Now Mr. Kipling, in -his warm way, hates many things, but he hates the prig for preference. -Aurelian McGoggin, better known as the Blastoderm, is a prig of the -over-educated type, and upon him falls the awful calamity of sudden -and complete nerve-collapse. Lieutenant Golightly, in the story which -bears his name, is a prig who values himself for spotless attire and -clockwork precision of manner; he therefore is mauled and muddied up -to his eyes, and then arrested under painfully derogatory conditions. -In _Lispeth_ we get the missionary prig, who thinks that the Indian -instincts can be effaced by a veneer of Christianity. Mr. Kipling hates -"the sheltered life." The men he likes are those who have been thrown -out of their depth at an early age, and taught to swim off a boat. The -very remarkable story of _Thrown Away_ shows the effect of preparing -for India by a life "unspotted from the world" in England; it is as -hopelessly tragic as any in Mr. Kipling's somewhat grim repertory. - -Against the _regime_ of the prig Mr. Kipling sets the _regime_ of -Strickland. Over and over again he introduces this mysterious figure, -always with a phrase of extreme approval. Strickland is in the police, -and his power consists in his determination to know the East as the -natives know it. He can pass through the whole of Upper India, dressed -as a fakir, without attracting the least attention. Sometimes, as in -_Beyond the Pale_, he may know too much. But this is an exception, -and personal to himself. Mr. Kipling's conviction is that this is -the sort of man to pervade India for us, and that one Strickland is -worth a thousand self-conceited civilians. But even below the Indian -prig, because he has at least known India, is the final object of Mr. -Kipling's loathing, "Pagett, M.P.," the radical English politician who -comes out for four months to set everybody right. His chastisement -is always severe and often comic. But in one very valuable paper, -which Mr. Kipling must not be permitted to leave unreprinted, _The -Enlightenment of Pagett, M.P._, he has dealt elaborately and quite -seriously with this noxious creature. Whether Mr. Kipling is right or -wrong, far be it from me in my ignorance to pretend to know. But his -way of putting these things is persuasive. - -Since Mr. Kipling has come back from India he has written about society -"of sorts" in England. Is there not perhaps in him something of Pagett, -M.P., turned inside out? As a delineator of English life, at all -events, he is not yet thoroughly master of his craft. Everything he -writes has vigour and picturesqueness. But _The Lamentable Comedy of -Willow Wood_ is the sort of thing that any extremely brilliant Burman, -whose English, if slightly odd, was nevertheless unimpeachable, might -write of English ladies and gentlemen, having never been in England. -_The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot_ was in every way better, more truly -observed, more credible, more artistic, but yet a little too cynical -and brutal to come straight from life. And last of all there is the -novel of _The Light that Failed_, with its much-discussed two endings, -its oases of admirable detail in a desert of the undesirable, with its -extremely disagreeable woman, and its far more brutal and detestable -man, presented to us, the precious pair of them, as typical specimens -of English society. I confess that it is _The Light that Failed_ that -has wakened me to the fact that there are limits to this dazzling new -talent, the _eclat_ of which had almost lifted us off our critical feet. - - -IV - -The conception of Strickland would be very tantalising and incomplete -if we were not permitted to profit from his wisdom and experience. But, -happily, Mr. Kipling is perfectly willing to take us below the surface, -and to show us glimpses of the secret life of India. In so doing he -puts forth his powers to their fullest extent, and I think it cannot be -doubted that the tales which deal with native manners are not merely -the most curious and interesting which Mr. Kipling has written, but -are also the most fortunately constructed. Every one who has thought -over this writer's mode of execution will have been struck with the -skill with which his best work is restrained within certain limits. -When inspiration flags with him, indeed, his stories may grow too long, -or fail, as if from languor, before they reach their culmination. But -his best short stories--and among his best we include the majority of -his native Indian tales--are cast at once, as if in a mould; nothing -can be detached from them without injury. In this consists his great -technical advantage over almost all his English rivals; we must look to -France or to America for stories fashioned in this way. In several of -his tales of Indian manners this skill reaches its highest because most -complicated expression. It may be comparatively easy to hold within -artistic bonds a gentle episode of European amorosity. To deal, in -the same form, but with infinitely greater audacity, with the muffled -passions and mysterious instincts of India, to slur over nothing, to -emphasise nothing, to give in some twenty pages the very spicy odour of -the East, this is marvellous. - -Not less than this Mr. Kipling has done in a little group of stories -which I cannot but hold to be the culminating point of his genius so -far. If the remainder of his writings were swept away, posterity would -be able to reconstruct its Rudyard Kipling from _Without Benefit of -Clergy_, _The Man who Would be King_, _The Strange Ride of Morrowbie -Jukes_, and _Beyond the Pale_. More than that, if all other record of -Indian habits had been destroyed, much might be conjectured from these -of the pathos, the splendour, the cruelty, and the mystery of India. -From _The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows_ more is to be gleaned of the -real action of opium-smoking, and the causes of that indulgence, than -from many sapient debates in the British House of Commons. We come very -close to the confines of the moonlight-coloured world of magic in _The -Bisara of Pooree_. For pure horror and for the hopeless impenetrability -of the native conscience there is _The Recrudescence of Imray_. In a -revel of colour and shadow, at the close of the audacious and Lucianic -story of _The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney_, we peep for a moment -into the mystery of "a big queen's praying at Benares." - -Admirable, too, are the stories which deal with the results of attempts -made to melt the Asiatic and the European into one. The red-headed -Irish-Thibetan who makes the king's life a burden to him in the -fantastic story of _Namgay Doola_ represents one extremity of this -chain of grotesque Eurasians; Michele D'Cruze, the wretched little -black police inspector, with a drop of white blood in his body, who -wakes up to energetic action at one supreme moment of his life, is at -the other. The relapse of the converted Indian is a favourite theme -with this cynical observer of human nature. It is depicted in _The -Judgment of Dungara_, with a rattling humour worthy of Lever, where the -whole mission, clad in white garments woven of the scorpion nettle, go -mad with fire and plunge into the river, while the trumpet of the god -bellows triumphantly from the hills. In _Lispeth_ we have a study--much -less skilfully worked out, however--of the Indian woman carefully -Christianised from childhood reverting at once to heathenism when her -passions reach maturity. - -The lover of good literature, however, is likely to come back to -the four stories which we named first in this section. They are the -very flower of Mr. Kipling's work up to the present moment, and on -these we base our highest expectations for his future. _Without -Benefit of Clergy_ is a study of the Indian woman as wife and mother, -uncovenanted wife of the English civilian and mother of his son. The -tremulous passion of Ameera, her hopes, her fears, and her agonies of -disappointment, combine to form by far the most tender page which Mr. -Kipling has written. For pure beauty the scene where Holden, Ameera, -and the baby count the stars on the housetop for Tota's horoscope is -so characteristic that, although it is too long to quote in full, its -opening paragraph must here be given as a specimen of Mr. Kipling's -style in this class of work: - -"Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that led to the flat roof. The -child, placid and unwinking, lay in the hollow of her right arm, -gorgeous in silver-fringed muslin, with a small skull-cap on his head. -Ameera wore all that she valued most. The diamond nose-stud that takes -the place of the Western patch in drawing attention to the curve of -the nostril, the gold ornament in the centre of the forehead studded -with tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the heavy circlet of -beaten gold that was fastened round her neck by the softness of the -pure metal, and the clinking curb-patterned silver anklets hanging low -over the rosy ankle-bone. She was dressed in jade-green muslin, as -befitted a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to elbow and elbow -to wrist ran bracelets of silver tied with floss silk; frail glass -bangles slipped over the wrist in proof of the slenderness of the hand, -and certain heavy gold bracelets that had no part in her country's -ornaments, but, since they were Holden's gift, and fastened with a -cunning European snap, delighted her immensely. - -"They sat down by the low white parapet of the roof, overlooking the -city and its lights." - -What tragedy was in store for the gentle astrologer, or in what -darkness of waters the story ends, it is needless to repeat here. - -In _The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes_ a civil engineer stumbles by -chance on a ghastly city of the dead who do not die, trapped into it, -down walls of shifting sand, on the same principle as the ant-lion -secures its prey, the parallel being so close that one half suspects -Mr. Kipling of having invented a human analogy to the myrmeleon. The -abominable settlement of living dead men is so vividly described, -and the wonders of it are so calmly, and, as it were, so temperately -discussed, that no one who possesses the happy gift of believing can -fail to be persuaded of the truth of the tale. The character of Gunga -Dass, a Deccanee Brahmin whom Jukes finds in this reeking village, -and who, reduced to the bare elements of life, preserves a little, -though exceedingly little, of his old traditional obsequiousness, is an -admirable study. But all such considerations are lost, as we read the -story first, in the overwhelming and Poe-like horror of the situation -and the extreme novelty of the conception. - -A still higher place, however, I am inclined to claim for the daring -invention of _The Man who would be King_. This is a longer story than -is usual with Mr. Kipling, and it depends for its effect, not upon -any epigrammatic surprise or extravagant denouement of the intrigue, -but on an imaginative effort brilliantly sustained through a detailed -succession of events. Two ignorant and disreputable Englishmen, exiles -from social life, determine to have done with the sordid struggle, and -to close with a try for nothing less than empire. They are seen by -the journalist who narrates the story to disappear northward from the -Kumharsan Serai disguised as a mad priest and his servant starting to -sell whirligigs to the Ameer of Kabul. Two years later there stumbles -into the newspaper office a human creature bent into a circle, and -moving his feet one over the other like a bear. This is the surviving -adventurer, who, half dead and half dazed, is roused by doses of raw -whisky into a condition which permits him to unravel the squalid and -splendid chronicle of adventures beyond the utmost rim of mountains, -adventures on the veritable throne of Kafiristan. The tale is recounted -with great skill as from the lips of a dying king. At first, to give -the needful impression of his faint, bewildered state, he mixes up -his narrative, whimpers, forgets, and repeats his phrases; but by -the time the curiosity of the reader is fully arrested, the tale has -become limpid and straightforward enough. When it has to be drawn to -a close, the symptoms of aphasia and brain-lesion are repeated. This -story is conceived and conducted in the finest spirit of an artist. -It is strange to the verge of being incredible, but it never outrages -possibility, and the severe moderation of the author preserves our -credence throughout. - -It is in these Indian stories that Mr. Kipling displays more than -anywhere else the accuracy of his eye and the retentiveness of his -memory. No detail escapes him, and, without seeming to emphasise the -fact, he is always giving an exact feature where those who are in -possession of fewer facts or who see less vividly are satisfied with a -shrewd generality. - - -V - -In Mr. Kipling's first volume there was one story which struck -quite a different note from all the others, and gave promise of a -new delineator of children. _Tods' Amendment_, which is a curiously -constructed piece of work, is in itself a political allegory. It is to -be noticed that when he warms to his theme the author puts aside the -trifling fact that Tods is an infant of six summers, and makes him give -a clear statement of collated native opinion worthy of a barrister in -ample practice. What led to the story, one sees without difficulty, -was the wish to emphasise the fact that unless the Indian Government -humbles itself, and becomes like Tods, it can never legislate with -efficiency, because it never can tell what all the _jhampanis_ and -_saises_ in the bazar really wish for. If this were all, Mr. Kipling in -creating Tods would have shown no more real acquaintance with children -than other political allegorists have shown with sylphs or Chinese -philosophers. But Mr. Kipling is always an artist, and in order to -make a setting for his child-professor of jurisprudence, he invented -a really convincing and delightful world of conquering infancy. Tods, -who lives up at Simla with Tods' mamma, and knows everybody, is "an -utterly fearless young pagan," who pursues his favourite kid even into -the sacred presence of the Supreme Legislative Council, and is on terms -of equally well-bred familiarity with the Viceroy and with Futteh Khan, -the villainous loafer _khit_ from Mussoorie. - -To prove that _Tods' Amendment_ was not an accident, and also, -perhaps, to show that he could write about children purely and simply, -without any after-thought of allegory, he brought out, as the sixth -instalment of the _Indian Railway Library_, a little volume entirely -devoted to child-life. Of the four stories contained in this book one -is among the finest productions of its author, while two others are -very good indeed. There are also, of course, the children in _The Light -that Failed_, although they are too closely copied from the author's -previous creations in _Baa, Baa, Black Sheep_; and in other writings of -his, children take a position sufficiently prominent to justify us in -considering this as one of the main divisions of his work. - -In his preface to _Wee Willie Winkie_, Mr. Kipling has sketched for us -the attitude which he adopts towards babies. "Only women," he says, but -we may doubt if he means it, "understand children thoroughly; but if a -mere man keeps very quiet, and humbles himself properly, and refrains -from talking down to his superiors, the children will sometimes be -good to him, and let him see what they think about the world." This is -a curious form of expression, and suggests the naturalist more than -the lover of children. So might we conceive a successful zoologist -affirming that the way to note the habits of wild animals and birds -is by keeping very quiet, and lying low in the grass, and refraining -from making sudden noises. This is, indeed, the note by which we may -distinguish Mr. Kipling from such true lovers of childhood as Mrs. -Ewing. He has no very strong emotion in the matter, but he patiently -and carefully collects data, partly out of his own faithful and -capacious personal memory, partly out of what he still observes. - -The Tods type he would probably insist that he has observed. A finer -and more highly developed specimen of it is given in _Wee Willie -Winkie_, the hero of which is a noble infant of overpowering vitality, -who has to be put under military discipline to keep him in any sort of -domestic order, and who, while suffering under two days' confinement to -barracks (the house and verandah), saves the life of a headstrong girl. -The way in which Wee Willie Winkie--who is of Mr. Kipling's favourite -age, six--does this is at once wholly delightful and a terrible strain -to credence. The baby sees Miss Allardyce cross the river, which he has -always been forbidden to do, because the river is the frontier, and -beyond it are bad men, goblins, Afghans, and the like. He feels that -she is in danger, he breaks mutinously out of barracks on his pony and -follows her, and when she has an accident, and is surrounded by twenty -hill-men, he saves her by his spirit and by his complicated display of -resource. To criticise this story, which is told with infinite zest -and picturesqueness, seems merely priggish. Yet it is contrary to Mr. -Kipling's whole intellectual attitude to suppose him capable of writing -what he knows to be supernatural romance. We have therefore to suppose -that in India infants "of the dominant race" are so highly developed at -six, physically and intellectually, as to be able to ride hard, alone, -across a difficult river, and up pathless hilly country, to contrive -a plan for succouring a hapless lady, and to hold a little regiment -of savages at bay by mere force of eye. If Wee Willie Winkie had been -twelve instead of six, the feat would have been just possible. But -then the romantic contrast between the baby and his virile deeds would -not have been nearly so piquant. In all this Mr. Kipling, led away by -sentiment and a false ideal, is not quite the honest craftsman that he -should be. - -But when, instead of romancing and creating, he is content to observe -children, he is excellent in this as in other branches of careful -natural history. But the children he observes, are, or we much misjudge -him, himself. _Baa, Baa, Black Sheep_ is a strange compound of work at -first and at second hand. Aunty Rosa (delightfully known, without a -suspicion of supposed relationship, as "Antirosa"), the Mrs. Squeers -of the Rocklington lodgings, is a sub-Dickensian creature, tricked out -with a few touches of reality, but mainly a survival of early literary -hatreds. The boy Harry and the soft little sister of Punch are rather -shadowy. But Punch lives with an intense vitality, and here, without -any indiscretion, we may be sure that Mr. Kipling has looked inside -his own heart and drawn from memory. Nothing in the autobiographies -of their childhood by Tolstoi and Pierre Loti, nothing in Mr. R. L. -Stevenson's _Child's Garden of Verses_, is more valuable as a record of -the development of childhood than the account of how Punch learned to -read, moved by curiosity to know what the "falchion" was with which the -German man split the Griffin open. Very nice, also, is the reference to -the mysterious rune, called "Sonny, my Soul," with which mamma used to -sing Punch to sleep. - -By far the most powerful and ingenious story, however, which Mr. -Kipling has yet dedicated to a study of childhood is _The Drums of the -Fore and Aft_. "The Fore and Aft" is a nickname given in derision to a -crack regiment, whose real title is "The Fore and Fit," in memory of a -sudden calamity which befell them on a certain day in an Afghan pass, -when, if it had not been for two little blackguard drummer-boys, they -would have been wofully and contemptibly cut to pieces, as they were -routed by a dashing troop of Ghazis. The two little heroes, who only -conquer to die, are called Jakin and Lew, stunted children of fourteen, -"gutter-birds" who drink and smoke and "do everything but lie," and are -the disgrace of the regiment. In their little souls, however, there -burns what Mr. Pater would call a "hard, gem-like flame" of patriotism, -and they are willing to undergo any privation, if only they may wipe -away the stigma of being "bloomin' non-combatants." - -In the intervals of showing us how that stain was completely removed, -Mr. Kipling gives us not merely one of the most thrilling and effective -battles in fiction, but a singularly delicate portrait of two grubby -little souls turned white and splendid by an element of native -greatness. It would be difficult to point to a page of modern English -more poignant than that which describes how "the only acting-drummers -who were took along," and--left behind, moved forward across the pass -alone to the enemy's front, and sounded on drum and fife the return of -the regiment to duty. But perhaps the most remarkable feature of the -whole story is that a record of shocking British retreat and failure is -so treated as to flatter in its tenderest susceptibilities the pride of -British patriotism. - -_1891._ - - - - -AN ELECTION AT THE ENGLISH ACADEMY - - - - -An Election at the English Academy - - -ATHENAEUM CLUB, PALL MALL, S.W. - -TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, R.E.A., Samoa - -DEAR MR. STEVENSON,--Last night I think that even you must -have regretted being a beachcomber. Even the society of your friend -Ori-a-Ori and the delights of kava and bread-fruit can hardly make up -to you for what you lost in Piccadilly. It was the first occasion, as -you are aware, upon which we have been called upon to fill up a vacancy -in the Forty. You know, long before this letter reaches you, that we -have already lost one of our original members. Poor Kinglake! I thought -at the time that it was a barren honour, but it was one which his fame -imperatively demanded. I can't say I knew him: a single introduction, -a few gracious words in a low voice, a grave and sad presence--that -is all I retain of him personally. I shall know more when our new -Academician has to deliver the eulogium on his predecessor. What an -intellectual treat it will be! - -We had a splendid gathering. Do you recollect that when the papers -discussed us, before our foundation, one thing they said was that -there never would be a decent attendance? I must confess our -business meetings have been rather sparsely filled up. Besant is -invariably there, Lecky generally, a few others. There has always -been a quorum--not much more. But between you and me and those other -palms--the feathery palms of your cabin--there has not been much -business to transact; not much more than might have been left to -assiduous Mr. Robinson, our paid secretary. But last night the clan was -all but complete. There were thirty-seven of us, nobody missing but Mr. -Ruskin and yourself. Ruskin, by the way, wrote a letter to be read at -the meeting, and then sent on to the _Pall Mall Gazette_--so diverting! -I must cut it out and enclose it. But his style, if this is to be taken -as an example, is not quite what it was.[2] - -Well, I am still so excited that I hardly know where to begin. To -me, a real country bumpkin, the whole thing was such an occasion! -Such a _social_ occasion! I must begin from the beginning. I came -all the way up from Luxilian, my green uniform, with the golden -palm-shoots embroidered on it, safely packed in my portmanteau under my -dress-clothes. To my great annoyance the children had been wearing it -in Christmas charades. My dear wife, ay me, has so little firmness of -character. By-the-by, I hope you wear yours on official occasions in -Samoa? The whole costume, I should fancy, must be quite in a Polynesian -taste. I was more "up" in the candidates and their characteristics -than you would expect. Ah! I know you think me rather a Philistine--but -can an Academician be a Philistine? That is a question that might be -started when next the big gooseberry season begins. I was "up" in the -candidates because, as good luck would have it, Sala had been spending -a week with me in the country. Delightful companion, but scarcely -fitted for rural pleasures. He mentioned such a great number of eminent -literary persons whom I had never heard of--mostly rather occasional -writers, I gathered. He has an extraordinarily wide circle, I find: -it makes me feel quite the Country Mouse. He did not seem to know -much about Gardiner, it is true, but then he could tell me all that -Hardy had written--or pretty nearly all; and, of course, as you know, -Gardiner is my own hobby. - -The moment I got to Paddington I foolishly began looking hither and -thither for fellow-"immortals." Rather absurd, but not so absurd as -you might suppose, for there, daintily stepping out of a first-class -carriage, whom should I see but Max Mueller. I scarcely know him, and -should not have ventured to address him, but he called out: "Ah! my -dear friend, we come, I suspect, on the same interesting, the same -patriotic errand!" I had felt a few qualms of conscience about my own -excitement in the election; we are so quiet at Luxilian that we can -scarcely measure the relative importance of events. But Max Mueller -completely reassured me. It was delightful to me to see how seriously -he regarded the event. "Europe," he said, "is not inattentive to such -a voice as the unanimity of the English Academy may--may wield." I -could not help smiling at the last word, and reflecting how carelessly -the most careful of us professional writers expresses himself in -conversation. But his enthusiasm was very beautiful, and I found myself -more elevated than ever. "It is permitted to us," he went on, "to -whisper among ourselves what the world must not hear--the unthinking -world--that the social status of English Academician adds not a -little dignity to literature. One hopes that, whoever may be added -to our number to-night, the social----eh?" I had formulated just the -same feeling myself. "Only in so far," he went on, "as is strictly -consistent with the interests of literature and scholarship--of course? -Good-bye!" and he left me with an impression that he wanted to vote for -both candidates. - -There was a little shopping I had to do in Regent Street, after I -had left my costume at the Academy, and I called in at Mudie's for a -moment on my way to the British Museum. To give you an idea of the -mental disturbance I was suffering from, I asked the very polite -young man at the counter for my own _Mayors of Woodshire_--you know, -my seventeenth-century book--instead of _The Mayor of Casterbridge_, -which my wife wanted to read. I did not realise my mistake till I saw -the imprint of the Clarendon Press. At last I got to the manuscript -room, made my references, and found that our early dinner hour was -approaching. I walked westward down Oxford Street, enjoying the -animation and colour of the lovely evening, and then, suddenly, -realising what the hour was, turned and took a hansom to the Athenaeum. - -Who should meet me in the vestibule but Seeley? Less and less often -do I find my way to Cambridge, and I hesitated about addressing him, -although I used to know him so well. He was buried in a reverie, -and slowly moving to the steps. I suppose I involuntarily slackened -my speed also, and he looked up. He was most cordial, and almost -immediately began to talk to me about those notes on the commercial -relations of the Woodshire ports with Poland which I printed in the -_English Historical_ two (or perhaps three) years ago. I daresay you -never heard of them. I promised to send him some transcripts I have -since made of the harbour laws of Luxilian itself--most important. -I longed to ask Seeley whether we might be sure of his support for -Gardiner, but I hardly liked to do so, he seemed so much more absorbed -in the past. I took for granted it was all right, and when we parted, -as he left the Club, he said, "We meet later on this evening, I -suppose?" and that was his only reference to the election. - -I am hardly at home yet at the Athenaeum, and I was therefore delighted -to put myself under Lecky's wing. I soon saw that quite a muster of -Academicians was preparing to dine, for when we entered the Coffee Room -we found Mr. Walter Besant already seated, and before we could join him -Mr. Black and Mr. Herbert Spencer came in together and approached us. -We had two small tables placed together, and just as we were sitting -down, Lord Lytton, who was so extremely kind to me in Paris last autumn -when I left my umbrella in the Eiffel Tower, made his appearance. We -all seemed studiously to make no reference, at first, to the great -event of the day, while Mr. Spencer diverted us with several anecdotes -which he had just brought from a family in the country--not at all, of -course, of a puerile description, but throwing a singular light upon -the development of infant mind. After this the conversation flagged a -little. I suppose we were all thinking of the same thing. I was quite -relieved when a remark of Lecky's introduced the general topic. - -Our discussion began by Lord Lytton's giving us some very interesting -particulars of the election of Pierre Loti (M. Viaud) into the French -Academy last week, and of the social impression produced by these -contests. I had no idea of the pushing, the intriguing, the unworthy -anxiety which are shown by some people in Paris who wish to be of the -Forty. Lord Lytton says that there is a story by M. Daudet which, -although it is petulant and exaggerated, gives a very graphic picture -of the seamy side of the French Academy. I must read this novel, for I -feel that we, as a new body destined to wield a vast influence in this -country, ought to be forewarned. I ventured to say that I did not think -that English people, with our honest and wholesome traditions, and the -blessings of a Protestant religion, would be in any danger of falling -into these excesses. Nobody responded to this; I am afraid the London -writers are dreadfully cynical, and Black remarked that we six, at all -events, were poachers turned inside out. They laughed at this, and I -was quite glad when the subject was changed. - -Lord Lytton asked Mr. Besant whether he was still as eager as ever -about his Club of Authors, or whether he considered that the English -Academy covered the ground. He replied that he had wholly relinquished -that project for the present. His only wish had been to advocate union -among authors, on a basis of mutual esteem and encouragement, and -he thought that the Academy would be quite enough to do that, if it -secured for itself the building which is now being talked about, as -a central point for consultation on all matters connected with the -literary life and profession. But this notion did not seem to command -itself to Mr. Spencer, who said that it seemed to him that the Forty -were precisely those whom success or the indulgence of the public had -raised above the need or the desire of consultation. "I am very glad -to have the pleasure of playing a game of billiards with you, Mr. -Besant, but why should I consult you about my writings? I conceive that -the duty of our Academy is solely to insist on a public recognition of -the dignity of literature, and that if we go a step beyond that aim, we -prepare nothing but snares for our feet." - -"Whom, then, do you propose," continued Lecky to Besant, "to summon to -your consultations?" - -"Surely," was the reply, "any respectable authors." - -"Outsiders, then," said Mr. Spencer, "a few possible and a multitude of -impossible candidates?" - -"Female writers as well as male?" asked Black; "are we to have the -literary Daphne at our conversaziones-- - - - _With legs toss'd high on her sophee she sits,_ - _Vouchsafing audience to contending wits?_ - - -How do you like that prospect, Lecky?" - -"But poorly, I must confess. We have tiresome institutions enough -in London without adding to them a sort of Ptolemaic Mouseion, for -us to strut about on the steps of, in our palm-costume, attended by -dialectical ladies and troops of intriguing pupils. Though that, -I am sure," he added courteously, "is the last thing our friend -Besant desires, yet I conceive it would tend to be the result of such -consultation." - -"What then," said the novelist, "is to be the practical service of the -English Academy to life and literature?" - -At this we all put on a grave and yet animated expression, for -certainly, to each of us, this was a very important consideration. - -"Putting on one side," began Mr. Spencer, "the social advantage, the -unquestionable dignity and importance given to individual literary -accomplishment at a time when the purer parts of writing--I mean no -disrespect to you novelists--are greatly neglected in the general -hurly-burly; putting on one side this function of the English Academy, -there remains, of course----" - -But, at this precise moment, when I was literally hanging on the lips -of our eminent philosopher, the door opened with a considerable noise -of gaiety, and Mr. Arthur Balfour entered, in company with a gentleman, -who was introduced to me presently as Mr. Andrew Lang. - -"Two more Academicians, and this time neither novelists nor -philosophers," said Black. - -They sat down close to us, so that the conversation was still general. - -"We were discussing the Academy," said Lord Lytton. "And we," replied -Mr. Balfour, "were comparing notes about rackets. Lang tells me he has -found a complete description of the game in one of the Icelandic sagas." - -"Played with a shuttlecock," said Mr. Lang, throwing himself back -with a gesture of intense fatigue. "By the way, when we get to B in -our Academy dictionary, I will write the article _battledore_. It is -Provencal, I believe; but one must look up Skeat." - -"We shall be very old, I am afraid, before we reach letter B," I -remarked, "shall we not?" - -"Oh! no," said Mr. Lang, "we shall fire away like fun. All we have to -do is to crib our definitions out of Murray." - -"I hardly think that," said Mr. Besant; "we seem to have precious -little to occupy ourselves with, but our dictionary at least you must -leave us." - -We talked this over a little, and the general opinion seemed to be that -it would turn out to be more an alphabetical series of monographs on -the history of our language than a dictionary in the ordinary sense. -And who was to have the courage to start it, no one seemed able to -guess. - -A general conversation then began, which was of not a little interest -to me. The merits of our two candidates were warmly, but temperately -discussed. Everybody seemed to feel that we ought to have them both -among us; that our company would still be incomplete if one was -elected. Black suggested that some public-spirited Academician should -perform the Happy Despatch, so as to supply the convenience of two -vacancies. Lord Lytton reminded us that we were doing, on a small -scale, what the French Academy itself did for a few years,--from the -election of Guizot to that of Labiche--namely, meeting in private to -wrangle over the merits of the candidates. We laughed, and set to with -greater zeal, I painting Gardiner in rosier colours as Besant advanced -the genius of Hardy. - -While this was going on Sir Frederick Leighton joined us, listening -and leaning in one of his Olympian attitudes. "I find," he said at -last, "that I am able to surprise you. You are not aware that there is -a third candidate." "A third candidate?" we all exclaimed. "Yes," he -said; "before the hour was too far advanced yesterday, our secretary -received the due notice from his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury." -"Ah! you mean for your own Academy," some one said; "as chaplain in the -room of the poor Archbishop of York?" "No," Sir Frederick answered, -smiling, "as a candidate for _our_ Academy, the English Academy." (And, -indeed, I recollected that Leighton was one of our original members. I -cannot quite recall upon what literary grounds, but he is a charming -person, and a great social acquisition.) - -There was a pause at this unexpected announcement. "I am sorry," said -Mr. Balfour at last, "that the Archbishop, whom I greatly esteem and -admire, should have laid himself open to this rebuff. We cannot admit -him, and yet how extremely painful to reject him. He has scarcely more -claim to belong to this Academy than I have, and----" At this we all, -very sincerely, murmured our expostulation, and Lord Lytton, leaning -across, said: "My dear Arthur, you are our Haussonville!" "I am afraid -I am more likely," he replied, "to be your Audriffet-Pasquier. But -here I am, and it was none of my seeking. I am, at least, determined -not to use what fortieth-power I have for the election of any but the -best purely literary candidates." There was no direct reply to this, -and presently we all got up and separated to prepare for the election, -each of us manifestly disturbed by this unexpected news. - -As I was going out of the Club, I met Jebb, whom I was very glad to -greet. I used to know him well, but I go so seldom to Cambridge in -these days that I can scarcely have seen him since he took his doctor's -degree in letters, which must be seven or eight years ago, when I -came up to see my own boy get his B.A. He was quite unchanged, and as -cordial as ever. The night was so clear that we decided to walk, and, -as we passed into Pall Mall, the moonlight suddenly flooded the street. - -"How the nightingales must be singing at Luxilian," I cried. - -"And that nest of singing-birds with whom I saw you dining," said Jebb, -"how did they entertain you?" - -"The best company in the world," I replied; "and yet----! Perhaps -Academicians talk better in twos and ones than _en masse_. I thought -the dinner might have been more brilliant, and it certainly might have -been more instructive." - -"They were afraid of one another, no doubt," said the Professor; "they -were afraid of you. But how could it have been more instructive?" - -"I was in hopes that I should hear from all these accomplished men -something definite about the aims of the Academy, its functions in -practical life--what the use of it is to be, in fact." - -"Had they no ideas to exchange on that subject? Did they not dwell on -the social advantages it gives to literature? Why, my dear friend, -between ourselves, the election of a new member to an Academy -constituted as ours is, so restricted in numbers, so carefully weeded -of all questionable elements, is in itself the highest distinction ever -yet placed within the reach of English literature. In fact, it is the -Garter." - -"But," I pursued, "are we not in danger of thinking too much of the -social matter? Are we not framing a tradition which, if it had existed -for three hundred years, would have excluded Defoe, Bunyan, Keats, and -perhaps Shakespeare himself?" - -"Doubtless," Jebb answered, "but we are protected against such folly -by the high standard of our candidates. Hardy, Gardiner--who could be -more unexceptionable? who could more eminently combine the qualities we -seek?" - -"You are not aware, then," I said, "that a third candidate is before -us?" - -"No! Who?" - -"The Archbishop of Canterbury." - -"Ah!" he exclaimed, and we walked on together in silence. - -At the door of the Academy Jebb left me, "for a moment or two," -he said, and proceeded up Piccadilly. I ascended the steps of our -new building, and passed into the robing-room. Whom should I meet -there, putting on his green palm-shoots, but Mr. Leslie Stephen. I -was particularly glad to have a moment's interview with him, for I -wanted to tell him of my great discovery, a fifth Nicodemus, Abbot -of Luxilian, in the twelfth century. Extraordinary thing! Of course, -I imagined that he would be delighted about it, although he has not -quite reached N yet, but I can't say that he seemed exhilarated. "Five -successive Nicodemuses," I said, "what do you think of that?" He -murmured something about "all standing naked in the open air." I fancy -he is losing his interest in the mediaeval biographies. However, before -I could impress upon him what a "find" it is, Mr. Gladstone came in -with the Bishop of Oxford, and just then Sala called me out to repeat -a story to me which he had just heard at some club. I thought it good -at the time--something about "Manipur" and "many poor"--but I have -forgotten how it went. - -Upstairs, in the great reception-room, the company was now rapidly -gathering. You may imagine how interesting I found it. Everywhere knots -of men were forming, less, I felt, to discuss the relative claims of -Hardy and Gardiner than to deplore the descent of the Archbishop into -the lists. The Duke of Argyll, who courteously recognised me, deigned -to refer to this topic of universal interest. "I would have done much," -he said, "to protect him from the annoyance of this defeat. A prince of -the Anglican Church, whom we all respect and admire! I fear he will not -have more than--than--perhaps _one_ vote. Alas! alas!" - -Various little incidents caught my eye. Poor Professor Freeman, -bursting very hastily into the room, bounced violently against Mr. -Froude, who happened to be standing near the door. I don't think Mr. -Freeman can have realised how roughly he struck him, for he did not -turn or stop, but rushed across the room to the Bishop of Oxford, with -whom he was soon in deep consultation about Gardiner, no doubt; I did -not disturb them. Lord Salisbury, with pendant arms, gently majestic, -stood on the hearth-rug talking to an elderly gentleman of pleasing -aspect, in spectacles. I heard some one say something about "the other -uncrowned king of Brentford," but I did not understand the allusion. I -suppose the gentleman was some supporter of the Ministry, but I did not -catch his name. - -Lecky was so kind as to present me to Professors Huxley and Tyndall, -neither of whom, I believe, ought to have been out on so fresh a spring -night; neither, I hope to hear this evening, is the worse for such -imprudence. A curious incident now occurred, for as we were chatting, -Huxley suddenly said, in a low voice: "Gladstone has his eye upon you, -Tyndall." The professor flounced about at this in a great agitation, -and replied, so loudly that I feared it would be generally heard--"He -had better not attempt to address me. I should utter six withering -syllables, and then turn my back upon him. Gladstone, indeed, the old -----." But at this moment, to my horror, Mr. Gladstone glided across -the floor with his most courtly and dignified air, and held out his -hand. "Ah! Professor Tyndall, how long it seems since those beautiful -days on the Bel Alp." There was a little bridling and hesitating, and -then Tyndall took the proffered hand. "I was wandering," said the -Grand Old Man, "without a guide, and now I have found one, the best -possible. I am----" "Oh!" broke in the professor, "I thought it would -be so. I am more delighted than----" "Pardon me," interrupted Mr. -Gladstone with an exquisite deprecation, "I am mainly interested at the -moment in the Sirens. I am lost, as I said, without a guide, and I have -found one. Your experiments with the sirens on the North Foreland-- - - - [Greek: hieisai opa kallimon],--" - - -and then, arm in arm, the amicable and animated pair retired to a -corner of the room. - -Impossible to describe to you all the incidents of this delightful -gathering. In one corner the veteran Dr. Martineau was seated, -conversing with Mr. Henry Irving. I was about to join them when I was -attracted by a sharp and elastic step on the stairs, and saw that -Lord Wolseley, entering the room, and glancing quickly round, walked -straight to a group at my left hand, which was formed around Mr. George -Meredith. - -"For whom must I vote, Mr. Meredith?" he said. "I place myself in your -hands. Is it to be the Archbishop of Canterbury?" - -"Nay," replied Mr. Meredith, smiling, "for the prelate I shake you out -a positive negative. The customary guests at our academic feast--well; -poet, historian, essayist, say novelist or journalist, all welcome -on grounds of merit royally acknowledged and distinguished. But this -portent of a crozier, nodding familiarly to us with its floriated tin -summit, a gilt commodity, definitely hostile to literature--never -in the world. How Europe will boom with cachinnation when it learns -that we have invented the Academy of English Letters for the more -excellent glorification of mere material episcopacy, a radiant excess -of iridescence thrown by poetry upon prelacy, heart's blood of books -shed merely to stain more rosily the _infulae_ and _vittae_ of a mitre. I -shall be tempted into some colloquial extravagance if I dwell on this -theme, however; I must chisel on Blackmore yonder for floral wit, and -so will, with permission, float out of your orbit by a bowshot." - -Dr. Jowett now made his appearance, in company with Mr. Swinburne; -and they were followed by a gentleman in a rough coat and picturesque -blue shirt, who attracted my attention by this odd costume, and by his -very fine head, with flowing beard and hair. I was told it was the -poet Morris; not at all how I had pictured the author of _The Epic of -Hades_. And finally, to our infinite delight, Lord Tennyson himself -came in, leaning on Jebb's arm, and we felt that our company was -complete. - -We clustered at last into our inner council-room, at the door of which -the usher makes us sign our names. What a page last night's will be -for the enjoyment of posterity! We gradually settled into our places; -Lord Tennyson in his presidential chair, Lecky in his post of permanent -secretary; our excellent paid secretary hurrying about with papers, -and explaining to us the routine. It seemed more like a club than ever -at that moment, our charming Academy, with the best of all possible -society. As I sat waiting for business to begin, my thoughts ran -more and more upon the unfortunate candidature of the Archbishop. I -reflected on what the Duke of Argyll had said, the wretchedness of the -_one_ vote. He should, at least, have two, I determined; and I asked -my neighbour, Mr. Frederic Harrison, if he knew what Dr. Benson had -published. "I have an idea," he replied, "that he is the author of a -work entitled _The Cathedral: its Necessary Place in the Life and Work -of an Academy_." - -Our proceedings were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of -Cardinal Manning, who desired to be permitted, before the election -began, to add to the names of the candidates that of Mr. W. T. Stead. -At this there was a general murmur, and Mr. Lang muttered: "If it comes -to that, I propose Bridge" (or "Brydges"--I could not catch the name). -The Cardinal continued: "I know I have a seconder for him in my eminent -friend opposite." We all looked across at Archdeacon Farrar, who -objected, with considerable embarrassment: "No, no; when I said that, -I did not understand what the final list of candidates was to be. I -must really decline." The Cardinal then turned to Mr. John Morley, who -shook his head. "The Academy will have more need of Mr. Stead ten years -hence, perhaps, than it has now." And with that the incident terminated. - -The moment had at last arrived, and we expected a prolonged session. -By a system of successive ballotings, we have to work on until one -candidate has a positive majority; this may take a long time, and may -even fail to be accomplished. The President rang his bell, and the -names were pronounced by the secretary: - - - EDWARD WHITE BENSON, Archbishop of Canterbury, - - SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER, and - - THOMAS HARDY. - - -As soon as he had recorded his vote, our venerable President left us; -the remainder of the company awaited the result with eager curiosity. -The general opinion seemed to be that the votes for Gardiner and Hardy -would prove pretty equal, and I began to feel a little qualm at having -thrown mine away. But when Mr. Gladstone, taking the President's chair, -rang his bell, and announced the result of the voting, it is not too -much to say that we were stupefied. The votes were thus divided: - - - The Archbishop of Canterbury 19 - Gardiner 8 - Hardy 7 - Blank votes 3 - - -There was, accordingly, no need for a second ballot, since the -Archbishop had secured a positive majority of the votes. I felt a -little uncomfortable when I reflected that my vote, if loyally given -to Gardiner, would have necessitated a reopening of the matter. Never -mind. Better as it is. The election is a very good one, from a social -point of view particularly. - -The company dispersed rather hurriedly. On the stairs, where Mr. Arthur -Balfour was offering his arm to Lord Selborne, I heard the latter say, -"We may congratulate ourselves on a most excellent evening's work, may -we not?" Mr. Balfour shook his head, but I did not catch his reply; he -seemed to have lost something of his previous good spirits. - -This morning the daily papers are in raptures, the Gladstonians as much -as the Unionists. A great honour, they all say, done to the profession -of literature. "Quite a social triumph," the _Morning Post_ remarks; -"a bloodless victory in the campaign of letters"--rather happy, is it -not? But one of those young men of the _National Observer_, who was -waiting for me outside the Academy last night, and kindly volunteered -to see me home to the hotel--where he was even good enough to partake -of refreshment--was rather severe. "Not a single _writer_ in the d----d -gang of you," he said. A little coarse, I thought; and not positively -final, as criticism. - -I am, - -Yours very faithfully, - ---------------------- - -_1891._ - -FOOTNOTE: - -[2] MY DEAR SIR,--What in the Devil's name should I do at your -assemblage of notorieties? I neither care nor wish to care whom you -elect. The only _Gardiner_ I ever heard of was Henry's Bloody Bishop. -If "Kiss me _Hardy_" came before us, it would be worth while for the -only true Tory left in England to vote for him; but he has been with -God this good half century. My L100 a year as Academician--recoverable, -they tell me, in case of lapsed payment, from Her Majesty herself--I -spend in perfecting my collection of the palates of molluscs, who keep -their inward economy as clean as the deck of a ship of the line with -stratagems beautiful and manifold exceedingly. Few of your Academicians -show an apparatus half so handsome when they open their mouths. How -unlike am I, by the way, in my retirement, from Bismarck across -the waters, who squeaks like a puppy-dog on his road to the final -parliamentary sausage-making machine of these poor times. Would it not -be well for your English Academy, instead of these election follies, -to bestir itself with a copy of _The Crown of Wild Olive_ for his -heart's betterment? But keep your Lydian modes; I hold my Dorian.--Ever -faithfully yours, JOHN RUSKIN. - - - - -APPENDICES - - -I - -TENNYSON--AND AFTER? - -When this essay first appeared in _The New Review_, the scepticism it -expressed with regard to the universal appreciation of the poet was -severely censured in one or two newspapers. On the other hand, the -accomplished author of _Thyrza_ and _New Grub Street_ obliged me with -a letter of very great interest, which fully confirmed my doubts. Mr. -Gissing has kindly permitted me to print his letter here. His wide -experience among the poor makes his opinion on this matter one which -cannot lightly be passed by: - - - "_Nov. 20, 1892._ - - "SIR,--Will you pardon me if I venture to say with what - satisfaction I have read your remarks about Tennyson in _The New - Review_, which has only just come into my hands? - - "The popular mind is my study, and I know that Tennyson's song - no more reached it than it reached the young-eyed cherubim. Nor - does _any_ song reach the populace, rich and poor, unless, as you - suggest, it be such as appears in _The Referee_. - - "After fifteen years' observation of the poorer classes of - English folk, chiefly in London and the south, I am pretty well - assured that, whatever civilising agencies may be at work among - the democracy, poetry is not one of them. Reading, of one kind - or another, is universal; study, serious and progressive, is no - longer confined to the ranks that enjoy a liberal education; but - the populace, the industrial and trading masses, not merely remain - without interest in poetry, but do not so much as understand what - the term poetry means. In other intellectual points, the grades of - unlettered life are numerous; as regards appreciation of verse, - the People are one. From the work-girl, with her penny novelette, - to the artisan who has collected a little library, the natural - inclination of all who represent their class is to neglect verse - as something exotic, something without appeal to their instincts. - They either do not read it at all--the common case--or (with - an exception to be noticed) they take it as a quaint variety - of prose, which custom has consecrated to religion, to the - affections, and to certain phases of facetiousness. - - "In London, through all orders of society below the liberally - educated, it is a most exceptional thing to meet with a person who - seeks for verse as verse; who recognises the name of any greater - poet not hackneyed in the newspapers, or who even distantly - apprehends the nature of the poet's art. In the north of England, - where more native melody is found, self-taught readers of poetry - are, I believe, not so rare; but they must still be greatly the - exception. As to the influence of board-schools, one cannot doubt - that the younger generation are even less inclined to a taste for - poetry than their fathers. Some elderly people, in Sunday languor, - take up a book of verse with which they have been familiar since - early days (Mrs. Hemans, Eliza Cook, Montgomery, Longfellow); - whereas their children cannot endure printed matter cut into - rhythmic lengths, unless the oddity solicit them in the columns of - a paper specially addressed to their intelligence. - - "At the instigation of those zealous persons who impress upon - shopkeepers, clerks and artisans, the duty of 'self-culture - in leisure hours,' there undoubtedly goes on some systematic - reading of verse--the exceptional case to which I alluded. It - is undertaken in a resolute spirit by pallid men, who study the - poet just as they study the historian, the economist, the master - of physical science, and their pathetic endeavour is directed by - that species of criticism which demands--exclusively--from poetry - its 'message for our time.' Hence, no doubt, the conviction of - many who go down to the great democratic deep that multitudes - are hungering for the poet's word. Here, as in other kindred - matters, the hope of such enthusiasts arises from imperfect - understanding. Not in lecture-hall and classroom can the mind of - the people be discovered. Optimism has made a fancy picture of - the representative working-man, ludicrous beyond expression to - those who know him in his habitat; and the supremely ludicrous - touch is that which attributes to him a capacity for enjoying pure - literature. - - "I have in mind a typical artisan family, occupying a house - to themselves, the younger members grown up and, in their own - opinion, very far above those who are called 'the poor.' They - possess perhaps a dozen volumes: a novel or two, some bound - magazines, a few musty works of popular instruction or amusement; - all casually acquired and held in no value. Of these people I am - able confidently to assert (as the result of specific inquiry) - that they have in their abode no book of verse--that they never - read verse when they can avoid it--that among their intimates - is no person who reads or wishes to read verse--that they never - knew of any one buying a book of verse--and that not one of them, - from childhood upwards, ever heard a piece of verse read aloud - at the fireside. In this respect, as in many others, the family - beyond doubt is typical. They stand between the brutal and the - intelligent of working-folk. There must be an overwhelming number - of such households through the land, representing a vast populace - absolutely irresponsive to the word of any poet. - - "The custodian of a Free Library in a southern city informs me - that 'hardly once in a month' does a volume of verse pass over - his counter; that the exceptional applicant (seeking Byron or - Longfellow) is generally 'the wife of a tradesman'; and that an - offer of verse to man or woman who comes simply for 'a book' is - invariably rejected; 'they won't even look at it.' - - "What else could one have anticipated? To love poetry is a boon of - nature, most sparingly bestowed; appreciation of the poet's art is - an outcome of studious leisure. Even an honest liking for verse, - without discernment, depends upon complex conditions of birth, - breeding, education. No one seeks to disparage the laborious - masses on the ground of their incapacity for delights necessarily - the privilege of a few. It was needless folly to pretend that, - because one or two of Tennyson's poems became largely known - through popular recitation, therefore Tennyson was dear to the - heart of the people, a subject of their pride whilst he lived, of - their mourning when he departed. My point is that _no_ poet holds - this place in the esteem of the English lower orders. - - "Tennyson? The mere price of his works is prohibitive to people - who think a shilling a very large outlay for printed paper. Half - a dozen of his poems at most would obtain a hearing from the - average uneducated person. We know very well the kind of home in - which Tennyson is really beloved for the sake of perhaps half his - work--and that not the better half. Between such households and - the best discoverable in the world of which I speak, lies a chasm - of utter severance. In default of other tests, Tennyson might be - used as a touch-stone to distinguish the last of gentle-folk from - the first of the unprivileged. - - "On the day of his funeral, I spoke of the dead poet to a live - schoolmaster, a teacher of poor children, and he avowed to me, - quite simply, that he 'couldn't stand poetry--except a few hymns;' - that he had thoroughly disliked it ever since the day, when as a - schoolboy, he had to learn by heart portions of _The Lady of the - Lake_. I doubt whether this person could have named three pieces - of Tennyson's writing. He spoke with the consciousness of being - supported by general opinion in his own world. - - "Some days before, I was sitting in a public room, where two men, - retired shopkeepers, exchanged an occasional word as they read - the morning's news. 'A great deal here about Lord Tennyson,' said - one. The 'Lord' was significant; I listened anxiously for his - companion's reply. 'Ah--yes.' The man moved uneasily, and added - at once: 'What do you think about this long-distance ride?' In - that room (I frequented it on successive days with this object) - not a syllable did I hear regarding Tennyson save the sentence - faithfully recorded. This was in the south of England; perhaps it - could not have happened in the north. - - "As a boy, I at one time went daily to school by train. It - happened once that I was alone in the carriage with a commercial - traveller; my Horace was open before me, and it elicited a remark - from the man of samples, who spoke with the accent of that - northern county, and certainly did not belong to the educated - class. After a word or two, he opened his bag, and took out an - ancient copy, battered, thumbed, pencilled, of--Horatius Flaccus. - Without this, he told me, he never travelled. From a bare - smattering obtained at school, he had pursued the study of Latin; - Horace was dear to him; he indicated favourite odes---- - - "Everywhere there are the many and the few. What of the multitude - in higher spheres? Their leisure is ample; literature lies thick - about them. It would be amusing to know how many give one hour a - month to the greater poets.... - - "Believe me, Sir, yours faithfully, - - "GEORGE GISSING. - - "To Edmund Gosse, Esq." - - -II - -M. MALLARME AND SYMBOLISM - -It was with not a little hesitation that I undertook to unravel a -corner of the mystic web, woven of sunbeams and electrical threads, -in which the poet of _L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune_ conceals himself from -curious apprehension. There were a dozen chances of my interpretation -being wrong, and scarcely one of its being right. My delight therefore -may be conceived when I received a most gracious letter from the mage -himself; Apollonius was not more surprised when, by a fortunate chance, -one of his prophecies came true. I quote from this charming paper of -credentials, which proceeds to add some precious details:-- - -"Votre etude est un miracle de divination.... Les poetes seuls ont le -droit de parler; parce qu'avant coup, ils savent. Il y a, entre toutes, -une phrase, ou vous ecartez tous voiles et designez la chose avec une -clairvoyance de diamant, le voici: 'His aim ... is to use words in -such harmonious combination as will suggest to the reader a mood or a -condition _which is not mentioned in the text_, but is nevertheless -paramount in the poet's mind at the moment of composition.' - -"Tout est la. Je fais de la Musique, et appelle ainsi non celle qu'on -peut tirer du rapprochement euphonique des mots, cette premiere -condition va de soi; mais l'au dela magiquement produit par certaines -dispositions de la parole, ou celle-ci ne reste qu'a l'etat de moyen de -communication materielle avec le lecteur comme les touches du piano. -Vraiment entre les lignes et au-dessus du regard cela se passe, en -toute purete, sans l'entremise de cordes a boyaux et de pistons comme -a l'orchestre, qui est deja industriel; mais c'est la meme chose que -l'orchestre, sauf que litterairement ou silencieusement. Les poetes -de tous les temps n'ont jamais fait autrement et il est aujourd'hui, -voila tout, amusant d'en avoir conscience. Employez Musique dans le -sens grec, au fond signifiant Idee au rythme entre les rapports; la, -plus divine que dans son expression publique ou Symphonique. Tres mal -dit, en causant, mais vous saisissez ou plutot aviez saisi toute au -long de cette belle etude qu'il faut garder telle quelle et intacte. -Je ne vous chicane que sur l'obscurite: non, cher poete, excepte par -maladresse ou gaucherie je ne suis pas obscur, du moment qu'on me lit -pour y chercher ce que j'enonce plus haut, ou la manifestation d'un -art qui se sert--mettons incidemment, j'en sais la cause profonde--du -langage: et le deviens, bien sur! si l'on se trompe et croit ouvrir le -journal....--Votre - -STEPHANE MALLARME. - - -_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. _London and Edinburgh_ - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR. - - -_In one volume, crown 8vo, red buckram, gilt top, 7s. 6d._ - -GOSSIP IN A LIBRARY. - -SECOND EDITION. - -_Also large paper edition, limited to 100 copies, price -25s. net._ - -"There is a touch of Leigh Hunt in this picture of the book-lover among -his books, and the volume is one that Leigh Hunt would have delighted -in."--_Athenaeum._ - - -_In one volume, crown 8vo, grey buckram, 5s._ - -THE SECRET OF NARCISSE, - -A ROMANCE. - -"This story, with its peaceful, almost idyllic prelude, and its cruel -catastrophe, is told with faultless taste and precision, and with its -mellow colouring and faithful attention to accessories, is fully worthy -of the author's reputation."--_Times._ - - -LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -One unpaired double quotation mark could not be corrected with -confidence. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUESTIONS AT ISSUE*** - - -******* This file should be named 61313.txt or 61313.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/3/1/61313 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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