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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..a2cb1be --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61345 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61345) diff --git a/old/61345-0.txt b/old/61345-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ba6b99c..0000000 --- a/old/61345-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7646 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Companionable Books, by Henry van Dyke - -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: Companionable Books - -Author: Henry van Dyke - -Release Date: February 8, 2020 [EBook #61345] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPANIONABLE BOOKS *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian -Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - -BY HENRY VAN DYKE - - - Companionable Books - The Valley of Vision - Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts - Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land - Little Rivers - Fisherman’s Luck - - Days Off - The Unknown Quantity - The Ruling Passion - The Blue Flower - - Poems, Collection in one volume - Songs Out of Doors - - Golden Stars - The Red Flower - The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems - The White Bees, and Other Poems - The Builders, and Other Poems - Music, and Other Poems - The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems - The House of Rimmon - - Studies in Tennyson - Poems of Tennyson - Fighting for Peace - -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - - - -COMPANIONABLE BOOKS - - - - -[Illustration: JOHN KEATS. - -Painted by Joseph Severn. - -_From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London._] - - - - - COMPANIONABLE - BOOKS - - BY - HENRY VAN DYKE - - _“What is this reading, which I must learn,” asked Adam, “and - what is it like?”_ - - _“It is something beyond gardening,” answered Raphael, “and at - times you will find it a heavy task. But at its best it will - be like listening through your eyes; and you shall hear the - flowers laugh, the trees talk, and the stars sing.”_ - - SOLOMON SINGLEWITZ—_The Life of Adam_ - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - 1922 - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY HARPER BROTHERS - - Printed in the United States of America - - Published October, 1922 - -[Illustration] - - - - - To - - MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT - - AUTHOR AND RANCHMAN - ONCE MY SCHOLAR - ALWAYS MY FRIEND - - - - -PREFACE - - -Many books are dry and dusty, there is no juice in them; and many are -soon exhausted, you would no more go back to them than to a squeezed -orange; but some have in them an unfailing sap, both from the tree of -knowledge and from the tree of life. - -By companionable books I mean those that are worth taking with you on a -journey, where the weight of luggage counts, or keeping beside your bed, -near the night-lamp; books that will bear reading often, and the more -slowly you read them the better you enjoy them; books that not only tell -you how things look and how people behave, but also interpret nature and -life to you, in language of beauty and power touched with the personality -of the author, so that they have a real voice audible to your spirit in -the silence. - -Here I have written about a few of these books which have borne me good -company, in one way or another,—and about their authors, who have put -the best of themselves into their work. Such criticism as the volume -contains is therefore mainly in the form of appreciation with reasons for -it. The other kind of criticism you will find chiefly in the omissions. - -So (changing the figure to suit this cabin by the sea) I send forth my -new ship, hoping only that it may carry something desirable from each of -the ports where it has taken on cargo, and that it may not be sunk by the -enemy before it touches at a few friendly harbours. - - HENRY VAN DYKE. - -SYLVANORA, _Seal Harbour, Me., August 19, 1922_. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - _I._ _The Book of Books_ 1 - - _II._ _Poetry in the Psalms_ 33 - - _III._ _The Good Enchantment of Dickens_ 63 - - _IV._ _Thackeray and Real Men_ 103 - - _V._ _George Eliot and Real Women_ 131 - - _VI._ _The Poet of Immortal Youth (Keats)_ 165 - - _VII._ _The Recovery of Joy (Wordsworth)_ 189 - - _VIII._ _“The Glory of the Imperfect” (Browning)_ 233 - - _IX._ _A Quaint Comrade by Quiet Streams (Walton)_ 289 - - _X._ _A Sturdy Believer (Samuel Johnson)_ 307 - - _XI._ _A Puritan Plus Poetry (Emerson)_ 333 - - _XII._ _An Adventurer in a Velvet Jacket (Stevenson)_ 357 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - _John Keats_ Frontispiece - - Facing page - - _Charles Dickens as Captain Bobadil in “Every Man in His Humour”_ 82 - - _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 120 - - _William Wordsworth_ 200 - - _Robert Browning_ 246 - - _Samuel Johnson_ 314 - - _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 340 - - _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 360 - -_In the cover design by Margaret Armstrong the books and authors are -represented by the following symbolic flowers: Bible—grapes; Psalms—wheat; -Dickens—English holly; Thackeray—English rose; George Eliot—ivy; -Keats—bleeding-heart; Wordsworth—daffodil; Browning—pomegranate; Izaak -Walton—strawberry; Johnson—oak; Stevenson—Scottish bluebell._ - - - - -THE BOOK OF BOOKS - -_An Apologue_ - - -There was once an Eastern prince who was much enamoured of the art of -gardening. He wished that all flowers delightful to the eye, and all -fruits pleasant to the taste and good for food, should grow in his -dominion, and that in growing the flowers should become more fair, the -fruits more savoury and nourishing. With this thought in his mind and -this desire in his heart, he found his way to the Ancient One, the Worker -of Wonders who dwells in a secret place, and made known his request. - -“For the care of your gardens and your orchards,” said the Ancient One, -“I can do nothing, since that charge has been given to you and to your -people. Nor will I send blossoming plants and fruiting trees of every -kind to make your kingdom rich and beautiful as by magic, lest the honour -of labour should be diminished, and the slow reward of patience despised, -and even the living gifts bestowed upon you without toil should wither -and die away. But this will I do: a single tree shall be brought to you -from a far country by the hands of my servants, and you shall plant it in -the midst of your land. In the body of that tree is the sap of life that -was from the beginning; the leaves of it are full of healing; its flowers -never fail, and its fruitage is the joy of every season. The roots of -the tree shall go down to the springs of deep waters; and wherever its -pollen is drifted by the wind or borne by the bees, the gardens shall put -on new beauty; and wherever its seed is carried by the fowls of the air, -the orchards shall yield a richer harvest. But the tree itself you shall -guard and cherish and keep as I give it you, neither cutting anything -away from it, nor grafting anything upon it; for the life of the tree is -in all the branches, and the other trees shall be glad because of it.” - -As the Ancient One had spoken, so it came to pass. The land of that -prince had great renown of fine flowers and delicious fruits, ever -unfolding in new colours and sweeter flavours the life that was shed -among them by the tree of trees. - - -I - -Something like the marvel of this tale may be read in the history of -the Bible. No other book in the world has had such a strange vitality, -such an outgoing power of influence and inspiration. Not only has it -brought to the countries in whose heart it has been set new ideals of -civilization, new models of character, new conceptions of virtue and -hopes of happiness; but it has also given new impulse and form to the -shaping imagination of man, and begotten beauty in literature and the -other arts. - -Suppose, for example, that it were possible to dissolve away all the -works of art which clearly owe their being to thoughts, emotions, or -visions derived from the Bible,—all sculpture like Donatello’s “David” -and Michelangelo’s “Moses”; all painting like Raphael’s “Sistine Madonna” -and Murillo’s “Holy Family”; all music like Bach’s “Passion” and Handel’s -“Messiah”; all poetry like Dante’s “Divine Comedy” and Milton’s “Paradise -Lost,”—how it would impoverish the world! - -The literary influence of the Bible appears the more wonderful when we -consider that it is the work of a race not otherwise potent or famous in -literature. We do not know, of course, what other books may have come -from the Jewish nation and vanished with whatever of power or beauty they -possessed; but in those that remain there is little of exceptional force -or charm for readers outside of the Hebrew race. They have no broad human -appeal, no universal significance, not even any signal excellence of form -and imagery. Josephus is a fairly good historian, sometimes entertaining, -but not comparable to Herodotus or Thucydides or Tacitus or Gibbon. The -Talmuds are vast storehouses of things new and old, where a careful -searcher may now and then find a legendary gem or a quaint fragment of -moral tapestry. In histories of mediæval literature, Ibn Ezra of Toledo -and Rashi of Lunel are spoken of with respect. In modern letters, works -as far apart as the philosophical treatises of Spinoza and the lyrics of -Heinrich Heine have distinction in their kind. No one thinks that the -Hebrews are lacking in great and varied talents; but how is it that in -world-literature their only contribution that counts is the Bible? And -how is it that it counts so immensely? - -It is possible to answer by saying that in the Old Testament we have a -happily made collection of the best things in the ancient literature -of the Jews, and in the New Testament we have another anthology of the -finest of the narratives and letters which were produced by certain -writers of the same race under a new and exceedingly powerful spiritual -impulse. The Bible is excellent because it contains the cream of Hebrew -thought. But this answer explains nothing. It only restates the facts in -another form. How did the cream rise? How did such a collection come to -be made? What gives it unity and coherence underneath all its diversity? -How is it that, as a clear critic has well said, “These sixty books, with -all their varieties of age, authorship, literary form, are, when properly -arranged, felt to draw together with a unity like the connectedness of a -dramatic plot?” - -There is an answer, which if it be accepted, carries with it a solution -of the problem. - -Suppose a race chosen by some process of selection (which need not -now be discussed or defined) to develop in its strongest and most -absolute form that one of man’s faculties which is called the religious -sense, to receive most clearly and deeply the impression of the unity, -spirituality, and righteousness of a Supreme Being present in the world. -Imagine that race moving through a long and varied experience under this -powerful impression, now loyal to it, now rebelling against it, now -misinterpreting it, now led by the voice of some prophet to understand -it more fully and feel it more profoundly, but never wholly losing it -for a single generation. Imagine the history of that race, its poetry, -the biography of its famous men and women, the messages of its moral -reformers, conceived and written in constant relation to that strongest -factor of conscious life, the sense of the presence and power of the -Eternal. - -Suppose, now, in a time of darkness and humiliation, that there rises -within that race a prophet who declares that a new era of spiritual light -has come, preaches a new revelation of the Eternal, and claims in his own -person to fulfil the ancient hopes and promises of a divine deliverer -and redeemer. Imagine his followers, few in number, accepting his -message slowly and dimly at first, guided by companionship with him into -a clearer understanding and a stronger belief, until at last they are -convinced that his claims are true, and that he is the saviour not only -of the chosen people, but also of the whole world, the revealer of the -Eternal to mankind. Imagine these disciples setting out with incredible -courage to carry this message to all nations, so deeply impressed with -its truth that they are supremely happy to suffer and die for it, so -filled with the passion of its meaning that they dare attempt to remodel -the life of the world with it. Suppose a human story like this underneath -the writing of the books which are gathered in the Bible, and you have -an explanation—it seems to me the only reasonable explanation—of their -surpassing quality and their strange unity. - -This story is not a mere supposition: its general outline, stated in -these terms, belongs to the realm of facts which cannot reasonably be -questioned. What more is needed to account for the story itself, what -potent and irresistible reality is involved in this record of experience, -I do not now ask. This is not an estimate of the religious authority of -the Bible, nor of its inspiration in the theological sense of that word, -but only of something less important, though no less real—its literary -influence. - - -II - -The fountain-head of the power of the Bible in literature lies in its -nearness to the very springs and sources of human life—life taken -seriously, earnestly, intensely; life in its broadest meaning, including -the inward as well as the outward; life interpreted in its relation -to universal laws and eternal values. It is this vital quality in the -narratives, the poems, the allegories, the meditations, the discourses, -the letters, gathered in this book, that gives it first place among the -books of the world not only for currency, but also for greatness. - -For the currency of literature depends in the long run upon the breadth -and vividness of its human appeal. And the greatness of literature -depends upon the intensive significance of those portions of life which -it depicts and interprets. Now, there is no other book which reflects so -many sides and aspects of human experience as the Bible, and this fact -alone would suffice to give it a world-wide interest and make it popular. -But it mirrors them all, whether they belong to the chronicles of kings -and conquerors, or to the obscure records of the lowliest of labourers -and sufferers, in the light of a conviction that they are all related -to the will and purpose of the Eternal. This illuminates every figure -with a divine distinction, and raises every event to the _n_th power of -meaning. It is this fact that gives the Bible its extraordinary force as -literature and makes it great. - -_Born in the East and clothed in Oriental form and imagery, the Bible -walks the ways of all the world with familiar feet and enters land after -land to find its own everywhere. It has learned to speak in hundreds -of languages to the heart of man. It comes into the palace to tell the -monarch that he is a servant of the Most High, and into the cottage -to assure the peasant that he is a son of God. Children listen to its -stories with wonder and delight, and wise men ponder them as parables -of life. It has a word of peace for the time of peril, a word of comfort -for the day of calamity, a word of light for the hour of darkness. Its -oracles are repeated in the assembly of the people, and its counsels -whispered in the ear of the lonely. The wicked and the proud tremble -at its warning, but to the wounded and the penitent it has a mother’s -voice. The wilderness and the solitary place have been made glad by it, -and the fire on the hearth has lit the reading of its well-worn page. It -has woven itself into our deepest affections and coloured our dearest -dreams; so that love and friendship, sympathy and devotion, memory and -hope, put on the beautiful garments of its treasured speech, breathing of -frankincense and myrrh._ - -_Above the cradle and beside the grave its great words come to us -uncalled. They fill our prayers with power larger than we know, and the -beauty of them lingers on our ear long after the sermons which they -adorned have been forgotten. They return to us swiftly and quietly, like -doves flying from far away. They surprise us with new meanings, like -springs of water breaking forth from the mountain beside a long-trodden -path. They grow richer, as pearls do when they are worn near the heart._ - -_No man is poor or desolate who has this treasure for his own. When the -landscape darkens and the trembling pilgrim comes to the Valley named -of the Shadow, he is not afraid to enter: he takes the rod and staff of -Scripture in his hand; he says to friend and comrade, “Good-by; we shall -meet again”; and comforted by that support, he goes toward the lonely -pass as one who walks through darkness into light._ - -It would be strange indeed if a book which has played such a part in -human life had not exercised an extraordinary influence upon literature. -As a matter of fact, the Bible has called into existence tens of -thousands of other books devoted to the exposition of its meaning, -the defense and illustration of its doctrine, the application of its -teaching, or the record of its history. The learned Fabricius, in the -early part of the eighteenth century, published a _catalogue raisonné_ -of such books, filling seven hundred quarto pages.[1] Since that time -the length of the list has probably more than trebled. In addition, we -must reckon the many books of hostile criticism and contrary argument -which the Bible has evoked, and which are an evidence of revolt against -the might of its influence. All this tangle of Biblical literature has -grown up around it like a vast wood full of all manner of trees, great -and small, useful and worthless, fruit-trees, timber-trees, berry-bushes, -briers, and poison-vines. But all of them, even the most beautiful and -tall, look like undergrowth, when we compare them with the mighty oak of -Scripture, towering in perennial grandeur, the father of the forest. - -Among the patristic writers there were some of great genius like Origen -and Chrysostom and Augustine. The mediæval schools of theology produced -men of philosophic power, like Anselm and Thomas Aquinas; of spiritual -insight, like the author of the _Imitatio Christi_. The eloquence of -France reached its height in the discourses of Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and -Massillon. German became one of the potent tongues of literature when -Martin Luther used it in his tracts and sermons, and Herder’s _Geist der -hebräischen Poesie_ is one of the great books in criticism. In English, -to mention such names as Hooker and Fuller and Jeremy Taylor is to recall -the dignity, force, and splendour of prose at its best. Yet none of -these authors has produced anything to rival the book from which they -drew their common inspiration. - -In the other camp, though there have been many brilliant assailants, not -one has surpassed, or even equalled, in the estimation of the world, the -literary excellence of the book which they attacked. The mordant wit -of Voltaire, the lucid and melancholy charm of Renan, have not availed -to drive or draw the world away from the Bible; and the effect of all -assaults has been to leave it more widely read, better understood, and -more intelligently admired than ever before. - -Now it must be admitted that the same thing is true, at least in some -degree, of other books which are held to be sacred or quasi-sacred: -they are superior to the distinctively theological literature which has -grown up about them. I suppose nothing of the Mussulmans is as great as -the “Koran,” nothing of the Hindus as great as the “Vedas”; and though -the effect of the Confucian classics, from the literary point of view, -may not have been altogether good, their supremacy in the religious -library of the Chinese is unquestioned. But the singular and noteworthy -thing about the influence of the Bible is the extent to which it has -permeated general literature, the mark which it has made in all forms of -belles-lettres. To treat this subject adequately one would need to write -volumes. In this chapter I can touch but briefly on a few points of the -outline as they come out in English literature. - - -III - -In the Old-English period, the predominant influence of the Scriptures -may be seen in the frequency with which the men of letters turned to -them for subjects, and in the Biblical colouring and texture of thought -and style. Cædmon’s famous “Hymn” and the other poems like “Genesis,” -“Exodus,” “Daniel,” and “Judith,” which were once ascribed to him; -Cynewulf’s “Crist,” “The Fates of the Apostles,” “The Dream of the -Rood”; Ælfric’s “Homilies” and his paraphrases of certain books of -Scripture—these early fruits of our literature are all the offspring of -the Bible. - -In the Middle-English period, that anonymous masterpiece “Pearl” is -full of the spirit of Christian mysticism, and the two poems called -“Cleanness” and “Patience,” probably written by the same hand, are free -and spirited versions of stories from the Bible. “The Vision of Piers the -Plowman,” formerly ascribed to William Langland, but now supposed by some -scholars to be the work of four or five different authors, was the most -popular poem of the latter half of the fourteenth century. It is a vivid -picture of the wrongs and sufferings of the labouring man, a passionate -satire on the corruptions of the age in church and state, an eloquent -appeal for a return to truth and simplicity. The feeling and the imagery -of Scripture pervade it with a strange power and charm; in its reverence -for poverty and toil it leans closely and confidently upon the example of -Jesus; and at the end it makes its ploughman hero appear in some mystic -way as a type, first of the crucified Saviour, and then of the church -which is the body of Christ. - -It was about this time, the end of the fourteenth century, that John -Wyclif and his disciples, feeling the need of the support of the Bible in -their work as reformers, took up and completed the task of translating -it entirely into the English tongue of the common people. This rude but -vigourous version was revised and improved by John Purvey. It rested -mainly upon the Latin version of St. Jerome. At the beginning of the -sixteenth century William Tindale made an independent translation of -the New Testament from the original Greek, a virile and enduring piece -of work, marked by strength and simplicity, and setting a standard for -subsequent English translations. Coverdale’s version of the Scriptures -was published in 1535, and was announced as made “out of Douche and -Latyn”; that is to say, it was based upon the German of Luther and the -Zurich Bible, and upon the Vulgate of St. Jerome; but it owed much to -Tindale, to whose manly force it added a certain music of diction and -grace of phrase which may still be noted in the Psalms as they are -rendered in the Anglican Prayer-Book. Another translation, marked by -accurate scholarship, was made by English Puritans at Geneva, and still -another, characterized by a richer Latinized style, was made by English -Catholics living in exile at Rheims, and was known as “the Douai -Version,” from the fact that it was first published in its complete form -in that city in 1609-1610. - -Meantime, in 1604, a company of scholars had been appointed by King James -I in England to make a new translation “out of the original tongues, and -with the former translations diligently compared and revised.” These -forty-seven men had the advantage of all the work of their predecessors, -the benefit of all the discussion over doubtful words and phrases, and -the “unearned increment” of riches which had come into the English -language since the days of Wyclif. The result of their labours, published -in 1611, was the so-called “Authorized Version,” a monument of English -prose in its prime: clear, strong, direct, yet full of subtle rhythms -and strange colours; now moving as simply as a shepherd’s song, in the -Twenty-third Psalm; now marching with majestic harmonies, in the book -of Job; now reflecting the lowliest forms of human life, in the Gospel -stories; and now flashing with celestial splendours in the visions of -the Apocalypse; vivid without effort; picturesque without exaggeration; -sinewy without strain; capable alike of the deepest tenderness and the -most sublime majesty; using a vocabulary of only six thousand words to -build a book which, as Macaulay said, “if everything else in our language -should perish, would alone suffice to show the whole extent of its beauty -and power.” - -The literary excellence of this version, no doubt, did much to increase -the influence of the Bible in literature and confirm its place as the -central book in the life of those who speak and write the English tongue. -Consider a few of the ways in which this influence may be traced. - - -IV - -First of all, it has had a general effect upon English writing, helping -to preserve it from the opposite faults of vulgarity and affectation. -Coleridge long ago remarked upon the tendency of a close study of the -Bible to elevate a writer’s style. There is a certain naturalness, -inevitableness, propriety of form to substance, in the language of -Scripture which communicates to its readers a feeling for the fitness -of words; and this in itself is the first requisite of good writing. -Sincerity is the best part of dignity. - -The English of our Bible is singularly free from the vice of preciosity: -it is not far-sought, overnice, elaborate. Its plainness is a rebuking -contrast to all forms of euphuism. It does not encourage a direct -imitation of itself; for the comparison between the original and the copy -makes the latter look pale and dull. Even in the age which produced the -authorized version, its style was distinct and remarkable. As Hallam has -observed, it was “not the English of Daniel, of Raleigh, or Bacon.” It -was something larger, at once more ancient and more modern, and therefore -well fitted to become not an invariable model, but an enduring standard. -Its words come to it from all sources; they are not chosen according -to the foolish theory that a word of Anglo-Saxon origin is always -stronger and simpler than a Latin derivative. Take the beginning of the -Forty-sixth Psalm: - -“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. -Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the -mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof -roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling -thereof.” - -Or take this passage from the Epistle to the Romans: - -“Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love; in honour -preferring one another; not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; -serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing -instant in prayer; distributing to the necessity of saints; given to -hospitality.” - -Here is a style that adapts itself by instinct to its subject, and -whether it uses Saxon words like “strength” and “help” and “love” and -“hope,” or Latin words like “refuge” and “trouble” and “present” and -“fervent” and “patient” and “prayer” and “hospitality,” weaves them into -a garment worthy of the thought. - -The literary influence of a great, popular book written in such a style -is both inspiring and conservative. It survives the passing modes of -prose in each generation, and keeps the present in touch with the past. -It preserves a sense of balance and proportion in a language whose perils -lie in its liberties and in the indiscriminate use of its growing wealth. -And finally it keeps a medium of communication open between the learned -and the simple; for the two places where the effect of the Bible upon the -English language may be most clearly felt are in the natural speech of -the plain people and in the finest passages of great authors. - - -V - -Following this line of the influence of the Bible upon language as the -medium of literature, we find, in the next place, that it has contributed -to our common speech a great number of phrases which are current -everywhere. Sometimes these phrases are used in a merely conventional -way. They serve as counters in a long extemporaneous prayer, or as -padding to a page of dull and pious prose. But at other times they -illuminate the sentence with a new radiance; they clarify its meaning -with a true symbol; they enhance its value with rich associations; they -are “sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.” - -Take for example such phrases as these: “a good old age,” “the wife -of thy bosom,” “the apple of his eye,” “gathered to his fathers,” “a -mother in Israel,” “a land flowing with milk and honey,” “the windows -of heaven,” “the fountains of the great deep,” “living fountains of -waters,” “the valley of decision,” “cometh up as a flower,” “a garden -enclosed,” “one little ewe lamb,” “thou art the man,” “a still, small -voice,” “as the sparks fly upward,” “swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,” -“miserable comforters,” “the strife of tongues,” “the tents of Kedar,” -“the cry of the humble,” “the lofty looks of man,” “the pride of life,” -“from strength to strength,” “as a dream when one awaketh,” “the wings -of the morning,” “stolen waters,” “a dinner of herbs,” “apples of gold -in pictures of silver,” “better than rubies,” “a lion in the way,” -“vanity of vanities,” “no discharge in that war,” “the little foxes that -spoil the vines,” “terrible as an army with banners,” “precept upon -precept, line upon line,” “as a drop of a bucket,” “whose merchants are -princes,” “trodden the wine-press alone,” “the rose of Sharon and the -lily of the valley,” “the highways and hedges,” “the salt of the earth,” -“the burden and heat of the day,” “the signs of the times,” “a pearl of -great price,” “what God hath joined together,” “the children of light,” -“the powers that be,” “if the trumpet give an uncertain sound,” “the -fashion of this world,” “decently and in order,” “a thorn in the flesh,” -“labour of love,” “a cloud of witnesses,” “to entertain angels unawares,” -“faithful unto death,” “a crown of life.” Consider also those expressions -which carry with them distinctly the memory of some ancient story: “the -fleshpots of Egypt,” “manna in the wilderness,” “a mess of pottage,” -“Joseph’s coat,” “the driving of Jehu,” “the mantle of Elijah,” “the -widow’s mite,” “the elder brother,” “the kiss of Judas,” “the house of -Martha,” “a friend of publicans and sinners,” “many mansions,” “bearing -the cross.” Into such phrases as these, which are familiar to us all, the -Bible has poured a wealth of meaning far beyond the measure of the bare -words. They call up visions and reveal mysteries. - - -VI - -Direct, but not always accurate, quotations from Scripture and allusions -to Biblical characters and events are very numerous in English -literature. They are found in all sorts of books. Professor Albert T. -Cook has recently counted sixty-three in a volume of descriptive sketches -of Italy, twelve in a book on wild animals, and eighteen in a novel by -Thomas Hardy. A special study of the Biblical references in Tennyson has -been made,[2] and more than five hundred of them have been found. - -Bishop Charles Wordsworth has written a book on _Shakespeare’s Knowledge -and Use of the Bible_,[3] and shown “how fully and how accurately the -general tenor of the facts recorded in the sacred narrative was present -to his mind,” and “how Scriptural are the conceptions which Shakespeare -had of the being and attributes of God, of His general and particular -Providence, of His revelation to man, of our duty toward Him and toward -each other, of human life and of human death, of time and of eternity.” -It is possible that the bishop benevolently credits the dramatist with a -more invariable and complete orthodoxy than he possessed. But certainly -Shakespeare knew the Bible well, and felt the dramatic value of allusions -and illustrations which were sure to be instantly understood by the plain -people. It is his Antonio, in _The Merchant of Venice_, who remarks that -“the Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,” evidently referring to -the Gospel story of the evil one who tried to tempt Jesus with a verse -from the Psalms. - -The references to the Bible in the poetry of Robert Browning have been -very carefully examined by Mrs. Machen in an admirable little book.[4] -It is not too much to say that his work is crowded with Scriptural -quotations, allusions, and imagery. He follows Antonio’s maxim, and makes -his bad characters, like Bishop Blougram and Sludge the Medium, cite -from Holy Writ to cloak their hypocrisy or excuse their villainy. In his -longest poem, _The Ring and the Book_, there are said to be more than -five hundred Biblical references. - -But more remarkable even than the extent to which this material drawn -from the Scriptures has been used by English writers, is the striking -effect which it produces when it is well used. With what pathos does Sir -Walter Scott, in _The Heart of Midlothian_, make old Davie Deans bow his -head when he sees his daughter Effie on trial for her life, and mutter to -himself, “Ichabod! my glory is departed!” How magnificently does Ruskin -enrich his _Sesame and Lilies_ with that passage from Isaiah in which the -fallen kings of Hades start from their thrones to greet the newly fallen -with the cry, “Art thou also become weak as we? Art thou become like -unto us?” How grandly do the images and thoughts of the last chapters of -Deuteronomy roll through Kipling’s _Recessional_, with its Scriptural -refrain, “Lest we forget!” - -There are some works of literature in English since the sixteenth century -which are altogether Biblical in subject and colouring. Chief among these -in prose is _The Pilgrim’s Progress_ of John Bunyan, and in verse, the -_Paradise Lost_, _Paradise Regained_, and _Samson Agonistes_ of John -Milton. These are already classics. Some day a place near them will be -given to Browning’s _Saul_ and _A Death in the Desert_; but for that we -must wait until their form has stood the test of time. - -In general it may be observed—and the remark holds good of the works -just mentioned—that a Scriptural story or poem is most likely to succeed -when it takes its theme, directly or by suggestion, from the Bible, and -carries it into a region of imagination, a border-realm, where the author -is free to work without paraphrase or comparison with the sacred writers. -It is for this reason that both _Samson Agonistes_ and _Paradise Lost_ -are superior to _Paradise Regained_. - - -VII - -The largest and most important influence of the Bible in literature lies -beyond all these visible effects upon language and style and imagery -and form. It comes from the strange power of the book to nourish and -inspire, to mould and guide, the inner life of man. “_It finds me_,” -said Coleridge; and the word of the philosopher is one that the plain man -can understand and repeat. - -The hunger for happiness which lies in every human heart can never be -satisfied without righteousness; and the reason why the Bible reaches -down so deep into the breast of man is because it brings news of a -kingdom which _is_ righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. It -brings this news not in the form of a dogma, a definition, a scientific -statement, but in the form of literature, a living picture of experience, -a perfect ideal embodied in a Character and a Life. And because it does -this, it has inspiration for those who write in the service of truth and -humanity. - -The Bible has been the favourite book of those who were troubled and -downtrodden, and of those who bore the great burden of a great task. New -light has broken forth from it to lead the upward struggle of mankind -from age to age. Men have come back to it because they could not do -without it. Nor will its influence wane, its radiance be darkened, unless -literature ceases to express the noblest of human longings, the highest -of human hopes, and mankind forgets all that is now incarnate in the -central figure of the Bible,—the Divine Deliverer. - - - - -POETRY IN THE PSALMS - - -There are three ways in which we may read the Bible. - -We may come to it as the divinely inspired rule of faith and conduct. -This is the point of view from which it appears most precious to -religion. It gives us the word of God to teach us what to believe and how -to live. - -We may consider it as a collection of historical books, written under -certain conditions, and reflecting, in their contents and in their -language, the circumstances in which they were produced. This is the -aspect in which criticism regards the Bible; and its intellectual -interest, as well as its religious value, is greatly enhanced by a clear -vision of the truth about it from this point of view. - -We may study it also as literature. We may see in it a noble and -impassioned interpretation of nature and life, uttered in language -of beauty and sublimity, touched with the vivid colours of human -personality, and embodied in forms of enduring literary art. - -None of these three ways of studying the Bible is hostile to the others. -On the contrary, they are helpful to one another, because each of them -gives us knowledge of a real factor in the marvellous influence of the -Bible in the world. - -The true lover of the Bible has an interest in all the elements of -its life as an immortal book. He wishes to discern, and rightly to -appreciate, the method of its history, the spirit of its philosophy, the -significance of its fiction, the power of its eloquence, and the charm of -its poetry. He wishes this all the more because he finds in it something -which is not in any other book: a vision of God, a hope for man, and an -inspiration to righteousness which seem to him divine. As the worshipper -in the Temple would observe the art and structure of the carven beams of -cedar and the lily-work on the tops of the pillars the more attentively -because they beautified the house of his God, so the man who has a -religious faith in the Bible will study more eagerly and carefully the -literary forms of the book in which the Holy Spirit speaks forever. - -It is in this spirit that I wish to consider the poetical element in the -Psalms. The comfort, help, and guidance that they bring to our spiritual -life will not be diminished, but increased, by a perception of their -exquisite form and finish. If a king sent a golden cup full of cheering -cordial to a weary man, he might well admire the two-fold bounty of the -royal gift. The beauty of the vessel would make the draught more grateful -and refreshing. And if the cup were inexhaustible, if it filled itself -anew as often as it touched the lips, then the very shape and adornment -of it would become significant and precious. It would be an inestimable -possession, a singing goblet, a treasure of life. - -John Milton, whose faith in religion was as exalted as his mastery of -the art of poetry was perfect, has expressed in a single sentence the -spirit in which I would approach the poetic study of the Book of Psalms: -“Not in their divine arguments alone, but in the very critical art of -composition, the Psalms may be easily made to appear over all kinds of -lyric poetry incomparable.” - - -I - -Let us remember at the outset that a considerable part of the value of -the Psalms as poetry will lie beyond our reach. We cannot precisely -measure it, nor give it full appreciation, simply because we are dealing -with the Psalms only as we have them in our English Bible. This is a real -drawback; and it is well to understand clearly the two things that we -lose in reading the Psalms in this way. - -First, we lose the beauty and the charm of verse. This is a serious loss. -Poetry and verse are not the same thing, but they are so intimately -related that it is difficult to divide them. Indeed, according to certain -definitions of poetry, it would seem almost impossible. - -Yet who will deny that the Psalms as we have them in the English Bible -are really and truly poetical? - -The only way out of this difficulty that I can see is to distinguish -between verse as the formal element and imaginative emotion as the -essential element in poetry. In the original production of a poem, it -seems to me, it is just to say that the embodiment in metrical language -is a law of art which must be observed. But in the translation of a poem -(which is a kind of reflection of it in a mirror) the verse may be lost -without altogether losing the spirit of the poem. - -Take an illustration from another art. A statue has the symmetry of solid -form. You can look at it from all sides, and from every side you can see -the balance and rhythm of the parts. In a photograph this solidity of -form disappears. You see only a flat surface. But you still recognize it -as the reflection of a statue. - -The Psalms were undoubtedly written, in the original Hebrew, according to -a system of versification, and perhaps to some extent with forms of rhyme. - -The older scholars, like Lowth and Herder, held that such a system -existed, but could not be recovered. Later scholars, like Ewald, evolved -a system of their own. Modern scholarship, represented by such authors -as Professors Cheyne and Briggs, is reconstructing and explaining more -accurately the Hebrew versification. But, for the present at least, the -only thing that is clear is that this system must remain obscure to us. -It cannot be reproduced in English. The metrical versions of the Psalms -are the least satisfactory. The poet Cowley said of them, “They are so -far from doing justice to David that methinks they revile him worse -than Shimei.”[5] We must learn to appreciate the poetry in the Psalms -without the aid of those symmetries of form and sound in which they first -appeared. This is a serious loss. Poetry without verse is like a bride -without a bridal garment. - -The second thing that we lose in reading the Psalms in English is -something even more important. It is the heavy tax on the wealth of its -meaning, which all poetry must pay when it is imported from one country -to another, through the medium of translation. - -The most subtle charm of poetry is its suggestiveness; and much of -this comes from the magical power which words acquire over memory and -imagination, from their associations. This intimate and personal charm -must be left behind when a poem passes from one language to another. The -accompaniment, the harmony of things remembered and beloved, which the -very words of the song once awakened, is silent now. Nothing remains but -the naked melody of thought. If this is pure and strong, it will gather -new associations; as, indeed, the Psalms have already done in English, -so that their familiar expressions have become charged with musical -potency. And yet I suppose such phrases as “a tree planted by the rivers -of water,” “a fruitful vine in the innermost parts of the house,” “the -mountains round about Jerusalem,” can never bring to us the full sense of -beauty, the enlargement of heart, that they gave to the ancient Hebrews. -But, in spite of this double loss, in the passage from verse to prose and -from Hebrew to English, the poetry in the Psalms is so real and vital and -imperishable that every reader feels its beauty and power. - -It retains one valuable element of poetic form. This is that balancing -of the parts of a sentence, one against another, to which Bishop Lowth -first gave the familiar name of “parallelism.”[6] The effect of this -simple artifice, learned from Nature herself, is singularly pleasant -and powerful. It is the rise and fall of the fountain, the ebb and flow -of the tide, the tone and overtone of the chiming bell. The two-fold -utterance seems to bear the thought onward like the wings of a bird. A -German writer compares it very exquisitely to “the heaving and sinking of -the troubled heart.” - -It is this “parallelism” which gives such a familiar charm to the -language of the Psalms. Unconsciously, and without recognizing the nature -of the attraction, we grow used to the double cadence, the sound and the -echo, and learn to look for its recurrence with delight. - - O come let us sing unto the Lord; - Let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation, - Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving; - And make a joyful noise unto him with psalms. - -If we should want a plain English name for this method of composition we -might call it _thought-rhyme_. It is easy to find varied illustrations of -its beauty and of its power to emphasize large and simple ideas. - -Take for instance that very perfect psalm with which the book begins—a -poem so complete, so compact, so delicately wrought that it seems like a -sonnet. The subject is _The Two Paths_. - -The first part describes the way of the good man. It has three divisions. - -The first verse gives a description of his conduct by negatives—telling -us what he does not do. There is a triple thought-rhyme here. - - Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, - Nor standeth in the way of sinners, - Nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. - -The second verse describes his character positively, with a double -thought-rhyme. - - But his delight is in the law of the Lord; - And in his law doth he meditate day and night. - -The third verse tells us the result of this character and conduct, in a -fourfold thought-rhyme. - - He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water: - That bringeth forth his fruit in his season: - His leaf also shall not wither: - And whatsoever he doeth shall prosper. - -The second part of the psalm describes the way of the evil man. In the -fourth verse there is a double thought-rhyme. - - The ungodly are not so: - But are like the chaff which the wind driveth away. - -In the fifth verse the consequences of this worthless, fruitless, -unrooted life are shown, again with a double cadence of thought, the -first referring to the judgment of God, the second to the judgment of men. - - Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment: - Nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous. - -The third part of the psalm is a terse, powerful couplet, giving the -reason for the different ending of the two paths. - - For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: - But the way of the ungodly shall perish. - -The thought-rhyme here is one of contrast. - -A poem of very different character from this brief, serious, impersonal -sonnet is found in the Forty-sixth Psalm, which might be called a -National Anthem. Here again the poem is divided into three parts. - -The first part (verses first to third) expresses a sense of joyful -confidence in the Eternal, amid the tempests and confusions of earth. -The thought-rhymes are in couplets; and the second phrase, in each case, -emphasizes and enlarges the idea of the first phrase. - - God is our refuge and strength: - A very present help in trouble. - -The second part (verses fourth to seventh) describes the peace and -security of the city of God, surrounded by furious enemies, but rejoicing -in the Eternal Presence. The parallel phrases here follow the same rule -as in the first part. The concluding phrase is the stronger, the more -emphatic. The seventh verse gives the refrain or chorus of the anthem. - - The Lord of hosts is with us: - The God of Jacob is our refuge. - -The last part (verses eighth to tenth) describes in a very vivid and -concrete way the deliverance of the people that have trusted in the -Eternal. It begins with a couplet, like those which have gone before. -Then follow two stanzas of triple thought-rhymes, in which the thought is -stated and intensified with each repetition. - - He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth: - He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder: - He burneth the chariot in the fire. - - Be still, and know that I am God: - I will be exalted among the heathen: - I will be exalted in the earth. - -The anthem ends with a repetition of the refrain. - -A careful study of the Psalms, even in English, will enable the -thoughtful reader to derive new pleasure from them, by tracing the many -modes and manners in which this poetic form of thought-rhyme is used to -bind the composition together, and to give balance and harmony to the -poem. - -Another element of poetic form can be discerned in the Psalms, not -directly, in the English version, but by its effects. I mean the curious -artifice of alphabetic arrangement. It was a favourite practice among -Hebrew poets to begin their verses with the successive letters of the -alphabet, or sometimes to vary the device by making every verse in a -strophe begin with one letter, and every verse in the next strophe with -the following letter, and so on to the end. The Twenty-fifth and the -Thirty-seventh Psalms were written by the first of these rules; the One -Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm follows the second plan. - -Of course the alphabetic artifice disappears entirely in the English -translation. But its effects remain. The Psalms written in this manner -usually have but a single theme, which is repeated over and over again, -in different words and with new illustrations. They are kaleidoscopic. -The material does not change, but it is turned this way and that way, and -shows itself in new shapes and arrangements. These alphabetic psalms are -characterized by poverty of action and richness of expression. - - -II - -Milton has already reminded us that the Psalms belong to the second -of the three orders into which the Greeks, with clear discernment, -divided all poetry: the epic, the lyric, and the dramatic. The Psalms -are rightly called lyrics because they are chiefly concerned with the -immediate and imaginative expression of real feeling. It is the personal -and emotional note that predominates. They are inward, confessional, -intense; outpourings of the quickened spirit; self-revelations of the -heart. It is for this reason that we should never separate them in our -thought from the actual human life out of which they sprung. We must -feel the warm pulse of humanity in them in order to comprehend their -meaning and immortal worth. So far as we can connect them with the actual -experience of men, this will help us to appreciate their reality and -power. The effort to do this will make plain to us some other things -which it is important to remember. - -We shall see at once that the book does not come from a single writer, -but from many authors and ages. It represents the heart of man in -communion with God through a thousand years of history, from Moses to -Nehemiah, perhaps even to the time of the Maccabean revival. It is, -therefore, something very much larger and better than an individual book. - -It is the golden treasury of lyrics gathered from the life of the Hebrew -people, the hymn-book of the Jews. And this gives to it a singular and -precious quality of brotherhood. The fault, or at least the danger, of -modern lyrical poetry is that it is too solitary and separate in its -tone. It tends towards exclusiveness, over-refinement, morbid sentiment. -Many Christian hymns suffer from this defect. But the Psalms breathe a -spirit of human fellowship even when they are most intensely personal. -The poet rejoices or mourns in solitude, it may be, but he is not alone -in spirit. He is one of the people. He is conscious always of the ties -that bind him to his brother men. Compare the intense selfishness of the -modern hymn: - - I can but perish if I go; - I am resolved to try; - For if I stay away, I know - I shall forever die; - -with the generous penitence of the Fifty-first Psalm: - - Then will I teach transgressors thy way; - And sinners shall be converted unto thee. - -It is important to observe that there are several different kinds of -lyrics among the Psalms. Some of them are simple and natural outpourings -of a single feeling, like _A Shepherd’s Song about His Shepherd_, the -incomparable Twenty-third Psalm. - -This little poem is a perfect melody. It would be impossible to express -a pure, unmixed emotion—the feeling of joy in the Divine Goodness—more -simply, with a more penetrating lyrical charm. The “valley of the -death-shadow,” the “enemies” in whose presence the table is spread, are -but dimly suggested in the background. The atmosphere of the psalm is -clear and bright. The singing shepherd walks in light. The whole world is -the House of the Lord, and life is altogether gladness. - -How different is the tone, the quality, of the One Hundred and Nineteenth -Psalm! This is not a melody, but a harmony; not a song, but an ode. The -ode has been defined as “a strain of exalted and enthusiastic lyrical -verse, directed to a fixed purpose and dealing progressively with one -dignified theme.”[7] This definition precisely fits the One Hundred and -Nineteenth Psalm. - -Its theme is _The Eternal Word_. Every verse in the poem, except one, -contains some name or description of the law, commandments, testimonies, -precepts, statutes, or judgments of Jehovah. Its enthusiasm for the -Divine Righteousness never fails from beginning to end. Its fixed purpose -is to kindle in other hearts the flame of devotion to the one Holy Law. -It closes with a touch of magnificent pathos—a confession of personal -failure and an assertion of spiritual loyalty: - - I have gone astray like a lost sheep: - Seek thy servant: - For I do not forget thy commandments. - -The Fifteenth Psalm I should call a short didactic lyric. Its title is -_The Good Citizen_. It begins with a question: - - Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? - Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? - -This question is answered by the description of a man whose character -corresponds to the law of God. First there is a positive sketch in three -broad lines: - - He that walketh uprightly, - And worketh righteousness, - And speaketh truth in his heart. - -Then comes a negative characterization in a finely touched triplet: - - He that backbiteth not with his tongue, - Nor doeth evil to his neighbor, - Nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbor. - -This is followed by a couplet containing a strong contrast: - - In whose eyes a vile person is contemned: - But he honoureth them that fear the Lord. - -Then the description goes back to the negative style again and three more -touches are added to the picture: - - He that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not, - He that putteth not out his money to usury, - Nor taketh reward against the innocent. - -The poem closes with a single vigourous line, summing up the character of -the good citizen and answering the question of the first verse with a new -emphasis of security and permanence: - - He that doeth these things shall never be moved. - -The Seventy-eighth, One Hundred and Fifth, and One Hundred and Sixth -Psalms are lyrical ballads. They tell the story of Israel in Egypt, and -in the Wilderness, and in Canaan, with swift, stirring phrases, and with -splendid flashes of imagery. Take this passage from the Seventy-eighth -Psalm as an example: - - He clave the rocks in the wilderness, - _And gave them drink out of the great depths_. - - He brought streams also out of the rock, - _And caused waters to run down like rivers_. - - And they sinned yet more against him, - Provoking the Most High in the wilderness. - - _They tempted God in their hearts_, - Asking meat for their lust. - - Yea, they spake against God: - They said, _Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?_ - - Behold, he smote the rock that the waters gushed out, - And the streams overflowed; - - Can he give bread also? - Can he provide flesh for his people? - - Therefore the Lord heard and was wroth: - _So a fire was kindled against Jacob,_ - _And anger also came up against Israel:_ - Because they believed not in God, - And trusted not in his salvation: - - Though he had commanded the clouds from above, - And opened the doors of heaven, - And had rained down manna upon them to eat, - _And had given them of the corn of heaven,_ - _Man did eat angel’s food:_ - - He sent them meat to the full. - He caused an east wind to blow in the heaven, - And by his power he brought in the south wind. - _He rained flesh also upon them as dust,_ - _And feathered fowls like as the sand of the sea._ - - And he let it fall in the midst of their camp, - Round about their habitations; - So they did eat and were filled, - _For he gave them their own desire_. - - They were not estranged from their lust: - _But while the meat was yet in their mouths,_ - _The wrath of God came upon them, and slew the fattest of them_, - And smote down the chosen men of Israel. - -The Forty-fifth Psalm is a Marriage Ode: the Hebrew title calls it a -Love Song. It bears all the marks of having been composed for some royal -wedding-feast in Jerusalem. - -There are many nature lyrics among the Psalms. The Twenty-ninth is -notable for its rugged realism. It is a Song of Thunder. - - The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars: - Yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars of Lebanon: - He maketh them also to skip like a calf: - Lebanon and Sirion like a young unicorn. - -The One Hundred and Fourth, on the contrary, is full of calm sublimity -and meditative grandeur. - - O, Lord, my God, thou art very great: - Thou art clothed with honour and majesty: - - Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment; - Who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain. - -The Nineteenth is famous for its splendid comparison between “the starry -heavens and the moral law.” - -I think that we may find also some dramatic lyrics among the Psalms—poems -composed to express the feelings of an historic person, like David or -Solomon, in certain well-known and striking experiences of his life. That -a later writer should thus embody and express the truth dramatically -through the personality of some great hero of the past, involves no -falsehood. It is a mode of utterance which has been common to the -literature of all lands and of all ages. Such a method of composition -would certainly be no hindrance to the spirit of inspiration. The -Thirty-first Psalm, for instance, is ascribed by the title to David. But -there is strong reason, in the phraseology and in the spirit of the poem, -to believe that it was written by the Prophet Jeremiah. - - -III - -It is not to be supposed that our reverence for the Psalms in their -moral and religious aspects will make us put them all on the same level -poetically. There is a difference among the books of the New Testament -in regard to the purity and dignity of the Greek in which they are -written. There is a difference among St. Paul’s Epistles in regard to -the clearness and force of their style. There is a difference even among -the chapters of the same epistle in regard to the beauty of thought and -language. In the First Epistle to the Corinthians, the thirteenth chapter -is poetic, and the fourteenth is prosaic. Why should there not be a -difference in poetic quality among the Psalms? - -There is a difference. The honest reader will recognize it. It will be no -harm to him if he should have his favourites among the poems which have -been gathered from many centuries into this great collection. - -There are some, like the Twenty-seventh, the Forty-second, the -Forty-sixth, the Fifty-first, the Sixty-third, the Ninety-first, the -Ninety-sixth, the One Hundred and Third, the One Hundred and Seventh, -the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth, which rank with the noblest poetic -literature of the world. Others move on a lower level, and show the -traces of effort and constraint. There are also manifest alterations -and interpolations, which are not always improvements. Dr. Perowne, -who is one of the wisest and most conservative of modern commentators, -says, “Many of the Psalms have not come down to us in their original -form,”[8] and refers to the alterations which the Seventieth makes in -the Fortieth, and the Fifty-third in the Fourteenth. The last two verses -of the Fifty-first were evidently added by a later hand. The whole book, -in its present form, shows the marks of its compilation and use as the -Hymn-Book of the Jewish people. Not only in the titles, but also in the -text, we can discern the work of the compiler, critic, and adapter, -sometimes wise, but occasionally otherwise. - - -IV - -The most essential thing in the appreciation of the poetry in the -Psalms is the recognition of the three great spiritual qualities which -distinguish them. - -The first of these is the deep and genuine love of nature. The psalmists -delight in the vision of the world, and their joy quickens their senses -to read both the larger hieroglyphs of glory written in the stars and -the delicate tracings of transient beauty on leaf and flower; to hear -both the mighty roaring of the sea and the soft sweet laughter of the -rustling corn-fields. But in all these they see the handwriting and -hear the voice of God. It is His presence that makes the world sublime -and beautiful. The direct, piercing, elevating sense of this presence -simplifies, enlarges, and enables their style, and makes it different -from other nature-poetry. They never lose themselves, as Theocritus and -Wordsworth and Shelley and Tennyson sometimes do, in the contemplation -and description of natural beauty. They see it, but they always see -beyond it. Compare, for example, a modern versified translation with the -psalm itself: - - The spacious firmament on high, - With all the blue ethereal sky - And spangled heavens, a shining frame, - Their Great Original proclaim.[9] - -Addison’s descriptive epithets betray a conscious effort to make a -splendid picture. But the psalmist felt no need of this; a larger impulse -lifted him at once into “the grand style:” - - The heavens declare the glory of God; - And the firmament showeth his handiwork. - -The second quality of the poetry in the Psalms is their passionate sense -of the beauty of holiness. Keats was undoubtedly right in his suggestion -that the poet must always see truth in the form of beauty. Otherwise he -may be a philosopher, or a critic, or a moralist, but he is not a true -poet. But we must go on from this standpoint to the Platonic doctrine -that the highest form of beauty is spiritual and ethical. The poet must -also see beauty in the light of truth. It is the harmony of the soul with -the eternal music of the Good. And the highest poets are those who, like -the psalmists, are most ardently enamoured of righteousness. This fills -their songs with sweetness and fire incomparable and immortal: - - The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: - The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. - More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: - Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb. - -The third quality of the poetry of the Psalms is their intense joy in -God. No lover ever poured out the longings of his heart toward his -mistress more eagerly than the Psalmist voices his desire and thirst for -God. No conqueror ever sang of victory more exultantly than the Psalmist -rejoices in the Lord, who is his light and his salvation, the strength of -his life and his portion forever. - -After all, the true mission of poetry is to increase joy. It must, -indeed, be sensitive to sorrow and acquainted with grief. But it has -wings given to it in order that it may bear us up into the air of -gladness. - -There is no perfect joy without love. Therefore love-poetry is the best. -But the highest of all love-poetry is that which celebrates, with the -Psalms, - - that Love which is and was - My Father and my Brother and my God. - - - - -THE GOOD ENCHANTMENT OF CHARLES DICKENS - - -I - -There are four kinds of novels. - -First, those that are easy to read and hard to remember: the well-told -tales of no consequence, the cream-puffs of perishable fiction. - -Second, those that are hard to read and hard to remember: the -purpose-novels which are tedious sermons in disguise, and the love-tales -in which there is no one with whom it is possible to fall in love. - -Third, those that are hard to read and easy to remember: the books with a -crust of perverse style or faulty construction through which the reader -must break in order to get at the rich and vital meaning. - -Fourth, those that are easy to read and easy to remember: the novels in -which stories worth telling are well-told, and characters worth observing -are vividly painted, and life is interpreted to the imagination in -enduring forms of literary art. These are the best-sellers which do not -go out of print—everybody’s books. - -In this fourth class healthy-minded people and unprejudiced critics -put the novels of Charles Dickens. For millions of readers they have -fulfilled what Dr. Johnson called the purpose of good books, to teach us -to enjoy life or help us to endure it. They have awakened laughter and -tears. They have enlarged and enriched existence by revealing the hidden -veins of humour and pathos beneath the surface of the every-day world, -and by giving “the freedom of the city” to those poor prisoners who had -thought of it only as the dwelling-place of so many hundred thousand -inhabitants and no real persons. - -What a city it was that Dickens opened to us! London, of course, in -outward form and semblance,—the London of the early Victorian epoch, with -its reeking Seven Dials close to its perfumed Piccadilly, with its grimy -river-front and its musty Inns of Court and its mildly rural suburbs, -with its rollicking taverns and its deadly solemn residential squares and -its gloomy debtors’ prisons and its gaily insanitary markets, with all -its consecrated conventions and unsuspected hilarities,—vast, portentous, -formal, merry, childish, inexplicable, a wilderness of human homes and -haunts, ever thrilling with sincerest passion, mirth, and pain,—London it -was, as the eye saw it in those days, and as the curious traveller may -still retrace some of its vanishing landmarks and fading features. - -But it was more than London, after Dickens touched it. It was an -enchanted city, where the streets seemed to murmur of joy or fear, -where the dark faces of the dens of crime scowled or leered at you, and -the decrepit houses doddered in senility, and the new mansions stared -you down with stolid pride. Everything spoke or made a sign to you. -From red-curtained windows jollity beckoned. From prison-doors lean -hands stretched toward you. Under bridges and among slimy piers the -river gurgled, and chuckled, and muttered unholy secrets. Across trim -front-yards little cottages smiled and almost nodded their good-will. -There were no dead spots, no deaf and dumb regions. All was alive and -significant. Even the real estate became personal. One felt that it -needed but a word, a wave of the wand, to bring the buildings leaping, -roistering, creeping, tottering, stalking from their places. - -It was an enchanted city, and the folk who filled it and almost, -but never quite, crowded it to suffocation, were so intensely and -supernaturally human, so blackly bad, so brightly good, so touchingly -pathetic, so supremely funny, that they also were creatures of -enchantment and seemed to come from fairy-land. - -For what is fairy-land, after all? It is not an invisible region, an -impossible place. It is only the realm of the hitherto unobserved, the -not yet realized, where the things we have seen but never noticed, and -the persons we have met but never known, are suddenly “translated,” like -Bottom the Weaver, and sent forth upon strange adventures. - -That is what happens to the Dickens people. Good or bad they surpass -themselves when they get into his books. That rotund Brownie, -Mr. Pickwick, with his amazing troupe; that gentle compound of -Hop-o’-my-Thumb and a Babe in the Wood, Oliver Twist, surrounded by -wicked uncles, and hungry ogres, and good fairies in bottle-green coats; -that tender and lovely Red Riding-Hood, Little Nell; that impetuous -Hans-in-Luck, Nicholas Nickleby; that intimate Cinderella, Little Dorrit; -that simple-minded Aladdin, Pip; all these, and a thousand more like -them, go rambling through Dickensopolis and behaving naturally in a most -extraordinary manner. - -Things that have seldom or never happened, occur inevitably. The -preposterous becomes the necessary, the wildly improbable is the one -thing that must come to pass. Mr. Dombey is converted, Mr. Krook is -removed by spontaneous combustion, Mr. Micawber performs amazing feats -as an amateur detective, Sam Weller gets married, the immortally absurd -epitaphs of Young John Chivery and Mrs. Sapsea are engraved upon -monuments more lasting than brass. - -The fact is, Dickens himself was bewitched by the spell of his own -imagination. His people carried him away, did what they liked with him. -He wrote of Little Nell: “You can’t imagine how exhausted I am to-day -with yesterday’s labours. I went to bed last night utterly dispirited and -done up. All night I have been pursued by the child; and this morning I -am unrefreshed and miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself.... I -think the close of the story will be great.” Again he says: “As to the -way in which these characters have opened out [in _Martin Chuzzlewit_], -that is to me one of the most surprising processes of the mind in this -sort of invention. Given what one knows, what one does not know springs -up; and I am _as absolutely certain of its being true, as I am of the law -of gravitation_—if such a thing is possible, more so.” - -Precisely such a thing (as Dickens very well understood) is not only -possible, but unavoidable. For what certainty have we of the law of -gravitation? Only by hearsay, by the submissive reception of a process -of reasoning conducted for us by Sir Isaac Newton and other vaguely -conceived men of science. The fall of an apple is an intense reality -(especially if it falls upon your head); but the law which regulates its -speed is for you an intellectual abstraction as remote as the idea of a -“combination in restraint of trade,” or the definition of “art for art’s -sake.” Whereas the irrepressible vivacity of Sam Weller, and the unctuous -hypocrisy of Pecksniff, and the moist humility of Uriah Heep, and the -sublime conviviality of Dick Swiveller, and the triumphant make-believe -of the Marchioness are facts of experience. They have touched you, and -you cannot doubt them. The question whether they are actual or imaginary -is purely academic. - -Another fairy-land feature of Dickens’s world is the way in which minor -personages of the drama suddenly take the centre of the stage and hold -the attention of the audience. It is always so in fairy-land. - -In _The Tempest_, what are Prospero and Miranda, compared with Caliban -and Ariel? In _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, who thinks as much of Oberon -and Titania, as of Puck, and Bottom the Weaver? Even in an historical -drama like Henry IV, we feel that Falstaff is the most historic character. - -Dickens’s first lady and first gentleman are often less memorable than -his active supernumeraries. A hobgoblin like Quilp, a good old nurse -like Peggotty, a bad old nurse like Sairey Gamp, a volatile elf like Miss -Mowcher, a shrewd elf and a blunder-headed elf like Susan Nipper and Mr. -Toots, a good-natured disreputable sprite like Charley Bates, a malicious -gnome like Noah Claypole, a wicked ogre like Wackford Squeers, a pair -of fairy-godmothers like the Cheeryble Brothers, a dandy ouphe like Mr. -Mantalini, and a mischievous, wooden-legged kobold like Silas Wegg, take -stronger hold upon us than the Harry Maylies and Rose Flemings, the John -Harmons and Bella Wilfers, for whose ultimate matrimonial felicity the -business of the plot is conducted. Even the more notable heroes often -pale a little by comparison with their attendants. Who remembers Martin -Chuzzlewit as clearly as his servant Mark Tapley? Is Pip, with his Great -Expectations, half as delightful as his clumsy dry-nurse Joe Gargery? Has -even the great Pickwick a charm to compare with the unique, immortal Sam -Weller? - -Do not imagine that Dickens was unconscious of this disarrangement of -rôles, or that it was an evidence of failure on his part. He knew -perfectly well what he was doing. Great authors always do. They cannot -help it, and they do not care. Homer makes Agamemnon and Priam the kings -of his tale, and Paris the first walking gentleman and Helen the leading -lady. But Achilles and Ajax and Hector are the bully boys, and Ulysses is -the wise jester, and Thersites the tragic clown. As for Helen,— - - The face that launched a thousand ships, - And burnt the topless towers of Ilium— - -her reputed pulchritude means less to us than the splendid womanhood of -Andromache, or the wit and worth of the adorable matron Penelope. - -Now this unconventionality of art, which disregards ranks and titles, -even those of its own making, and finds the beautiful and the absurd, the -grotesque and the picturesque, the noble and the base, not according to -the programme but according to the fact, is precisely the essence of good -enchantment. - -Good enchantment goes about discovering the ass in the lion’s skin and -the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the princess in the goose-girl and the -wise man under the fool’s cap, the pretender in the purple robe and the -rightful heir in rags, the devil in the belfry and the Redeemer among -the publicans and sinners. It is the spirit of revelation, the spirit of -divine sympathy and laughter, the spirit of admiration, hope, and love—or -better still, it is simply the spirit of life. - -When I call this the essence of good enchantment I do not mean that it is -unreal. I mean only that it is _unrealistic_, which is just the opposite -of unreal. It is not in bondage to the beggarly elements of form and -ceremony. It is not captive to names and appearances, though it revels -in their delightful absurdity. It knows that an idol is nothing, and -finds all the more laughter in its pompous pretence of being something. -It can afford to be merry because it is in earnest; it is happy because -it has not forgotten how to weep; it is content because it is still -unsatisfied; it is humble in the sense of unfathomed faults and exalted -in the consciousness of inexhaustible power; it calls nothing common or -unclean; it values life for its mystery, its surprisingness, and its -divine reversals of human prejudice,—just like Beauty and the Beast and -the story of the Ugly Duckling. - -This, I say, is the essence of good enchantment; and it is also the -essence of true religion. “For God hath chosen the foolish things of the -world to confound the wise, and the weak things of the world to confound -the mighty, and base things of the world and things which are despised, -yea, and _things which are not, to bring to naught things which are._” - -This is also the essence of real democracy, which is not a theory of -government but a state of mind. - -No one has ever expressed it better than Charles Dickens did in a speech -which he made at Hartford, Connecticut, seventy years ago. “I have -faith,” said he, “and I wish to diffuse faith in the existence—yes, -of beautiful things, even in those conditions of society which are so -degenerate, so degraded and forlorn, that at first sight it would seem as -though it could only be described by a strange and terrible reversal of -the words of Scripture—God said let there be light, and there was none. -I take it that we are born, and that we hold our sympathies, hopes, and -energies in trust for the Many and not the Few. That we cannot hold in -too strong a light of disgust and contempt, before our own view and that -of others, all meanness, falsehood, cruelty, and oppression of every -grade and kind. Above all, that nothing is high because it is in a high -place; and that nothing is low because it is in a low place. This is the -lesson taught us in the great book of Nature. This is the lesson which -may be read alike in the bright track of the stars, and in the dusty -course of the poorest thing that drags its tiny length upon the ground.” - -This was the creed of Dickens; and like every man’s creed, conscious or -unconscious, confessed or concealed, it made him what he was. - -It has been said that he had no deep philosophy, no calmly reasoned -and clearly stated theory of the universe. Perhaps that is true. Yet I -believe he hardly missed it. He was too much interested in living to be -anxious about a complete theory of life. Perhaps it would have helped -him when trouble came, when domestic infelicity broke up his home, if he -could have climbed into some philosopher’s ivory tower. Perhaps not. I -have observed that even the most learned and philosophic mortals, under -these afflictions, sometimes fail to appreciate the consolations of -philosophy to any noticeable extent. From their ivory towers they cry -aloud, being in pain, even as other men. - -But it was certainly not true (even though his biographer wrote it, and -it has been quoted a thousand times), that just because Dickens cried -aloud, “there was for him no ‘city of the mind’ against outward ills, for -inner consolation and shelter.” He was not cast out and left comfortless. -Faith, hope, and charity—these three abode with him. His human sympathy, -his indomitable imagination, his immense and varied interest in the -strange adventures of men and women, his unfaltering intuition of the -truer light of God that burns - - In this vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, - Heart, or whatever else—— - -these were the celestial powers and bright serviceable angels that built -and guarded for him a true “city of refuge,” secure, inviolate, ever open -to the fugitive in the day of his calamity. Thither he could flee to -find safety. There he could ungird his heart and indulge - - Love and the thoughts that breathe for humankind; - -there he could laugh and sing and weep with the children, the -dream-children, which God had given him; there he could enter into his -work-shop and shut the door and lose himself in joyous labour which -should make the world richer by the gift of good books. And so he did, -even until the end came and the pen fell from his fingers, he sitting -safe in his city of refuge, learning and unfolding _The Mystery of Edwin -Drood_. - -O enchanted city, great asylum in the mind of man, where ideals are -embodied, and visions take form and substance to parley with us! -Imagination rears thy towers and Fancy populates thy streets; yet art -thou a city that hath foundations, a dwelling eternal though unseen. -Ever building, changing, never falling, thy walls are open-gated day -and night. The fountain of youth is in thy gardens, the treasure of the -humble in thy storehouses. Hope is thy doorkeeper, and Faith thy warden, -and Love thy Lord. In thee the wanderer may take shelter and find -himself by forgetting himself. In thee rest and refreshment are waiting -for the weary, and new courage for the despondent, and new strength for -the faint. From thy magic casements we have looked upon unknown horizons, -and we return from thy gates to our task, our toil, our pilgrimage, -with better and braver hearts, knowing more surely that the things -which are seen were not made of things which do appear, and that the -imperishable jewels of the universe are in the souls of men. O city of -good enchantment, for my brethren and companions’ sakes I will now say: -Peace be within thee! - - -II - -Of the outward appearance, or, as _Sartor Resartus_ would have called it, -the Time-Vesture and Flesh-Garment of that flaming light-particle which -was cast hither from Heaven in the person of Charles Dickens, and of his -ways and manners while he hasted jubilantly and stormfully across the -astonished Earth, something must be said here. - -Charles Dickens was born at Portsea, in 1812, an offspring of what the -accurate English call the “lower middle class.” Inheriting something -from a father who was decidedly Micawberish, and a mother who resembled -Mrs. Nickleby, Charles was not likely to be a humdrum child. But the -remarkable thing about him was the intense, aspiring, and gaily sensible -spirit with which he entered into the business of developing whatever -gifts he had received from his vague and amiable parents. - -The fat streak of comfort in his childish years, when his proud father -used to stand the tiny lad on a table to sing comic songs for an -applauding audience of relatives, could not spoil him. The lean streak -of misery, when the improvident family sprawled in poverty, with its -head in a debtors’ prison, while the bright, delicate, hungry boy roamed -the streets, or drudged in a dirty blacking-factory, could not starve -him. The two dry years of school at Wellington House Academy could not -fossilize him. The years from fifteen to nineteen, when he was earning -his bread as office-boy, lawyers’ clerk, shorthand reporter, could -not commercialize him. Through it all he burned his way painfully and -joyously. - -He was not to be detailed as a perpetual comic songster in upholstered -parlors; nor as a prosperous frock-coated citizen with fatty degeneration -of the mind; nor as a newspaper politician, a power beneath the -footstool. None of these alluring prospects delayed him. He passed them -by, observing everything as he went, now hurrying, now sauntering, for -all the world like a boy who has been sent somewhere. Where it was, he -found out in his twenty-fifth year, when the extraordinary results of his -self-education bloomed in the _Pickwick Papers_ and _Oliver Twist._ - -Never was a good thing coming out of Nazareth more promptly welcomed. -The simple-minded critics of that day had not yet discovered the damning -nature of popularity, and they hailed the new genius in spite of the fact -that hundreds of thousands of people were reading his books. His success -was exhilarating, overwhelming, and at times intoxicating. - - It was roses, roses all the way.— - -Some of them had thorns, which hurt his thin skin horribly, but they -never made him despair or doubt the goodness of the universe. Being -vexed, he let it off in anger instead of distilling it into pessimism to -poison himself. Life was too everlastingly interesting for him to be long -unhappy. A draught of his own triumph would restore him, a slice of his -own work would reinvigorate him, and he would go on with his industrious -dreaming. - -No one enjoyed the reading of his books more than he the making of them, -though he sometimes suffered keenly in the process. That was a proof of -his faith that happiness does not consist in the absence of suffering, -but in the presence of joy. Dulness, insincerity, stupid humbug—_voilà -l’ennemi!_ So he lived and wrote with a high hand and an outstretched -arm. He made men see what he saw, and hate what he hated, and love what -he loved. This was his great reward,—more than money, fame, or hosts of -friends,—that he saw the children of his brain enter into the common life -of the world. - -[Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS AS CAPTAIN BOBADIL IN “EVERY MAN IN HIS -HUMOUR.” - -Painted by C. R. Leslie.] - -But he was not exempt from the ordinary laws of nature. The conditions of -his youth left their marks for good and evil on his maturity. The petting -of his babyhood gave him the habit of showing off. We often see him as -a grown man, standing on the table and reciting his little piece, or -singing his little song, to please an admiring audience. He delighted in -playing to the galleries. - -His early experience of poverty made him at once tremendously sympathetic -and invincibly optimistic—both of which virtues belong to the poor -more than to the rich. Dickens understood this and never forgot it. -The chief moralities of his poor people are mutual helpfulness and -unquenchable hopefulness. From them, also, he caught the tone of material -comfort which characterizes his visions of the reward of virtue. Having -known cold and hunger, he simply could not resist the desire to make -his favourite characters—if they stayed on earth till the end of the -book—warm and “comfy,” and to give them plenty to eat and drink. This may -not have been artistic, but it was intensely human. - -The same personal quality may be noted in his ardour as a reformer. No -writer of fiction has ever done more to better the world than Charles -Dickens. But he did not do it by setting forth programmes of legislation -and theories of government. As a matter of fact, he professed an -amusing “contempt for the House of Commons,” having been a Parliamentary -reporter; and of Sir Robert Peel, who emancipated the Catholics, -enfranchised the Jews, and repealed the Corn Laws, he thought so little -that he caricatured him as Mr. Pecksniff. - -Dickens felt the evils of the social order at the precise point where -the shoe pinched; he did not go back to the place where the leather was -tanned or the last designed. It was some practical abuse in poorhouses -or police-courts or prisons; it was some hidden shame in the conduct of -schools, or the renting of tenements; it was some monumental absurdity -in the Circumlocution Office, some pompous and cruel delay in the course -of justice, that made him hot with indignation. These were the things -that he assailed with Rabelaisian laughter, or over which he wept with a -deeper and more sincere pity than that of Tristram Shandy. His idea was -that if he could get people to see that a thing was both ridiculous and -cruel, they would want to stop it. What would come after that, he did not -clearly know, nor had he any particularly valuable suggestions to make, -except the general proposition that men should do justly, and love mercy, -and walk humbly with their God. - -He took no stock in the doleful predictions of the politicians that -England was in an awful state merely because Lord Coodle was going out of -office, and Sir Thomas Doodle would not come in, and each of these was -the only man to save the country. The trouble seemed to him deeper and -more real. It was a certain fat-witted selfishness, a certain callous, -complacent blindness in the people who were likely to read his books. He -conceived that his duty as a novelist was done when he had shown up the -absurd and hateful things, and made people laugh at their ugliness, weep -over their inhumanity, and long to sweep them away. - -In this attitude, I think, Dickens was not only natural, and true to his -bringing-up, but also wise as a great artist in literature. For I have -observed that brilliant writers, while often profitable as satirists to -expose abuses, are seldom judicious as legislators to plan reforms. - -Before we leave this subject of the effects of Dickens’s early poverty -and sudden popularity, we must consider his alleged lack of refinement. -Some say that he was vulgar, others that he was ungrateful and -inconsiderate of the feelings of his friends and relations, others that -he had little or no taste. I should rather say, in the words of the old -epigram, that he had a great deal of taste, and that some of it was very -bad. - -Take the matter of his caricaturing real people in his books. No one -could object to his use of the grotesque insolence of a well-known London -magistrate as the foundation of his portrait of Mr. Fang in _Oliver -Twist._ That was public property. But the amiable eccentricities of his -own father and mother, the airy irresponsible ways of his good friend -Leigh Hunt, were private property. Yet even here Dickens could not -reasonably be blamed for observing them, for being amused by them, or for -letting them enrich his general sense of the immense, incalculable, and -fantastic humour of the world. Taste, which is simply another name for -the gusto of life, has a comic side; and a man who is keenly sensitive -to everything cannot be expected to be blind to the funny things that -happen among his family and friends. But when Dickens used these private -delights for the public amusement, and in such a form that the partial -portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, Mrs. Nickleby, and Harold Skimpole -were easily identified, all that we can say is that his taste was still -there, but it had gone bad. What could you expect? Where, in his early -years, was he likely to have learned the old-fashioned habit of reserve -in regard to private affairs, which you may call either a mark of good -manners, or a sign of silly pride, according to your own education? - -Or take his behavior during his first visit to America in 1842, and -immediately after his return to England. His reception was enough to turn -anybody’s head. “There never was a king or emperor,” wrote Dickens to a -friend, “so cheered and followed by crowds, and entertained at splendid -balls and dinners, and waited upon by public bodies of all kinds.” This -was at the beginning. At the end he was criticized by all, condemned -by many, and abused by some of the newspapers. Why? Chiefly because -he used the dinners given in his honour as occasions to convict the -Americans of their gross national sin of literary piracy, and because -when he got home he wrote a book of _American Notes_, containing some -very severe strictures upon the country which had just entertained him so -magnificently. - -Mr. Chesterton defends Dickens for his attack upon the American practice -of book-stealing which grew out of the absence of an International -Copyright Law. He says that it was only the new, raw sensibility of the -Americans that was hurt by these speeches. “Dickens was not in the least -desirous of being thought too ‘high-souled’ to want his wages.... He -asked for his money in a valiant and ringing voice, like a man asking for -his honour.” And this, Mr. Chesterton leaves us to infer, is what any -bold Englishman, as distinguished from a timidly refined American, would -do. - -Precisely. But if the bold Englishman had been gently-bred would he have -accepted an invitation to dinner in order that he might publicly say -to his host, in a valiant and ringing voice, “You owe me a thousand -pounds”? Such procedure at the dinner-table is contrary not only to good -manners but also to good digestion. This is what Mr. Chesterton’s bold -British constitution apparently prevents him from seeing. What Dickens -said about international copyright was right. But he was wretchedly wrong -in his choice of the time and place for saying it. The natural irritation -which his bad taste produced was one of the causes which delayed for -fifty years the success of the efforts of American authors to secure -copyright for foreign authors. - -The same criticism applies to the _American Notes_. Read them again and -you will see that they are not bad notes. With much that he says about -Yankee boastfulness and superficiality, and the evils of slavery, and the -dangers of yellow journalism, every sane American will agree to-day. But -the occasion which Dickens took for making these remarks was not happily -chosen. It was as if a man who had just been entertained at your house -should write to thank you for the pleasure of the visit, and improve the -opportunity to point out the shocking defects of your domestic service -and the exceedingly bad tone which pervaded your establishment. Such a -“bread-and-butter letter” might be full of good morals, but their effect -would be diminished by its bad manners. Of this Dickens was probably -quite unconscious. He acted spontaneously, irrepressibly, vivaciously, -in accordance with his own taste; and it surprised and irritated him -immensely that people were offended by it. - -It was precisely so in regard to his personal appearance. When the time -suddenly arrived that he could indulge his taste in dress without fear of -financial consequences, he did so hilariously and to the fullest extent. -Here is a description of him as he appeared to an American girl at an -evening party in Cincinnati eighty years ago. “He is young and handsome, -has a mellow beautiful eye, fine brow and abundant hair.... His manner -is easy and negligent, but not elegant. His dress was foppish.... He had -a dark coat with lighter pantaloons; a black waistcoat embroidered with -coloured flowers; and about his neck, covering his white shirt-front, -was a black neck-cloth also embroidered with colours, on which were two -large diamond pins connected by a chain; a gold watch-chain and a large -red rose in his buttonhole completed his toilet.” - -The young lady does not seem to have been delighted with this costume. -But Dickens did not dress to please her, he dressed to please himself. -His taste was so exuberant that it naturally effervesced in this kind -of raiment. There was certainly nothing immoral about it. He had paid -for it and he had a right to wear it, for to him it seemed beautiful. He -would have been amazed to know that any young lady did not like it; and -her opinion would probably have had little effect upon him, for he wrote -of the occasion on which this candid girl met him, as follows: “In the -evening we went to a party at Judge Walker’s and were introduced to at -least one hundred and fifty first-rate bores, separately and singly.” - -But what does it all amount to, this lack of discretion in manners, this -want of reserve in speech, this oriental luxuriance in attire? It simply -goes to show that _Dickens himself was a Dickens character_. - -He was vivid, florid, inexhaustible, and untamed. There was material -in the little man for a hundred of his own immortal caricatures. The -self-portrait that he has drawn in _David Copperfield_ is too smooth, -like a retouched photograph. That is why David is less interesting than -half-a-dozen other people in the book. If Dickens could have seen his -own humourous aspects in the magic mirror of his fancy, it would have -been among the richest of his observations, and if he could have let -his enchantment loose upon the subject, not even the figures of Dick -Swiveller and Harold Skimpole would have been more memorable than the -burlesque of “Boz” by the hand of C. D. - -But the humourous, the extravagant, the wildly picturesque,—would these -have given a true and complete portrait of the man? Does it make any -great difference what kind of clothes he wore, or how many blunders -of taste and tact he made, even tragic blunders like his inability to -refrain from telling the world all about his domestic unhappiness,—does -all this count for much when we look back upon the wonders which his -imagination wrought in fiction, and upon the generous fruits which his -heart brought forth in life? - -It is easy to endure small weaknesses when you can feel beneath them the -presence of great and vital power. Faults are forgiven readily in one -who has the genius of loving much. Better many blunders than the supreme -mistake of a life that is - - Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. - -Charles Dickens never made, nor indeed was tempted to make, that mistake. -He carried with him the defects of his qualities, the marks of his early -life, the penalties of his bewildering success. But, look you, _he -carried them_—they did not crush him nor turn him from his true course. -Forward he marched, cheering and beguiling the way for his comrades -with mirthful stories and tales of pity, lightening many a burden and -consoling many a dark and lonely hour, until he came at last to the -goal of honour and the haven of happy rest. Those who knew him best saw -him most clearly as Carlyle did: “The good, the gentle, high-gifted, -ever-friendly, noble Dickens,—every inch of him an Honest Man.” - - -III - -As an artist in fiction Dickens was great; but not because he had a -correct theory of the technique of the novel, not because he always -followed good rules and models in writing, nor because he was one - - Who saw life steadily and saw it whole. - -On the contrary, his vision of life, though vivid, was almost always -partial. He was capable of doing a great deal of bad work, which he -himself liked. The plots of his novels, on which he toiled tremendously, -are negligible; indeed it is often difficult to follow and impossible to -remember them. The one of his books that is notably fine in structure and -approximately faultless in technique—_A Tale of Two Cities_—is so unlike -his other novels that it stands in a class by itself, as an example of -what he could have done if he had chosen to follow that line. In a way it -is his most perfect piece of work. But it is not his most characteristic -piece of work, and therefore I think it has less value for us than some -of his other books in which his peculiar, distinctive, unrivalled powers -are more fully shown. - -After all, art must not only interpret the world but also reveal the -artist. The lasting interest of his vision, its distinction, its charm, -depend, at least in some real degree, upon the personal touch. Being -himself a part of the things that are seen, he must “paint the thing _as -he sees it_” if he wishes to win the approval of “the God of things as -they are.” - -Now the artistic value of Dickens’s way of seeing things lay in its -fitness to the purpose which he had in mind and heart,—a really great -purpose, namely, to enhance the interest of life by good enchantment, -to save people from the plague of dulness and the curse of indifference -by showing them that the world is full of the stuff for hearty laughter -and deep sympathy. This way of seeing things, with constant reference -to their humourous and sentimental potency, was essential to the genius -of Dickens. His method of making other people see it was strongly -influenced, if not absolutely determined, by two facts which seemed to -lie outside of his career as an author: first, his training as a reporter -for the press; second, his favourite avocation as an amateur actor, -stage-manager, and dramatic reader. - -The style of Dickens at its best is that of an inspired reporter. It -is rapid, graphic, pictorial, aiming always at a certain heightening -of effect, making the shadows darker and the lights brighter for the -purpose of intensifying sensation. He did not get it in the study but -in the street. Take his description in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ of Todgers’s -Boarding House with its complicated smells and its mottled shades of -dinginess; or take his picture in _Little Dorrit_ of Marseilles burning -in the August sunlight with its broad, white, universal stare. Here is -the art of journalism,—the trick of intensification by omission,—carried -to the limit. He aims distinctly at a certain effect, and he makes sure -of getting it. - -He takes long walks in the heart of London, attends police courts, goes -behind the scenes of theatres, rides in omnibuses, visits prisons and -workhouses. You think he is seeking realism. Quite wrong. He is seeking a -sense of reality which shall make realism look cheap. He is not trying to -put up canned goods which shall seem more or less like fresh vegetables. -He is trying to extract the essential flavour of places and people so -that you can taste it in a drop. - -We find in his style an accumulation of details all bearing on a certain -point; nothing that serves his purpose is overlooked; everything that is -likely to distract the attention or obscure his aim is disregarded. The -head-lines are in the text. When the brute, Bill Sykes, says to Nancy: -“Get up,” you know what is coming. When Mrs. Todgers gives a party to Mr. -Pecksniff you know what is coming. But the point is that when it comes, -tragedy or comedy, it is as pure and unadulterated as the most brilliant -of reporters could make it. - -Naturally, Dickens puts more emphasis upon the contrast between -his characters than upon the contrast within them. The internal -inconsistencies and struggles, the slow processes of growth and change -which are the delight of the psychological novelist do not especially -interest him. He sees things black or white, not gray. The objects that -attract him most, and on which he lavishes his art, do not belong to -the average, but to the extraordinary. Dickens is not a commonplace -merchant. He is a dealer in oddities and rarities, in fact the keeper -of an “Old Curiosity Shop,” and he knows how to set forth his goods with -incomparable skill. - -His drawing of character is sharp rather than deep. He makes the figure -stand out, always recognizable, but not always thoroughly understood. -Many of his people are simply admirable incarnations of their particular -trades or professions: Mould the undertaker, old Weller the coachman, -Tulkinghorn the lawyer, Elijah Program the political demagogue, Blimber -the school-master, Stiggins the religious ranter, Betsey Prig the -day-nurse, Cap’n Cuttle the retired skipper. They are all as easy -to identify as the wooden image in front of a tobacconist’s shop. -Others are embodiments of a single passion or quality: Pecksniff of -unctuous hypocrisy, Micawber of joyous improvidence, Mr. Toots of dumb -sentimentalism, Little Dorrit of the motherly instinct in a girl, Joe -Gargery of the motherly instinct in a man, Mark Tapley of resolute and -strenuous optimism. If these persons do anything out of harmony with -their head-lines, Dickens does not tell of it. He does not care for the -incongruities, the modifications, the fine shadings which soften and -complicate the philosophic and reflective view of life. He wants to write -his “story” sharply, picturesquely, with “snap” and plenty of local -colour; and he does it, in his happiest hours, with all the _verve_ and -skill of a star reporter for the _Morning Journal_ of the Enchanted City. - -In this graphic and emphatic quality the art of Dickens in fiction -resembles the art of Hogarth in painting. But Dickens, like Hogarth, was -much more than a reporter. He was a dramatist, and therefore he was also, -by necessity, a moralist. - -I do not mean that Dickens had a dramatic genius in the Greek sense that -he habitually dealt with the eternal conflict between human passion and -inscrutable destiny. I mean only this: that his lifelong love for the -theatre often led him, consciously or unconsciously, to construct the -_scenario_ of a story with a view to dramatic effect, and to work up the -details of a crisis precisely as if he saw it in his mind’s eye on the -stage. - -Notice how the _dramatis personæ_ are clearly marked as comic, or tragic, -or sentimental. The moment they come upon the scene you can tell whether -they are meant to appeal to your risibilities or to your sensibilities. -You are in no danger of laughing at the heroine, or weeping over the -funny man. Dickens knows too much to leave his audience in perplexity. -He even gives to some of his personages set phrases, like the musical -_motifs_ of the various characters in the operas of Wagner, by which you -may easily identify them. Mr. Micawber is forever “waiting for something -to turn up.” Mr. Toots always reminds us that “it’s of no consequence.” -Sairey Gamp never appears without her imaginary friend Mrs. Harris. Mrs. -General has “prunes and prism” perpetually on her lips. - -Observe, also, how carefully the scene is set, and how wonderfully the -preparation is made for a dramatic climax in the story. If it is a comic -climax, like the trial of Mr. Pickwick for breach of promise, nothing is -forgotten, from the hysterics of the obese Mrs. Bardell to the feigned -indignation of Sergeant Buzfuz over the incriminating phrase “chops and -tomato sauce!” - -If it is a tragic climax, like the death of Bill Sykes, a score of dark -premonitions lead up to it, the dingiest slum of London is chosen for -it, the grimy streets are filled with a furious crowd to witness it, and -just as the murderer is about to escape, the ghostly eyes of his victim -glare upon him, and he plunges from the roof, tangled in his rope, to be -hanged by the hand of the Eternal Judge as surely as if he stood upon the -gallows. - -Or suppose the climax is not one of shame and terror, but of pure pity -and tenderness, like the death of Little Nell. Then the quiet room is -prepared for it, and the white bed is decked with winter berries and -green leaves that the child loved because they loved the light; and -gentle friends are there to read and talk to her, and she sleeps herself -away in loving dreams, and the poor old grandfather, whom she has guided -by the hand and comforted, kneels at her bedside, wondering why his dear -Nell lies so still, and the very words which tell us of her peace and his -grief, move rhythmically and plaintively, like soft music with a dying -fall. - -Close the book. The curtain descends. The drama is finished. The master -has had his way with us; he has made us laugh; he has made us cry. We -have been at the play. - -But was it not as real to us while it lasted as many of the scenes in -which we actors daily take our parts? And did it not mellow our spirits -with mirth, and soften our hearts with tears? And now that it is over are -we not likely to be a little better, a little kinder, a little happier -for what we have laughed at or wept over? - -Ah, master of the good enchantment, you have given us hours of ease -and joy, and we thank you for them. But there is a greater gift than -that. You have made us more willing to go cheerfully and companionably -along the strange, crowded, winding way of human life, because you have -deepened our faith that there is something of the divine on earth, and -something of the human in heaven. - - - - -THACKERAY AND REAL MEN - - -In that fragrant bunch of _Theodore Roosevelt’s Letters to His Children_ -which has just brightened and sweetened our too sadly strenuous times -there are some passages on novel-reading which are full of spirited good -sense. He says that he can read _Pendennis_, and _The Newcomes_, and -_Vanity Fair_ over and over again; he agrees with his boy in preferring -Thackeray to Dickens, and then he gives the reason—or at least _a_ -reason—for this preference: - -“Of course one fundamental difference ... is that Thackeray was a -gentleman and Dickens was not.” - -The damnatory clause in this sentence seems to me too absolute, though -Roosevelt softens it by adding, “but a man might do some mighty good work -without being in any sense a gentleman.” That is certainly true, and -beyond a doubt Dickens did it—a wonderful plenty of it. It is also true -that in several perfectly good senses he was a brave and kind gentleman, -despite his faults in manners and dress. - -But it is the laudatory clause in Roosevelt’s judgment that interests me. -Thackeray’s work is pervaded with his personality to an unusual degree. -It is a saturated solution of the man. We can taste him in every page. -And it is because we like the taste, because we find something strong -and true, bracing and stimulant in it, that we love to read him. ’Tis -like being with a gentleman in any enterprise or adventure; it gives us -pleasure and does us unconscious good. - -Well, then, what do we mean by “a gentleman?” Tennyson calls it - - The grand old name of gentleman - Defamed by every charlatan, - And soil’d with all ignoble use. - -In the big New Oxford Dictionary there is more than a pageful of -definitions of the word, and almost every English essayist has tried a -shot at it. One thing is sure, its old hereditary use as a title of rank -or property is going out, or already gone. “John Jones, Gent.,” is a -vanishing form of address. More and more the word is coming to connote -something in character and conduct. Inheritance may enter into it, and -the sense of honour has a great part in it, and its outward and visible -sign is an unassuming fitness of behaviour in the various circumstances -of life. But its indispensable essence is reality; its native speech, -sincerity; and its controlling spirit, good-will. - -Let us content ourselves with a description instead of a definition. -A gentleman is a real man who deals honestly, bravely, frankly, and -considerately with all sorts and conditions of other real men. - -This is Thackeray’s very mark and quality. We can feel it all through his -life and works. Everything real in the world he recognized and accepted, -even though he might not always like it. But the unreal people and -things—the pretenders, the hypocrites, the shams, and the frauds (whether -pious or impious)—he detested and scoffed away. Reality was his quest -and his passion. He followed it with unfailing interest, penetration, -and good temper. He found it, at least in humankind, always mixed and -complicated, never altogether good nor altogether bad, no hero without a -fault, and no villain without a germ of virtue. Life is really made that -way. The true realist is not the materialist, the five-sense naturalist, -but the man who takes into account the human soul and God as ultimate -realities. - -Thackeray’s personal life had nothing that was remarkable and much that -was admirable. It was simply the background of his genius. He was a -child of the upper-middle class in England—if you know just what that -means. He went to the Charterhouse School in London (which he afterward -immortalized as Greyfriars in _The Newcomes_), and illustrated his -passion for reality by getting his nose broken in a fight, which gave -his face a permanent Socratic cast. At Cambridge University he seems to -have written much and studied little, but that little to good purpose. He -inherited a modest fortune, which he spent, not in riotous living, but in -travel, art study in Paris, and in the most risky of all extravagances, -the starting of new periodicals. When this failed and his money was gone, -he lived in London as a hack-writer. - -His young wife was taken from him by that saddest of all -bereavements—the loss of her mind. It became necessary to place her in a -private sanitarium, where she outlived her husband by thirty years. To -her, and to the two little daughters whom she left him, Thackeray was -faithful and devoted. He never complained, never flinched into an easy -way of escape from his burden. He bent his back to it, and, in spite of -natural indolence, he worked hard and was cheerful. - -He made a host of friends and kept them, as Stevenson puts it, “without -capitulation.” Of course, this grim condition implies some frictions and -some dislikes, and from these Thackeray was not exempt. The satire which -was his first mode in writing was too direct and pungent to be relished -by those who had any streak of self-humbug in their make-up. But, so far -as I know, he had only one serious literary quarrel—that unhappy dispute -with Mr. Edmund Yates, in which Dickens, with the best intentions in the -world, became, unfortunately, somewhat involved. Thackeray might perhaps -have been more generous and forgiving—he could have afforded that luxury. -But he could not have been more honest and frank, more real, than he -was. Being very angry, and for a just cause, he said so in plain words. -Presently the tempest passed away. When Thackeray died in 1863, Dickens -wrote: - -“No one can be surer than I of the greatness and goodness of his heart.” - -The first period of his life as a man of letters was given almost -entirely to satirical and fragmentary writing, under various _noms de -guerre_. Hence, he remained for a long time in comparative poverty and -obscurity, from which he stepped into fame and prosperity with the -publication of his first large novel, _Vanity Fair_, in 1847-48. It was -like turning the corner of Grub Street and coming into Glory Avenue. - -Henceforth the way was open, though not easy. The succession of his -big, welcome novels was slow, steady, unbroken. Each one brought him -thousands of new readers, and the old ones were _semper fideles_, even -when they professed a preference for the earlier over the later volumes. -His lecture tours in Great Britain and the United States were eminently -successful—more so, I think, than those of Charles Dickens. They may have -brought in less money, but more of what old William Caxton, the prince -of printers, called “good fame and renommee.” The last of his completed -books, and one of his most delightful, was _Roundabout Papers_—a volume -of essays that has no superior in English for a light, firm, friendly -touch upon the realities of life. His last story begun was _Denis Duval_, -and on this he was working when he laid down his pen on Christmas Eve, -1863, and fell asleep for the last time. - -It was Edmund Yates who wrote of him then: - -“Thackeray was dead; and the purest English prose writer of the -nineteenth century and the novelist with a greater knowledge of the human -heart, as it really is, than any other—with the exception perhaps of -Shakespeare and Balzac—was suddenly struck down in the midst of us.” - -_The human heart as it really is_—there’s the point! That is what -Thackeray sought to know, to understand, to reveal, and—no! not to -explain, nor to judge and sentence—for that, as he well knew, was far -beyond him or any of us—but his desire was to _show_ the real heart -of man, in its various complexities and perplexities, working its -way through the divers realities and unrealities in which we are all -entangled. - -The acute French critic, Edmond Scherer, distinguished and divided -between George Eliot as “a novelist of character,” and Thackeray as “a -novelist of manners.” The epithet will pass only if we take the word in -the sense of William of Wykeham’s motto, “Manners makyth man.” - -For, as surely as there is something in the outward demeanour which -unveils and discloses the person within, even so surely is there -something in behaviour, the habitual mode of speech and conduct, which -moulds the man using it. A false behaviour weaves a texture of lies into -the warp of his nature. A true behaviour weakens the hold of his own -self-delusions, and so helps him to know what he really is—which is good -for him and for others. - -It was in this sense that Thackeray was interested in manners, and -depicted them in his books. Go with him to a ball, and you arrive at the -hour of unmasking; to a club, and you are aware of the thoughts under -the conversation; to a play, and you pass behind the footlights and the -paint; to a death-bed, and—well, do you remember the death of Helen in -_Pendennis_? and of the Colonel in _The Newcomes_? Foolish critics speak -of these last two passages as “scenes.” Scenes! By Heaven! no, they are -realities. We can feel those pure souls passing. - -Let us follow this clew of the passion for reality through the three -phases of Thackeray’s work. - - -I - -At first he is the indefatigable satirist, rejoicing in the assault. -Youth is almost always inclined that way—far more swift and sweeping in -judgment, more severe in condemnation, than maturity or age. Thackeray -writes much that is merely amusing, full of high spirits and pure fun, in -his first period. But his main business is to expose false pretensions, -false methods, false principles in literature and life; to show up the -fakers, to ridicule the humbugs, to convict the crooks of every rank and -degree. - -Here, for example, is a popular fashion of books with criminals and -burglars for heroes and heroines, portrayed in the glamour of romance. -Very well, our satirist, assuming the name of “Ikey Solomons, Esq.,” -will take a real criminal, a murderess, and show us the manner of life -she leads with her associates. So we have _Catherine_. Here is another -fashion of weaving a fiction about a _chevalier d’industrie_, a bold, -adventurous, conscienceless fellow who pursues his own pleasure with a -swagger, and makes a brave show hide a mean and selfish heart. Very well, -a fellow of this kidney shall tell his own story and show himself in his -habit as he lives, and as he dies in prison. So we have _The Memoirs of -Barry Lyndon, Esq._ Here are innumerable fashions of folly and falsehood -current not only in high society, but also in the region of respectable -mediocrity, and in the “world below-stairs.” Very well, our satirist, -under the name of “Jeames Yellowplush,” or “M. Angelo Titmarsh,” or -“Fitz-Boodle,” will show them up for us. So we have various bundles of -short stories, and skits, and sketches of travel, some of them bubbling -over with fun, some of them, like _Dennis Haggarty’s Wife_, touched with -quiet pathos. - -The culmination of this satiric period is _The Book of Snobs_, which -appeared serially in the London _Punch_, 1845-46. In order to understand -the quality and meaning of Thackeray’s satire—an element which stayed -with him all through his writing, though it was later subdued to its -proper place—we must take the necessary pains to know just what he meant -by a “snob.” - -A snob is an unreal person who tries to pass himself off for a real -person; a pretender who meanly admires and imitates mean things; an -ape of gentility. He is a specific variety of the great genus “Sham.” -Carlyle, the other notable English satirist of the nineteenth century, -attacked the whole genus with heavy artillery. Thackeray, with his light -cavalry of ridicule, assailed the species. - -All snobs are shams, but not all shams are snobs. The specific qualities -of the snob are developed only in countries where there are social -classes and distinctions, but no insuperable barriers between them. Thus -in native India with its immutable caste, or in Central Africa with its -general barbarism, I fancy it must be difficult to discover snobbism. -(Yet I have seen traces of it even among dogs and cats.) But in a country -like England or the United States of America, where society is arranged -in different stories, with staircases between, snobbism is frequent and -flourishing. - -_The snob is the man who tries to sneak up-stairs. He is the -surreptitious climber, the person who is ashamed to pass for what he is._ - -Has he been at an expensive college? He goes home and snubs his old -friends with allusions to the distinguished society he has been keeping. -Is he entertaining fashionable strangers? He gives them elaborate and -costly fare at the most aurivorous hotel, but at home his wife and -daughters may starve. He talks about books that he has never read, and -pretends to like music that sends him to sleep. At his worst, he says his -prayers on the street-corners and reviles his neighbour for sins which he -himself cherishes in secret. - -That is the snob: the particular species of sham whom Thackeray pursues -and satirizes through all his disguises and metamorphoses. He does it -unsparingly, yet never—or at least hardly ever—savagely. There is always -a strain of good humour in it, and often a touch of fellow-feeling for -the man himself, camouflaged under his affectations. It may not be worth -while—this kind of work. All satire is perishable. It has no more of the -immortal in it than the unreality which it aims to destroy. But some -shams die hard. And while they live and propagate, the arrows which hit -them fairly are not out of date. - -Stevenson makes a curious misjudgment of this part of Thackeray’s work, -when he says in his essay on “Some Gentlemen in Fiction”: - -“Personally [Thackeray] scarce appeals to us as the ideal gentleman; -if there were nothing else, perpetual nosing after snobbery at least -suggests the snob.” - -Most true, beloved R. L. S., but did you forget that this is precisely -what Thackeray himself says? He tells us not to be too quick or absolute -in our judgments; to acknowledge that we have some faults and failings -of our own; to remember that other people have sometimes hinted at a -vein, a trace, a vestige of snobbery in ourselves. Search for truth and -speak it; but, above all, no arrogance—_faut pas monter sur ses grands -chevaux_. Have you ever read the end of the lecture on “Charity and -Humour”? - -“The author ... has been described by _The London Times_ newspaper as a -writer of considerable parts, but a dreary misanthrope, who sees no good -anywhere, who sees the sky above him green, I think, instead of blue, and -only miserable sinners around him. _So we are, as is every writer and -reader I have heard of; so was every being who ever trod this earth, save -One._ I cannot help telling the truth as I view it, and describing what -I see. To describe it otherwise than it seems to me would be falsehood -in that calling in which it has pleased Heaven to place me; treason to -that conscience which says that men are weak; that truth must be told; -that faults must be owned; that pardon must be prayed for; and that Love -reigns supreme over all.” - - -II - -With _Vanity Fair_ begins what some one has called the _quadrilateral_ -on which Thackeray’s larger fame rests. The three other pillars are, -_Henry Esmond_, _Pendennis_, and _The Newcomes_. Which is the greatest of -these four novels? On this question there is dispute among critics, and -difference of opinion, even among avowed Thackerayans, who confess that -they “like everything he wrote.” Why try to settle the question? Why not -let the interesting, illuminating _causerie_ run on? In these furious -days when the hysteria of world-problems vexes us, it is good to have -some subjects on which we can dispute without ranting or raving. - -For my part, I find _Vanity Fair_ the strongest, _Pendennis_ the most -intimate, _The Newcomes_ the richest and in parts the most lovable, and -_Henry Esmond_ the most admirable and satisfying, among Thackeray’s -novels. But they all have this in common: they represent a reaction from -certain false fashions in fiction which prevailed at that time. From the -spurious romanticism of G. P. R. James and Harrison Ainsworth, from -the philosophic affectation of Bulwer, from the gilding and rococo-work -of the super-snob Disraeli—all of them popular writers of their -day—Thackeray turned away, not now as in his earlier period to satirize -and ridicule and parody them, but to create something in a different -_genre_, closer to the facts of life, more true to the reality of human -nature. - -We may read in the preface to _Pendennis_ just what he had in mind and -purpose: - -“Many ladies have remonstrated and subscribers left me, because, in the -course of the story, I described a young man resisting and affected by -temptation. My object was to say, that he had the passions to feel, and -the manliness and generosity to overcome them. You will not hear—it is -best to know it—what moves in the real world, what passes in society, in -the clubs, colleges, mess-rooms—what is the life and talk of your sons. -A little more frankness than is customary has been attempted in this -story; with no bad desire on the author’s part, it is hoped, and with no -ill consequence to any reader. If truth is not always pleasant, at any -rate truth is best, from whatever chair—from those whence graver writers -or thinkers argue, as from that at which the story-teller sits as he -concludes his labour, and bids his kind reader farewell.” - -[Illustration: WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. - -_Reproduced from the Kensington Edition of Thackeray’s Works._] - -It is amusing, in this age of art undressed, to read this modest -defense of frankness in fiction. Its meaning is very different -from the interpretation of it which is given by disciples of the -“show-everything-without-a-fig-leaf” school. - -Thackeray did not confuse reality with indecency. He did not think it -needful to make his hero cut his toe-nails or take a bath in public -in order to show him as a real man. The ordinary and common physical -details of life may be taken for granted; to obtrude them is to -exaggerate their importance. It is with the frailties and passions, -the faults and virtues, the defeats and victories of his men and women -that Thackeray deals. He describes Pendennis tempted without making -the description a new temptation. He brings us acquainted with Becky -Sharp, _enchanteresse_, without adding to her enchantment. We feel that -she is capable of anything; but we do not know all that she actually -did,—indeed Thackeray himself frankly confessed that even he did not -know, nor much care. - -The excellence of his character-drawing is that his men and women are not -mere pegs to hang a doctrine or a theory on. They have a life of their -own, independent of, and yet closely touching his. This is what he says -of them in his essay “_De Finibus_”: - -“They have been boarding and lodging with me for twenty months.... I know -the people utterly,—I know the sound of their voices.” - -Fault has been found with him (and that by such high authority as Mr. -Howells) for coming into his own pages so often with personal comment -or, “a word to the reader.” It is said that this disturbs the narrative, -breaks the illusion, makes the novel less convincing as a work of art. -Frankly, it does not strike me that way. On the contrary, it adds to the -verisimilitude. These men and women are so real to him that he cannot -help talking to us about them as we go along together. Is it not just -so in actual life, when you go with a friend to watch the passing show? -Do you think that what Thackeray says to you about Colonel Newcome, -or Captain Costigan, or Helen Pendennis, or Laura, or Ethel, or George -Warrington, makes them fade away? - -Yes, I know the paragraphs at the beginning and end of _Vanity Fair_ -about the showman and the puppets and the box. But don’t you see what the -parable means? It is only what Shakespeare said long ago: - - All the world’s a stage, - And all the men and women merely players. - -Nor would Thackeray have let this metaphor pass without adding to it -Pope’s fine line: - - Act well your part, there all the honour lies. - -Of course, there is another type of fiction in which running personal -comment by the author would be out of place. It is illustrated in Dickens -by _A Tale of Two Cities_, and in Thackeray by _Henry Esmond_. The -latter seems to me the most perfect example of a historical novel in all -literature. More than that,—it is, so far as I know, the best portrayal -of the character of a gentleman. - -The book presents itself as a memoir of Henry Esmond, Esq., a colonel in -the service of her Majesty, Queen Anne, written by himself. Here, then, -we have an autobiographical novel, the most difficult and perilous of all -modes of fiction. If the supposed author puts himself in the foreground, -he becomes egotistical and insufferable; if he puts himself in the -background, he becomes insignificant, a mere Chinese “property-man” in -the drama. This dilemma Thackeray avoids by letting Esmond tell his own -story in the third person—that is to say, with a certain detachment of -view, such as a sensible person would feel in looking back on his own -life. - -Rarely is this historic method of narration broken. I recall one -instance, in the last chapter, where Beatrix, after that tremendous scene -in the house of Castlewood with the Prince, reveals her true nature and -quits the room in a rage. The supposed author writes: - -“Her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too hard. As -he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have loved her.... -The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him and quitted the -chamber. _I have never seen her from that day._” - -Thackeray made this slip on purpose. He wanted us to feel the reality of -the man who is trying to tell his own story in the third person. - -This, after all, is the real value of the book. It is not only a -wonderful picture of the Age of Queen Anne, its ways and customs, its -manner of speech and life, its principal personages—the red-faced queen, -and peremptory Marlborough, and smooth Atterbury, and rakish Mohun, and -urbane Addison, and soldier-scholar Richard Steele—appearing in the -background of the political plot. It is also, and far more significantly, -a story of the honour of a gentleman—namely, Henry Esmond—carried through -a life of difficulty, and crowned with the love of a true woman, after a -false one had failed him. - -Some readers profess themselves disappointed with the dénouement of the -love-story. They find it unnatural and disconcerting that the hero should -win the mother and not the daughter as the guerdon of his devotion. Not -I. Read the story more closely. - -When it opens, in the house of Castlewood, Esmond is a grave, lonely -boy of twelve; Lady Castlewood, fair and golden-haired, is in the first -bloom of gracious beauty, twenty years old; Beatrix is a dark little minx -of four years. Naturally, Henry falls in love with the mother rather -than with the daughter, grows up as her champion and knight, defends -her against the rakishness of Lord Mohun, resolves for her sake to give -up his claim to the title and the estate. Then comes the episode of his -infatuation by the wonderful physical beauty of Beatrix, the vixen. That -madness ends with the self-betrayal of her letter of assignation with the -Prince, and her subsequent conduct. Esmond returns to his first love, his -young love, his true love, Lady Castlewood. Of its fruition let us read -his own estimate: - -“That happiness which hath subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in -words; it is of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, -though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the -One Ear alone—to one fond being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife -ever man was blessed with.” - - -III - -I have left myself scant space to speak of Thackeray’s third phase in -writing—his work as a moralist. But perhaps this is well, for, as he -himself said, (and as I have always tried to practise), the preacher must -be brief if he wishes to be heard. Five words that go home are worth more -than a thousand that wander about the subject. - -Thackeray’s direct moralizings are to be found chiefly in his lectures -on “The Four Georges,” “The English Humourists,” and in the “Roundabout -Papers.” He was like Lowell: as a scholastic critic he was far from -infallible, but as a vital interpreter he seldom missed the mark. - -After all, the essential thing in life for us as real men is to have a -knowledge of facts to correct our follies, an ideal to guide our efforts, -and a gospel to sustain our hopes. - -That was Thackeray’s message as moralist. It is expressed in the last -paragraph of his essay “_Nil Nisi Bonum_,” written just after the death -of Macaulay and Washington Irving: - -“If any young man of letters reads this little sermon—and to him, indeed, -it is addressed—I would say to him, ‘Bear Scott’s words in your mind, and -_be good, my dear_.’ Here are two literary men gone to their account, -and, _laus Deo_, as far as we know, it is fair, and open, and clean. -Here is no need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices -which would have been virtues but for unavoidable, etc. Here are two -examples of men most differently gifted—each pursuing his calling; each -speaking his truth as God bade him; each honest in his life; just and -irreproachable in his dealings; dear to his friends; honoured by his -country; beloved at his fireside. It has been the fortunate lot of both -to give incalculable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks -them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may -not be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or -rewarded with such fame. But the rewards of these men are rewards paid to -_our service_. We may not win the bâton or epaulettes; but God give us -strength to guard the honour of the flag!” - -With this supplication for myself and for others, I leave this essay on -Thackeray, the greatest of English novelists, to the consideration of -real men. - - - - -GEORGE ELIOT AND REAL WOMEN - - -George Eliot was a woman who wrote full-grown novels for men. - -Other women have done and are doing notable work in prose fiction—Jane -Austen, George Sand, Charlotte Brontë, Mrs. Stowe, Margaret Deland, -Edith Wharton, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Mrs. Humphry Ward—the list -might easily be extended, but it would delay us from the purpose of -this chapter. Let me rather make a general salute to all the sisterhood -who have risen above the indignity of being called “authoresses,” and, -without pursuing perilous comparisons, go directly to the subject in hand. - -What was it that enabled George Eliot to enter the field of the English -novel at a time when Dickens and Thackeray were at the height of their -fame, and win a place in the same class with them? - -It was certainly not the hide-and-seek of the sex of the new writer -under a pseudonym. You remember, opinions were divided on this -question. Carlyle and Thackeray thought that the author of _Scenes of -Clerical Life_ was a man. Dickens was sure that it was a woman. But a -mystification of this kind has no interest apart from the primary value -of the works of the unidentified writer in question. Nor does it last -long as an advertisement, unless the following books excel the first; -and, in that case, the secret is sure to be soon discovered. - -George Eliot’s success and distinction as a novelist were due to three -things: first, the preliminary and rather obvious advantage of having -genius; second, a method of thinking and writing which is commonly -(though perhaps arrogantly) called masculine; third, a quickness of -insight into certain things, a warmth of sympathy for suffering, and -an instinct of sacrifice which we still regard (we hope rightly) as -feminine. A man for logic, a woman for feeling, a genius for creative -power—that was a great alliance. But the womanhood kept the priority -without which it would not only have died out, but also have endangered, -in dying, the other qualities. Dickens was right when he said of certain -touches in the work of this pseudonymous writer: “If they originated with -no woman, I believe that no man ever before had the art of making himself -mentally so like a woman since the world began.” - -George Eliot’s profile resembled Savonarola’s. He was one of her heroes. -But she was not his brother. She was his sister in the spirit. - -Her essential femininity was the reason why the drawing of her women -surpassed the drawing of her men. It was more intimate, more revealing, -more convincing. She knew women better. She painted them of many types -and classes—from the peasant maid to the well-born lady, from the selfish -white cat to the generous white swan-sister; from the narrow-minded -Rosamund to the deep-hearted, broad-minded Romola; all types, I think, -but one—the lewdly carnal Circe. In all her books, with perhaps a single -exception, it is a woman who stands out most clearly from the carefully -studied and often complex background as the figure of interest. And even -in that one it is the slight form of Eppie, the golden-hearted girl who -was sent to save old Silas Marner from melancholy madness, that shines -brightest in the picture. - -The finest of her women—finest not in the sense of being faultless, but -of having in them most of that wonderful sacrificial quality which Goethe -called _das ewig Weibliche_—were those upon whose spiritual portraits -George Eliot spent her most loving care and her most graphic skill. - -She shows them almost always in the revealing light of love. But she -does not dwell meticulously on the symptoms or the course of the merely -physical attraction. She knows that it is there; she confesses that -it is potent. But it seems to her, (as indeed it really is,) far more -uniform and less interesting than the meaning of love in the _soul_ of a -woman as daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife. Were it not for that inward -significance there would be little to differentiate the physical act from -the mating of the lower animals—an affair so common and casual that it -merits less attention than some writers give it. But in the inner life of -thought and emotion, in a woman’s intellectual and moral nature,—there -love has its mystery and its power, there it brings deepest joy or -sharpest sorrow, there it strengthens or maims. - -It is because George Eliot knows this and reveals it with extraordinary -clearness that her books have an especial value. Other qualities they -have, of course, and very high qualities. But this is their proper and -peculiar excellence, and the source, if I mistake not, of their strongest -appeal to sanely thinking men. - -_The Man Who Understood Woman_ is the title of a recent clever -trivial story. But of course such a man is a myth, an impostor, or a -self-deluder. He makes a preposterous claim. - -Thackeray and Dickens, for example, made no such pretension. Some -of their women are admirably drawn; they are very lovable, or very -despicable, as the case may be; but they are not completely convincing. -Thackeray comes nearer than Dickens, and George Meredith, I think, much -nearer than either of the others. But in George Eliot we feel that we -are listening to one who does understand. Her women, in their different -types, reveal something of that thinking, willing, feeling other-half of -humanity with whom man makes the journey of life. They do not cover all -the possibilities of variation in the feminine, for these are infinite, -but they are real women, and so they have an interest for real men. - - * * * * * - -Let us take it for granted that we know enough of the details of George -Eliot’s life to enable us to understand and appreciate certain things -in her novels. Such biographical knowledge is illuminating in the study -of the works of any writer. The author of a book is not an algebraic -quantity nor a strange monster, but a human being with certain features -and a certain life-history. - -But, after all, the promotion of literary analysis is not the object of -these chapters. Plain reading, and the pleasure of it, is what I have in -mind. For that cause I love most of George Eliot’s novels, and am ready -to maintain that they are worthy to be loved. And so, even if my “taken -for granted” a few lines above should not be altogether accurate in these -days of ignorant contempt of all that is “Victorian,” I may still go -ahead to speak of her books as they are in themselves: strong, fine, -rewarding pieces of English fiction: that is what they would remain, no -matter who had written them. - -It must be admitted at once that they are not adapted to readers who -like to be spared the trouble of thinking while they read. They do not -belong to the class of massage-fiction, Turkish-bath novels. They require -a certain amount of intellectual exercise; and for this they return, it -seems to me, an adequate recompense in the pleasurable sense of quickened -mental activity and vigour. - -But this admission must not be taken to imply that they are obscure, -intricate, enigmatical, “tough reading,” like the later books of George -Meredith and Henry James, in which a minimum of meaning is hidden in a -maximum of obfuscated verbiage, and the reader is invited to a tedious -game of hunt-the-slipper. On the contrary, George Eliot at her best is a -very clear writer—decidedly not shallow, nor superficial, nor hasty,—like -the running comment which is supposed to illuminate the scenes in a -moving-picture show,—but intentionally lucid and perspicuous. Having -a story to tell, she takes pains to tell it so that you can follow it, -not only in its outward, but also in its inward movement. Having certain -characters to depict (and almost always mixed characters of good and evil -mingled and conflicting as in real life), she is careful to draw them so -that you shall feel their reality and take an interest in their strifes -and adventures. - -They are distinctly persons, capable of making their own choice -between the worse and the better reason, and thereafter influenced by -the consequences of that choice, which, if repeated, becomes a habit -of moral victory or defeat. They are not puppets in, the hands of an -inscrutable Fate, like most of the figures in the books of the modern -Russian novelists and their imitators. What do I care for the ever-so -realistically painted marionettes in the fiction of Messrs. Gawky, -Popoff, Dropoff, and Slumpoff? What interest have I in the minute -articulations of the dingy automatons of Mijnheer Couperus, or the -dismal, despicable figures who are pulled through the pages of Mr. Samuel -Butler’s _The Way of All Flesh_? A claim on compassion they might -have if they were alive. But being, by the avowal of their creators, -nothing more than imaginary bundles of sensation, helpless playthings of -irresistible hereditary impulse and entangling destiny, their story and -their fate leave me cold. What does it matter what becomes of them? They -can neither be saved nor damned. They can only be drifted. There is no -more human interest in them than there is in the predestined saints and -foredoomed sinners of a certain type of Calvinistic theology. - -But this is not George Eliot’s view of life. It is not to her “a tale -told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” Within -the fixed circle of its stern natural and moral laws there is a hidden -field of conflict where the soul is free to discern and choose its own -cause, and to fight for it or betray it. However small that field may -be, while it exists life has a meaning, and personalities are real, -and the results of their striving or surrendering, though rarely seen -complete or final, are worth following and thinking about. Thus George -Eliot’s people—at least the majority of them—have the human touch which -justifies narrative and comment. We follow the fortunes of Dinah Morris -and of Maggie Tulliver, of Romola, and of Dorothea Brooke—yes, and of -Hetty Sorrel and Rosamund Vincy—precisely because we feel that they are -real women and that the turning of their ways will reveal the secret of -their hearts. - -It is a mistake to think (as a recent admirable essay of Professor -W. L. Cross seems to imply) that the books of George Eliot are -characteristically novels of argument or propaganda. Once only, or -perhaps twice, she yielded to that temptation and spoiled her story. But -for the rest she kept clear of the snare of _Tendenz_. - -Purpose-novels, like advertisements, belong in the temporary department. -As certain goods and wares go out of date, and the often eloquent -announcements that commended them suddenly disappear; even so the -“burning questions” of the hour and age burn out, and the solutions -of them presented in the form of fiction fall down with the other -ashes. They have served their purpose, well or ill, and their transient -importance is ended. What endures, if anything, is the human story -vividly told, the human characters graphically depicted. These have a -permanent value. These belong to literature. Here I would place _Adam -Bede_ and _Silas Marner_ and _The Mill on the Floss_ and _Middlemarch_, -because they deal with problems which never grow old; but not _Robert -Elsmere_, because it deals chiefly with a defunct controversy in Biblical -criticism. - -George Eliot was thirty-eight years old when she made the amazing -discovery that she was by nature, not what she had thought herself, a -philosophical essayist and a translator of arid German treatises against -revealed religion, but something very different—a novelist of human -souls, and especially of the souls of women. It was the noteworthy -success of her three long short stories, _Amos Barton_, _Mr. Gilfil’s -Love Story_, and _Janet’s Repentance_, printed in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ -in 1857, that revealed her to herself and to the world. - -“Depend upon it, [she says to her imaginary reader in the first of these -stories,] you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to see -something of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying -in the experience of the human soul that looks out through dull gray eyes -and speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones.” - -It was the interior drama of human life that attracted her interest and -moved her heart with pity and fear, laughter and love. She found it for -the most part in what we should call mediocre surroundings and on rather -a humble and obscure stage. But what she found was not mediocre. It was -the same discovery that Wordsworth made: - - “A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.” - -By this I do not mean to say that a close study of the humanness of human -nature, a searching contemplation of character, an acute and penetrating -psychological analysis is all that there is in her novels. This is -her predominant interest, beyond a doubt. She belongs to the school -of Hawthorne, Henry James, Thomas Hardy—realists or romancers of the -interior life. But she has other interests; and there are other things to -reward us in the reading of her books. - -There is, first of all, an admirable skill in the setting of her -stories. No other novelist has described English midland landscape, -towns, and hamlets, better than she. No other writer has given the rich, -history-saturated scenery of Florence as well. - -She is careful also not to exclude from her stage that messenger of -relief and contrast whom George Meredith calls “the comic spirit.” -Shakespeare’s clowns, wonderful as some of them are, seem at times like -supernumeraries. They come in to make a “diversion.” But George Eliot’s -rustic wits and conscious or unconscious humourists belong to the story. -Mrs. Poyser and Bartle Massey, Mrs. Glegg and Mrs. Tulliver and Bob -Jakin, could not be spared. - -And then, her stories are really stories. They have action. They move; -though sometimes, it must be confessed, they move slowly. Not only do the -characters develop, one way or the other, but the plot also develops. -Sometimes it is very simple, as in _Silas Marner_; sometimes it is -extremely complicated, as in _Middlemarch_, where three love-stories are -braided together. One thing it never is—theatrical. Yet at times it -moves into an intense scene, like the trial of Hetty Sorrel or the death -of Tito Melema, in which the very essence of tragedy is concentrated. - -From the success of _Scenes of Clerical Life_ George Eliot went on -steadily with her work in fiction, never turning aside, never pausing -even, except when her health compelled, or when she needed time to fill -her mind and heart with a new subject. She did not write rapidly, nor are -her books easy to read in a hurry. - -It was an extraordinary series: _Adam Bede_ in 1859, _The Mill on the -Floss_ in 1860, _Silas Marner_ in 1861, _Romola_ in 1863, _Felix Holt, -the Radical_ in 1866, _Middlemarch_ in 1871, _Daniel Deronda_ in 1876; no -padding, no “seconds,” each book apparently more successful, certainly -more famous, than its predecessor. How could one woman produce so much -closely wrought, finely finished work? Of what sturdy mental race were -the serious readers who welcomed it and found delight in it? - -Mr. Oscar Browning of Cambridge said that _Daniel Deronda_ was the -climax, “the sun and glory of George Eliot’s art.” From that academic -judgment I venture to dissent. It is a great book, no doubt, the work -of a powerful intellect. But to me it was at the first reading, and -is still, a tiresome book. Tediousness, which is a totally different -thing from seriousness, is the unpardonable defect in a novel. It may -be my own fault, but Deronda seems to me something of a prig. Now a man -may be a prig without sin, but he ought not to take up too much room. -Deronda takes up too much room. And Gwendolen Harleth, who dressed by -preference in sea-green, seems to me to have a soul of the same colour—a -psychological mermaid. She is unconvincing. I cannot love her. The vivid -little Jewess, Mirah, is the only character with charm in the book. - -_Middlemarch_ is noteworthy for its extraordinary richness of human -observation and the unexcelled truthfulness of some of its portraits. -Mr. Isaac Casaubon is the living image of the gray-minded scholar and -gentleman,—as delicately drawn as one of Miss Cecelia Beaux’ portraits of -aged, learned, wrinkled men. Rosamund Vincy is the typical “daughter of -the horse-leech” in respectable clothes and surroundings. Dorothea Brooke -is one of George Eliot’s finest sacrificial heroines: - - “A perfect woman, nobly plann’d.” - -The book, as a whole, seems to me to have the defect of superabundance. -There is too much of it. It is like one of the late William Frith’s large -canvases, “The Derby Day,” or “The Railway Station.” It is constructed -with skill, and full of rich material, but it does not compose. You -cannot see the people for the crowd. Yet there is hardly a corner of the -story in which you will not find something worth while. - -_Felix Holt, the Radical_ is marred, at least for me, by a fault of -another kind. It is a novel of problem, of purpose. I do not care for -problem-novels, unless the problem is alive, and even then I do not care -very much for political economy in that form. It is too easy for the -author to prove any proposition by attaching it to a noble character, -or to disprove any theory by giving it an unworthy advocate. English -radicalism of 1832 has quite passed away, or gone into the Coalition -Cabinet. All that saves _Felix Holt_ now (as it seems to me, who read -novels primarily for pleasure) is the lovely figure of Esther Lyon, and -her old father, a preacher who really was good. - -Following the path still backward, we come to something altogether -different. _Romola_ is a historical romance on the grand scale. In the -central background is the heroic figure of Savonarola, saintly but -not impeccable; in the middle distance, a crowd of Renaissance people -immersed in the rich and bloody turmoil of that age; in the foreground, -the sharp contrast of two epic personalities—Tito Melema, the incarnation -of smooth, easy-going selfishness which never refuses a pleasure nor -accepts a duty; and Romola, the splendid embodiment of pure love in -self-surrendering womanhood. The shameful end of Tito, swept away by the -flooded river Arno and finally choked to death by the father whom he had -disowned and wronged, has in it the sombre tone of Fate. But the end of -the book is not defeat; it is triumph. Romola, victor through selfless -courage and patience, saves and protects the deserted mistress and -children of her faithless husband. In the epilogue we see her like _Notre -Dame de Secours_, throned in mercy and crowned with compassion. - -Listen to her as she talks to Tito’s son in the loggia looking over -Florence to the heights beyond Fiesole. - -“‘What is it, Lillo?’ said Romola, pulling his hair back from his brow. -Lillo was a handsome lad, but his features were turning out to be more -massive and less regular than his father’s. The blood of the Tuscan -peasant was in his veins. - -“‘Mamma Romola, what am I to be?’ he said, well contented that there was -a prospect of talking till it would be too late to con _Spirto gentil_ -any longer. - -“‘What should you like to be, Lillo? You might be a scholar. My father -was a scholar, you know, and taught me a great deal. That is the reason -why I can teach you.’ - -“‘Yes,’ said Lillo, rather hesitatingly. ‘But he is old and blind in the -picture. Did he get a great deal of glory?’ - -“‘Not much, Lillo. The world was not always very kind to him, and he -saw meaner men than himself put into higher places, because they could -flatter and say what was false. And then his dear son thought it right to -leave him and become a monk; and after that, my father, being blind and -lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have made his learning of -greater use to men, so that he might still have lived in his works after -he was in his grave.’ - -“‘I should not like that sort of life,’ said Lillo. ‘I should like -to be something that would make me a great man, and very happy -besides—something that would not hinder me from having a good deal of -pleasure.’ - -“‘That is not easy, my Lillo. It is only a poor sort of happiness that -could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We -can only have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a -great man, by having wide thoughts, and feeling for the rest of the world -as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so much -pain with it, that we can only tell it from pain by its being what we -would choose before everything else, because our souls see it is good. -There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world, that no man -can be great—he can hardly keep himself from wickedness—unless he gives -up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength to endure -what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to -integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than falsehood. And -there was Fra Girolamo—you know why I keep to-morrow sacred: _he_ had the -greatness which belongs to a life spent in struggling against powerful -wrong, and in trying to raise men to the highest deeds they are capable -of. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and seek to know the -best things God has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix your -mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it. And -remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the rule of -your life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, -calamity might come just the same; and it would be calamity falling on a -base mind, which is the one form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and -that may well make a man say, “It would have been better for me if I had -never been born.” I will tell you something, Lillo.’ - -“Romola paused for a moment. She had taken Lillo’s cheeks between her -hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers. - -“‘There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great -deal of his life, who made almost every one fond of him, for he was -young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and -kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of anything -cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that was -unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he came -at last to commit some of the basest deeds—such as make men infamous. He -denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed every trust that -was reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and -prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him.’ - -“Again Romola paused. Her voice was unsteady, and Lillo was looking up at -her with awed wonder. - -“‘Another time, my Lillo—I will tell you another time. See, there are -our old Piero di Cosimo and Nello coming up the Borgo Pinti, bringing us -their flowers. Let us go and wave our hands to them, that they may know -we see them.’” - -Hardly one of George Eliot’s stories has a conventional “happy -ending.” Yet they leave us not depressed, but strengthened to endure -and invigorated to endeavour. In this they differ absolutely from the -pessimistic novels of the present hour, which not only leave a bad taste -in the mouth, but also a sense of futility in the heart. - -Let me turn now to her first two novels, which still seem to me her best. -Bear in mind, I am not formulating academic theories, nor pronouncing _ex -cathedrâ_ judgments, but simply recording for the consideration of other -readers certain personal observations and reactions. - -_Adam Bede_ is a novel of rustic tragedy in which some of the characters -are drawn directly from memory. Adam is a partial portrait of George -Eliot’s father, and Dinah Morris a sketch of her aunt, a Methodist -woman preacher. There is plenty of comic relief in the story, admirably -done. Take the tongue duel between Bartle Massey, the sharp-spoken, -kind-hearted bachelor school-master, and Mrs. Poyser, the humorous, -pungent, motherly wife of the old farmer. - -“‘What!’ said Bartle, with an air of disgust. ‘Was there a woman -concerned? Then I give you up, Adam.’ - -“‘But it’s a woman you’n spoke well on, Bartle,’ said Mr. Poyser. ‘Come, -now, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha’ been a bad -invention if they’d all been like Dinah.’ - -“‘I meant her voice, man—I meant her voice, that was all,’ said Bartle. -‘I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As -for other things, I dare say she’s like the rest o’ the women—thinks two -and two ’ull come to make five, if she cries and bothers enough about it.’ - -“‘Ay, ay!’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘one ’ud think, an’ hear some folks talk, as -the men war ’cute enough to count the corns in a bag o’ wheat wi’ only -smelling at it. They can see through a barn door, _they_ can. Perhaps -that’s the reason they can see so little o’ this side on’t.’ - -“‘Ah!’ said Bartle, sneeringly, ‘the women are quick enough—they’re -quick enough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and -can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows ’em himself.’ - -“‘Like enough,’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘for the men are mostly so slow, their -thoughts overrun ’em, an’ they can only catch ’em by the tail. I can -count a stocking-top while a man’s getting’s tongue ready; an’ when he -outs wi’ his speech at last, there’s little broth to be made on’t. It’s -your dead chicks take the longest hatchin’. Howiver, I’m not denyin’ the -women are foolish: God Almighty made ’em to match the men.’ - -“‘Match!’ said Bartle; ‘ay, as vinegar matches one’s teeth. If a man says -a word, his wife’ll match it with a contradiction; if he’s a mind for hot -meat, his wife’ll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs, she’ll match -him with whimpering. She’s such a match as the horsefly is to th’ horse: -she’s got the right venom to sting him with—the right venom to sting him -with.’ - -“‘What dost say to that?’ said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and -looking merrily at his wife. - -“‘Say!’ answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her eye; -‘why, _I say as some folks’ tongues are like the clocks as run on -strikin’, not to tell you the time o’ the day, but because there’s summat -wrong i’ their own inside_.’ ...” - -The plot, as in Scott’s _Heart of Midlothian_, turns on a case of -seduction and child murder, and the contrast between Effie and Jeannie -Deans has its parallel in the stronger contrast between Hetty Sorrel and -Dinah Morris. Hetty looked as if she were “made of roses”; but she was, -in Mrs. Poyser’s phrase, “no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone inside -it.” Dinah’s human beauty of face and voice was the true reflection of -her inward life which - - “cast a beam on the outward shape, - The unpolluted temple of the mind, - And turned it by degrees to the soul’s essence.” - -The crisis of the book comes in the prison, where Dinah wrestles for the -soul of Hetty—a scene as passionate and moving as any in fiction. Dinah -triumphs, not by her own might, but by the sheer power and beauty of the -Christian faith and love which she embodies. - -In George Eliot’s novels you will find some passages of stinging -and well-merited satire on the semi-pagan, conventional religion of -middle-class orthodoxy in England of the nineteenth century—“proud -respectability in a gig of unfashionable build; worldliness without -side-dishes”—read the chapter on “A Variation of Protestantism Unknown -to Bossuet,” in _The Mill on the Floss_. But you will not find a single -page or paragraph that would draw or drive the reader away from real -Christianity. On the contrary, she has expressed the very secret of its -appeal to the human heart through the words and conduct of some of her -best characters. They do not argue; they utter and show the meaning -of religion. On me the effect of her books is a deepened sense of the -inevitable need of Christ and his gospel to sustain and nourish the high -morality of courage and compassion, patience, and hope, which she so -faithfully teaches. - -The truth is, George Eliot lived in the afterglow of Christian faith. -Rare souls are capable of doing that. But mankind at large needs the -sunrise. - -_The Mill on the Floss_ is partly an autobiographic romance. Maggie -Tulliver’s character resembles George Eliot in her youth. The contrast -between the practical and the ideal, the conflict between love and duty -in the heart of a girl, belong to those _problematische Naturen_, as -Goethe called them, which may taste keen joys but cannot escape sharp -sorrows. The centre of the story lies in Maggie’s strong devotion to -her father and to her brother Tom—a person not altogether unlike the -“elder brother” in the parable—in strife with her love for Philip, the -son of the family enemy. Tom ruthlessly commands his sister to choose -between breaking with him and giving up her lover. Maggie, after a bitter -struggle, chooses her brother. Would a real woman do that? Yes, I have -known some very real women who have done it, in one case with a tragic -result. - -The original title of this book (and the right one) was _Sister Maggie_. -Yet we can see why George Eliot chose the other name. The little river -Floss, so tranquil in its regular tidal flow, yet capable of such fierce -and sudden outbreaks, runs through the book from beginning to end. It is -a mysterious type of the ineluctable power of Nature in man’s mortal -drama. - -In the last chapter, when the flood comes, and the erring sister who -loved her brother so tenderly, rescues him who loved her so cruelly from -the ruined mill, the frail skiff which carries them clasped heart to -heart, reconciled in that revealing moment, goes down in the senseless -irresistible rush of waters. - -It is not a “bad ending.” The sister’s love triumphs. Such a close was -inevitable for such a story. But it is not a conclusion. It cries out for -immortality. - - * * * * * - -On the art of George Eliot judgments have differed. Mr. Oscar Browning, -a respectable authority, thinks highly of it. Mr. W. C. Brownell, a far -better critic, indeed one of the very best, thinks less favourably of -it, says that it is too intellectual; that the development and conduct -of her characters are too logical and consistent; that the element of -surprize, which is always present in life, is lacking in her people. -“Our attention,” he writes, “is so concentrated on what they think that -we hardly know how they feel, or whether ... they feel at all.” This -criticism does not seem to me altogether just. Certainly there is no lack -of surprize in Maggie Tulliver’s temporary infatuation with the handsome, -light-minded Stephen Guest, or in Dorothea Brooke’s marriage to that -heady young butterfly, Will Ladislaw. These things certainly were not -arrived at by logical consistency. Nor can one lay his hand on his heart -and say that there is no feeling in the chapter where the fugitive Romola -comes as Madonna to the mountain village, stricken by pestilence, or in -the passage where Dinah Morris strives for Hetty’s soul in prison. - -George Eliot herself tells us the purpose of her art—it is _verity_. - -“It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in -many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise.... All honour -and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the -utmost in men, women, and children—in our gardens and in our homes. -But let us love that other beauty, too, which lies in no secret of -proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy.” - -It is Rembrandt, then, rather than Titian, who is her chosen painter. -But she does not often attain his marvellous _chiaroscuro_. - -Her style is clear and almost always firm in drawing, though deficient -in colour. It is full of meaning, almost over-scrupulous in defining -precisely what she wishes to express. Here and there it flashes into -a wise saying, a sparkling epigram. At other times, especially in her -later books, it spreads out and becomes too diffuse, too slow, like Sir -Walter Scott’s. But it never repels by vulgar smartness, nor perplexes -by vagueness and artificial obscurity. It serves her purpose well—to -convey the results of her scrutiny of the inner life and her loving -observation of the outer life in its humblest forms. In these respects it -is admirable and satisfying. And it is her own—she does not imitate, nor -write according to a theory. - -Her general view of human nature is not essentially different from that -expressed in a passage which I quoted from Thackeray in the previous -chapter. We are none of us “irreproachable characters.” We are “mixed -human beings.” Therefore she wishes to tell her stories “in such a way -as to call forth tolerant judgment, pity, and sympathy.” - - * * * * * - -As I began so let me end this chapter—with a word on women. For myself, -I think it wise and prudent to maintain with Plutarch that _virtue_ in -man and woman is one and the same. Yet there is a difference between the -feminine and the masculine virtues. This opinion Plutarch sets forth and -illustrates in his brief histories, and George Eliot in her novels. But -of the virtues of women she gives more and finer examples. - - - - -THE POET OF IMMORTAL YOUTH - - -One of the things that surprized and bewildered old Colonel Newcome -when he gathered his boy’s friends around the mahogany tree in the -dull, respectable dining-room at 12 Fitzroy Square, was to hear George -Warrington declare, between huge puffs of tobacco smoke, “that young -Keats was a genius to be estimated in future days with young Raphael.” -At this Charles Honeyman sagely nodded his ambrosial head, while Clive -Newcome assented with sparkling eyes. But to the Colonel, sitting kindly -grave and silent at the head of the table, and recalling (somewhat -dimly) the bewigged and powdered poetry of the age of Queen Anne, such a -critical sentiment seemed radical and revolutionary, almost ungentlemanly. - -How astonished he would have been sixty years later if he had taken up -Mr. Sidney Colvin’s _Life of Keats_, in the “English Men of Letters -Series,” and read in the concluding chapter the deliberate and -remarkable judgment that “by power, as well as by temperament and aim, he -was the most Shakespearean spirit that has lived since Shakespeare”! - -In truth, from the beginning the poetry of Keats has been visited too -much by thunder-storms of praise. It was the indiscriminate enthusiasm -of his friends that drew out the equally indiscriminate ridicule of his -enemies. It was the premature salutation offered to him as a supreme -master of the most difficult of all arts that gave point and sting to -the criticism of evident defects in his work. _The Examiner_ hailed -him, before his first volume had been printed, as one who was destined -to revive the early vigour of English poetry. _Blackwood’s Magazine_ -retorted by quoting his feeblest lines and calling him “Johnny Keats.” -The suspicion of log-rolling led to its usual result in a volley of -stone-throwing. - -Happily, the ultimate fame and influence of a true poet are not -determined by the partizan conflicts which are waged about his name. -He may suffer some personal loss by having to breathe, at times, a -perturbed atmosphere of mingled flattery and abuse instead of the still -air of delightful studies. He may be robbed of some days of a life -already far too short, by the pestilent noise and confusion arising from -that scramble for notoriety which is often unduly honoured with the -name of “literary activity.” And there are some men whose days of real -inspiration are so few, and whose poetic gift is so slender, that this -loss proves fatal to them. They are completely carried away and absorbed -by the speculations and strifes of the market-place. They spend their -time in the intrigues of rival poetic enterprises, and learn to regard -current quotations in the trade journals as the only standard of value. -Minor poets at the outset, they are tempted to risk their little all on -the stock exchange of literature, and, losing their last title to the -noun, retire to bankruptcy on the adjective. - -But Keats did not belong to this frail and foolish race. His lot was cast -in a world of petty conflict and ungenerous rivalry, but he was not of -that world. It hurt him a little, but it did not ruin him. His spiritual -capital was too large, and he regarded it as too sacred to be imperilled -by vain speculations. He had in Chaucer and Spenser, Shakespeare and -Chapman, Milton and Petrarch, older and wiser friends than Leigh Hunt. -For him - - “The blue - Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew - Of summer nights collected still to make - The morning precious: beauty was awake!” - -He perceived, by that light which comes only to high-souled and -noble-hearted poets, - - “The great end - Of poesy, that it should be a friend - To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of man.” - -To that end he gave the best that he had to give, freely, generously, -joyously pouring himself into the ministry of his art. He did not dream -for a moment that the gift was perfect. Flattery could not blind him -to the limitations and defects of his early work. He was his own best -and clearest critic. But he knew that so far as it went his poetic -inspiration was true. He had faithfully followed the light of a pure -and elevating joy in the opulent, manifold beauty of nature and in the -eloquent significance of old-world legends, and he believed that it -had already led him to a place among the poets whose verse would bring -delight, in far-off years, to the sons and daughters of mankind. He -believed also that if he kept alive his faith in the truth of beauty and -the beauty of truth it would lead him on yet further, into a nobler life -and closer to those immortal bards whose - - “Souls still speak - To mortals of their little week; - Of their sorrows and delights; - Of their passions and their spites; - Of their glory and their shame; - What doth strengthen and what maim.” - -He expressed this faith very clearly in the early and uneven poem called -“Sleep and Poetry,” in a passage which begins - - “Oh, for ten years, that I may overwhelm - Myself in poesy! so I may do the deed - That my own soul has to itself decreed.” - -And then, ere four years had followed that brave wish, his voice fell -silent under a wasting agony of pain and love, and the daisies were -growing upon his Roman grave. - -The pathos of his frustrated hope, his early death, has sometimes -blinded men a little, it seems to me, to the real significance of his -work and the true quality of his influence in poetry. He has been -lamented in the golden verse of Shelley’s “Adonaïs,” and in the prose -of a hundred writers who have shared Shelley’s error without partaking -of his genius, as the loveliest innocent ever martyred by the cruelty -of hostile critics. But, in fact, the vituperations of Gifford and his -crew were no more responsible for the death of Keats, than the stings -of insects are for the death of a man who has perished of hunger on the -coast of Labrador. They added to his sufferings, no doubt, but they did -not take away his life. Keats had far too much virtue in the old Roman -sense—far too much courage, to be killed by a criticism. He died of -consumption, as he clearly and sadly knew that he was fated to do when he -first saw the drop of arterial blood upon his pillow. - -Nor is it just, although it may seem generous, to estimate his fame -chiefly by the anticipation of what he might have accomplished if he -had lived longer; to praise him for his promise at the expense of his -performance; and to rest his claim to a place among the English poets -upon an uncertain prophecy of rivalry with Shakespeare. I find a far -sounder note in Lowell’s manly essay, when he says: “No doubt there is -something tropical and of strange overgrowth in his sudden maturity, but -it _was_ maturity nevertheless.” I hear the accent of a wiser and saner -criticism in the sonnet of one of our American poets: - - “Touch not with dark regret his perfect fame, - Sighing, ‘Had he but lived he had done so’; - Or, ‘Were his heart not eaten out with woe - John Keats had won a prouder, mightier name!’ - Take him for what he was and did—nor blame - Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know - Souls such as his escape no mortal blow— - No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame.” - -“Take him for what he was and did”—that should be the key-note of our -thought of Keats as a poet. The exquisite harmony of his actual work -with his actual character; the truth of what he wrote to what his young -heart saw and felt and enjoyed; the simplicity of his very exuberance of -ornament, and the naturalness of his artifice; the sincerity of his love -of beauty and the beauty of his sincerity—these are the qualities which -give an individual and lasting charm to his poetry, and make his gift to -the world complete in itself and very precious, although,—or perhaps we -should even say because,—it was unfinished. - -Youth itself is imperfect: it is impulsive, visionary, and unrestrained; -full of tremulous delight in its sensations, but not yet thoroughly awake -to the deeper meanings of the world; avid of novelty and mystery, but not -yet fully capable of hearing or interpreting the still, small voice of -divine significance which breathes from the simple and familiar elements -of life. - -Yet youth has its own completeness as a season of man’s existence. It is -justified and indispensable. Alfred de Musset’s - - “We old men born yesterday” - -are simply monstrous. The poetry which expresses and represents youth, -the poetry of sensation and sentiment, has its own place in the -literature of the world. This is the order to which the poetry of Keats -belongs. - -He is not a feminine poet, as Mr. Coventry Patmore calls him, any more -than Theocritus or Tennyson is feminine; for the quality of extreme -sensitiveness to outward beauty is not a mark of femininity. It is found -in men more often and more clearly than in women. But it is always most -keen and joyous and overmastering in the morning of the soul. - -Keats is not a virile poet, like Dante or Shakespeare or Milton; that he -would have become one if he had lived is a happy and loving guess. He is -certainly not a member of the senile school of poetry, which celebrates -the impotent and morbid passions of decay, with a _café chantant_ for its -temple, and the smoke of cigarettes for incense, and cups of absinthe for -its libations, and for its goddess not the immortal Venus rising from the -sea, but the weary, painted, and decrepit Venus sinking into the gutter. - -He is in the highest and best sense of the word a juvenile poet—“mature,” -as Lowell says, but mature, as genius always is, within the boundaries -and in the spirit of his own season of life. The very sadness of his -lovely odes, “To a Nightingale,” “On a Grecian Urn,” “To Autumn,” “To -Psyche,” is the pleasant melancholy of the springtime of the heart. “The -Eve of St. Agnes,” pure and passionate, surprizing us by its fine excess -of colour and melody, sensuous in every line, yet free from the slightest -taint of sensuality, is unforgettable and unsurpassable as the dream -of first love. The poetry of Keats, small in bulk and slight in body -as it seems at first sight to be, endures, and will endure, in English -literature, because it is the embodiment of _the spirit of immortal -youth_. - -Here, I think, we touch its secret as an influence upon other poets. For -that it has been an influence,—in the older sense of the word, which -carries with it a reference to the guiding and controlling force supposed -to flow from the stars to the earth,—is beyond all doubt. The _History -of English Literature_, with which Taine amused us some fifty years ago, -nowhere displays its narrowness of vision more egregiously than in its -failure to take account of Gray, Collins, and Keats as fashioners of -English poetry. It does not mention Gray and Collins at all; the name -of Keats occurs only once, with a reference to “sickly or overflowing -imagination,” but to Byron nearly fifty pages are devoted. The American -critic, Stedman, showed a far broader and more intelligent understanding -of the subject when he said that “Wordsworth begot the mind, and Keats -the body, of the idyllic Victorian School.” - -We can trace the influence of Keats not merely in the conscious or -unconscious imitations of his manner, like those which are so evident in -the early poems of Tennyson and Procter, in Hood’s _Plea of the Midsummer -Fairies_ and _Lycus the Centaur_, in Rossetti’s _Ballads and Sonnets_, -and William Morris’s _Earthly Paradise_, but also in the youthful spirit -of delight in the retelling of old tales of mythology and chivalry; -in the quickened sense of pleasure in the luxuriance and abundance of -natural beauty; in the freedom of overflowing cadences transmuting -ancient forms of verse into new and more flexible measures; in the large -liberty of imaginative diction, making all nature sympathize with -the joy and sorrow of man,—in brief, in many of the finest marks of a -renascence, a renewed youth, which characterize the poetry of the early -Victorian era. - -I do not mean to say that Keats alone, or chiefly, was responsible for -this renascence. He never set up to lead a movement or to found a school. -His genius is not to be compared to that of a commanding artist like -Giotto or Leonardo or Michelangelo, but rather to that of a painter like -Botticelli, whose personal and expressive charm makes itself felt in the -work of many painters, who learned secrets of grace and beauty from him, -though they were not his professed disciples or followers. - -Take for example Matthew Arnold. He called himself, and no doubt rightly, -a Wordsworthian. But it was not from Wordsworth that he caught the -strange and searching melody of “The Forsaken Merman,” or learned to -embroider the laments for “Thyrsis” and “The Scholar-Gypsy” with such -opulence of varied bloom as makes death itself seem lovely. It was from -John Keats. Or read the description of the tapestry on the castle walls -in “Tristram and Iseult.” How perfectly that repeats the spirit of -Keats’s descriptions in “The Eve of St. Agnes”! It is the poetry of the -picturesque. - -Indeed, we shall fail to do justice to the influence of Keats unless -we recognize also that it has produced direct and distinct effects -in the art of painting. The English pre-Raphaelites owed much to his -inspiration. Holman Hunt found two of his earliest subjects for pictures -in “The Eve of St. Agnes” and “The Pot of Basil.” Millais painted -“Lorenzo and Isabella,” and Rossetti “La Belle Dame sans Merci.” There -is an evident sympathy between the art of these painters, which insisted -that every detail in a picture is precious and should be painted with -truthful care for its beauty, and the poetry of Keats, which is filled, -and even overfilled, with minute and loving touches of exquisite -elaboration. - -But it must be remembered that in poetry, as well as in painting, the -spirit of picturesqueness has its dangers. The details may be multiplied -until the original design is lost. The harmony and lucidity of a poem -may be destroyed by innumerable digressions and descriptions. In some of -his poems—in “Endymion” and in “Lamia”—Keats fell very deep into this -fault, and no one knew it better than himself. But when he was at his -best he had the power of adding a hundred delicate details to his central -vision, and making every touch heighten and enhance the general effect. -How wonderful in its unity is the “Ode on a Grecian Urn”! How completely -magical are the opening lines of “Hyperion”: - - “Deep in the shady sadness of a vale - Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, - Far from the fiery Noon, and eve’s one star, - Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone, - Still as the silence round about his lair; - Forest on forest hung about his head - Like cloud on cloud.” - -How large and splendid is the imagery of the sonnet “On First Looking -into Chapman’s Homer”! And who that has any sense of poetry does not -recognize the voice of a young master in the two superb lines of the last -poem that Keats wrote?—the sonnet in which he speaks of the bright star - - “watching, with eternal lids apart, - Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, - The moving waters at their priestlike task - Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores.” - -The poets of America have not been slow to recognize the charm and power -of Keats. Holmes and Longfellow and Lowell paid homage to him in their -verse. Lanier inscribed to his memory a poem called “Clover.” Gilder -wrote two sonnets which celebrate his “perfect fame.” Robert Underwood -Johnson has a lovely lyric on “The Name Writ in Water.” - -But I find an even deeper and larger tribute to his influence in the -features of resemblance to his manner and spirit which flash out here -and there, unexpectedly and unconsciously, in the poetry of our New -World. Emerson was so unlike Keats in his intellectual constitution as -to make all contact between them appear improbable, if not impossible. -Yet no one can read Emerson’s “May-Day,” and Keats’ exquisitely truthful -and imaginative lines on “Fancy,” one after the other, without feeling -that the two poems are very near of kin. Lowell’s “Legend of Brittany” -has caught, not only the measure, but also the tone and the diction of -“Isabella.” The famous introduction to “The Vision of Sir Launfal,” with -its often quoted line, - - “What is so rare as a day in June?” - -finds a parallel in the opening verses of “Sleep and Poetry”— - - “What is more gentle than a wind in summer?” - -Lowell’s “Endymion,” which he calls “a mystical comment on Titian’s -‘Sacred and Profane Love,’” is full of echoes from Keats, like this: - - “My day began not till the twilight fell - And lo! in ether from heaven’s sweetest well - The new moon swam, divinely isolate - In maiden silence, she that makes my fate - Haply not knowing it, or only so - As I the secrets of my sheep may know.” - -In Lanier’s rich and melodious “Hymns of the Marshes” there are -innumerable touches in the style of Keats; for example, his apostrophe to -the - - “Reverend marsh, low-couched along the sea, - Old chemist, wrapped in alchemy, - Distilling silence,——” - -or his praise of the - - “Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, - Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, - Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves.” - -One of the finest pieces of elegiac verse that have yet been produced in -America, George E. Woodberry’s poem called “The North Shore Watch,” has -many passages that recall the young poet who wrote - - “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” - -Indeed, we hear the very spirit of Endymion speaking in Woodberry’s lines: - - “Beauty abides, nor suffers mortal change, - Eternal refuge of the orphaned mind.” - -Father John B. Tabb, who had the exquisite art of the Greek epigram at -his command, in one of his delicately finished little poems, imagined -Sappho listening to the “Ode to a Nightingale”: - - “Methinks when first the nightingale - Was mated to thy deathless song, - That Sappho with emotion pale - Amid the Olympian throng, - Again, as in the Lesbian grove, - Stood listening with lips apart, - To hear in thy melodious love - The pantings of her heart.” - -Yes; the memory and influence of Keats endure, and will endure, because -his poetry expresses something in the heart that will not die so long -as there are young men and maidens to see and feel the beauty of the -world and the thrill of love. His poetry is complete, it is true, it is -justified, because it is the fitting utterance of one of those periods of -mental life which Keats himself has called “the human seasons.” - -But its completeness and its truth depend upon its relation, in itself -and in the poet’s mind, to the larger world of poetry, the fuller life, -the rounded year of man. Nor was this forward look, this anticipation of -something better and greater yet to come, lacking in the youth of Keats. -It flashes out, again and again, from his letters, those outpourings -of his heart and mind, so full of boyish exuberance and manly vigour, -so rich in revelations of what this marvellous, beautiful, sensitive, -courageous little creature really was,—a great soul in the body of a lad. -It shows itself clearly and calmly in the remarkable preface in which he -criticizes his own “Endymion,” calling it “a feverish attempt, rather -than a deed accomplished.” “It is just,” he writes, “that this youngster -should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while -it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit -to live.” The same fine hope of a sane and manly youth is expressed in -his early verses entitled “Sleep and Poetry.” He has been speaking of -the first joys of his fancy, in the realm of Flora and old Pan: the -merry games and dances with white-handed nymphs: the ardent pursuit of -love, and the satisfied repose in the bosom of a leafy world. Then his -imagination goes on to something better. - - “And can I ever bid these joys farewell? - Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, - Where I may find the agonies, the strife - Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, - O’ersailing the blue cragginess, a car - And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer - Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear: - And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly - Along a huge cloud’s ridge: and now with sprightly - Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, - Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes. - ... And there soon appear - Shapes of delight, of mystery and fear, - Passing along before a dusky space - Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase - Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. - Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep: - Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; - Some with their faces muffled to the ear - Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom, - Go glad and smilingly across the gloom; - Some looking back, and some with upward gaze; - Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways - Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls - Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; - And now broad wings. Most awfully intent - The driver of those steeds is forward bent, - And seems to listen: O that I might know - All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. - - The visions all are fled—the car is fled - Into the light of heaven, and in their stead - A sense of real things comes doubly strong, - And, like a muddy stream, would bear along - My soul to nothingness: but I will strive - Against all doubtings, and will keep alive - The thought of that same chariot, and the strange - Journey it went.” - -How young-hearted is this vision, how full of thronging fancies and -half-apprehended mystic meanings! Yet how unmistakably it has the long, -high, forward look toward manhood, without which youth itself is not -rounded and complete! - -After all, that look, that brave expectation, is vital in our picture of -Keats. It is one of the reasons why we love him. It is one of the things -which make his slender volume of poetry so companionable, even as an -ardent, dreamy man is doubly a good comrade when we feel in him the hope -of a strong man. We cannot truly understand the wonderful performance of -Keats without considering his promise; we cannot appreciate what he did -without remembering that it was only part of what he hoped to do. - -He was not one of those who believe that the ultimate aim of poetry is -sensuous loveliness, and that there is no higher law above the law of -“art for art’s sake.” The poets of arrested development, the artificers -of mere melody and form, who say that art must always play and never -teach, the musicians who are content to remain forever - - “The idle singers of an empty day,” - -are not his true followers. - -He held that “beauty is truth.” But he held also another article that has -been too often left out in the repetition of his poetic creed: he held -“truth, beauty,” and he hoped one day to give a clear, full utterance to -that higher, holier vision. Perhaps he has, but not to mortal ears. - - - - -THE RECOVERY OF JOY - -WORDSWORTH’S POETRY - - -When this essay was written, a good many years ago, there was no -available biography of Wordsworth except the two-volume _Memoir_ by -Bishop Christopher Wordsworth, the poet’s nephew. It is a solid work of -family piety, admiring and admirable; but it must be admitted that it is -dull. It is full of matters of no particular consequence, and it leaves -out events in the poet’s life and traits in his character which are not -only interesting in themselves but also of real importance to a vital -understanding of his work. - -Even while reading the _Memoir_, I felt sure that he was not always the -tranquil, patient, wise, serenely happy sage that he appeared in his -later years,—sure that a joy in peace as deep and strong as his was, -could only have been won through sharp conflict,—sure that the smooth -portrait drawn by the reverent hand of the bishop did not fully and -frankly depict the real man who wrote the deep and moving poetry of -Wordsworth. - -It was about this time that the valuable studies of Wordsworth’s early -life which had been made by Professor Emile Legouis, (then of the -University of Lyons, now of the Sorbonne,) were published in English. -This volume threw a new light upon the poet’s nature, revealing its -intense, romantic strain, and making clear at least some of the causes -which led to the shipwreck of his first hopes and to the period of -profound gloom which followed his return from residence in France in -December 1792. - -Shortly after reading Professor Legouis’ book, I met by chance a -gentleman in Baltimore and was convinced by what he told me, (in a -conversation which I do not feel at liberty to repeat in detail,) that -Wordsworth had a grand “affair of the heart” while he lived in France, -with a young French lady of excellent family and character. But they were -parted. A daughter was born, (whom he legitimated according to French -law,) and descendants of that daughter were living. - -There was therefore solid ground for my feeling that the poet was not -a man who had been always and easily decorous. He had passed through a -time of storm and stress. He had lost not only his political dreams and -his hopes of a career, but also his first love and his joy. The knowledge -of this gave his poetry a new meaning for me, brought it nearer, made it -seem more deeply human. It was under the influence of this feeling that -this essay was written in a farmhouse in Tyringham Valley, where I was -staying in the winter of 1897, with Richard Watson Gilder and his wife. - -Since then Professor George McLean Harper has completed and published, -(1916,) his classic book on _William Wordsworth, His Life, Works, and -Influence_. This is undoubtedly the very best biography of the poet, -and it contains much new material, particularly with reference to his -life and connections in France. But there is nothing in it to shake, -and on the contrary there is much to confirm, the opinion which was -first put forth in this essay: namely, that the central theme, the great -significance, of Wordsworth’s poetry is _the recovery of joy_. - - -I - -William Wordsworth was born in 1770 in the town of Cockermouth in -Cumberland; educated in the village school of Hawkshead among the -mountains, and at St. John’s College, Cambridge. A dreamy, moody youth; -always ambitious, but not always industrious; passionate in disposition, -with high spirits, simple tastes, and independent virtues; he did not -win, and seems not to have desired, university honours. His principal -property when he came of age consisted of two manuscript poems,—_An -Evening Walk_ and _Descriptive Sketches_,—composed in the manner of -Cowper’s _Task_. With these in his pocket he wandered over to France; -partly to study the language; partly to indulge his inborn love of travel -by a second journey on the Continent; and partly to look on at the vivid -scenes of the French Revolution. But the vast dæmonic movement of which -he proposed to be a spectator caught his mind in its current and swept -him out of his former self. - -Wordsworth was not originally a revolutionist, like Coleridge and -Southey. He was not even a native radical, except as all simplicity -and austerity of character tend towards radicalism. When he passed -through Paris, in November of 1791, and picked up a bit of stone from -the ruins of the Bastile as a souvenir, it was only a sign of youthful -sentimentality. But when he came back to Paris in October of 1792, after -a winter at Orleans and a summer at Blois, in close intercourse with that -ardent and noble republican, Michael Beaupuy, he had been converted into -an eager partisan of the Republic. He even dreamed of throwing himself -into the conflict, reflecting on “the power of one pure and energetic -will to accomplish great things.” - -His conversion was not, it seems to me, primarily a matter of -intellectual conviction. It was an affair of emotional sympathy. His -knowledge of the political and social theories of the Revolution was but -superficial. He was never a doctrinaire. The influence of Rousseau and -Condorcet did not penetrate far beneath the skin of his mind. It was -the primal joy of the Revolutionary movement that fascinated him,—the -confused glimmering of new hopes and aspirations for mankind. He was -like a man who has journeyed, half asleep, from the frost-bound dulness -of a wintry clime, and finds himself, fully awake, in a new country, -where the time for the singing of birds has come, and the multitudinous -blossoming of spring bursts forth. He is possessed by the spirit of -joy, and reason follows where feeling leads the way. Wordsworth himself -has confessed, half unconsciously, the secret of his conversion in his -lines on _The French Revolution as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its -Commencement_. - - “Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! - For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood - Upon our side, we who were strong in love! - Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, - But to be young was very heaven!” - -There was another “bliss,” keener even than the dreams of political -enthusiasm, that thrilled him in this momentous year,—the rapture of -romantic love. Into this he threw himself with ardour and tasted all its -joy. We do not know exactly what it was that broke the vision and dashed -the cup of gladness from his lips. Perhaps it was some difficulty with -the girl’s family, who were royalists. Perhaps it was simply the poet’s -poverty. Whatever the cause was, love’s young dream was shattered, and -there was nothing left but the painful memory of an error, to be atoned -for in later years as best he could. - -His political hopes and ideals were darkened by the actual horrors -which filled Paris during the fall of 1792. His impulse to become a -revolutionist was shaken, if not altogether broken. Returning to England -at the end of the same year, he tried to sustain his sinking spirits by -setting in order the reasons and grounds of his new-born enthusiasm, -already waning. His letter to Bishop Watson, written in 1793, is the -fullest statement of republican sympathies that he ever made. In it he -even seems to justify the execution of Louis XVI, and makes light of “the -idle cry of modish lamentation which has resounded from the court to the -cottage” over the royal martyr’s fate. He defends the right of the people -to overthrow all who oppress them, to choose their own rulers, to direct -their own destiny by universal suffrage, and to sweep all obstacles out -of their way. The reasoning is so absolute, so relentless, the scorn -for all who oppose it is so lofty, that already we begin to suspect a -wavering conviction intrenching itself for safety. - -The course of events in France was ill fitted to nourish the joy of a -pure-minded enthusiast. The tumultuous terrors of the Revolution trod its -ideals in the dust. Its light was obscured in its own sulphurous smoke. -Robespierre ran his bloody course to the end; and when his head fell -under the guillotine, Wordsworth could not but exult. War was declared -between France and England, and his heart was divided; but the deeper -and stronger ties were those that bound him to his own country. He was -English in his very flesh and bones. The framework of his mind was of -Cumberland. So he stood rooted in his native allegiance, while the leaves -and blossoms of joy fell from him, like a tree stripped bare by the first -great gale of autumn. - -The years from 1793 to 1795 were the period of his deepest poverty, -spiritual and material. His youthful poems, published in 1793, met with -no more success than they deserved. His plans for entering into active -life were feeble and futile. His mind was darkened and confused, his -faith shaken to the foundation, and his feelings clouded with despair. -In this crisis of disaster two gifts of fortune came to him. His sister -Dorothy took her place at his side, to lead him back by her wise, tender, -cheerful love from the far country of despair. His friend Raisley Calvert -bequeathed to him a legacy of nine hundred pounds; a small inheritance, -but enough to protect him from the wolf of poverty, while he devoted his -life to the muse. From the autumn of 1795, when he and his sister set -up housekeeping together in a farmhouse at Racedown, until his death in -1850 in the cottage at Rydal Mount, where he had lived for thirty-seven -years with his wife and children, there was never any doubt about the -disposition of his life. It was wholly dedicated to poetry. - - -II - -But what kind of poetry? What was to be its motive power? What its -animating spirit? Here the experience of life acting upon his natural -character became the deciding factor. - -Wordsworth was born a lover of joy, not sensual, but spiritual. The -first thing that happened to him, when he went out into the world, was -that he went bankrupt of joy. The enthusiasm of his youth was dashed, the -high hope of his spirit was quenched. At the touch of reality his dreams -dissolved. It seemed as though he were altogether beaten, a broken man. -But with the gentle courage of his sister to sustain him, his indomitable -spirit rose again, to renew the adventure of life. He did not evade the -issue, by turning aside to seek for fame or wealth. His problem from -first to last was the problem of joy,—inward, sincere, imperishable -joy. How to recover it after life’s disappointments, how to deepen it -amid life’s illusions, how to secure it through life’s trials, how to -spread it among life’s confusions,—this was the problem that he faced. -This was the wealth that he desired to possess, and to increase, and to -diffuse,—the wealth - - “Of joy in widest commonalty spread.” - -None of the poets has been as clear as Wordsworth in the avowal that the -immediate end of poetry is pleasure. “We have no sympathy,” said he, “but -what is propagated by pleasure, ... wherever we sympathise with pain, -it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle -combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is no general -principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what -has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone.” And -again: “The end of Poetry is to produce excitement, in co-existence with -an over-balance of pleasure.” - -[Illustration: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - -Painted by W. Boxall. - -_After an engraving by J. Bromley._] - -But it may be clearly read in his poetry that what he means by “pleasure” -is really an inward, spiritual joy. It is such a joy, in its various -forms, that charms him most as he sees it in the world. His gallery of -human portraits contains many figures, but every one of them is presented -in the light of joy,—the rising light of dawn, or the waning light of -sunset. _Lucy Gray_ and the little maid in _We are Seven_ are childish -shapes of joy. The _Highland Girl_ is an embodiment of virginal gladness, -and the poet cries - - “Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace - Hath led me to this lovely place. - _Joy have I had_; and going hence - I bear away my recompence.” - -Wordsworth regards joy as an actual potency of vision: - - “With an eye made quiet by the power - Of harmony, and _the deep power of joy_, - We see into the heart of things.” - -Joy is indeed the master-word of his poetry. The dancing daffodils enrich -his heart with joy. - - “They flash upon that inward eye - Which is the bliss of solitude; - And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the daffodils.” - -The kitten playing with the fallen leaves charms him with pure merriment. -The skylark’s song lifts him up into the clouds. - - “There is madness about thee, and _joy divine_ - In that song of thine.” - -He turns from the nightingale, that creature of a “fiery heart,” to the -Stock-dove: - - “He sang of love, with quiet blending, - Slow to begin and never ending; - Of serious faith, _and inward glee_; - That was the song—the song for me.” - -He thinks of love which grows to use - - “_Joy as her holiest language._” - -He speaks of life’s disenchantments and wearinesses as - - “_All that is at enmity with joy._” - -When autumn closes around him, and the season makes him conscious that -his leaf is sere and yellow on the bough, he exclaims - - “_Yet will I temperately rejoice_; - Wide is the range and free the choice - Of undiscordant themes; - Which haply kindred souls may prize - Not less than vernal ecstacies, - And passion’s feverish dreams.” - -_Temperate rejoicing_,—that is the clearest note of Wordsworth’s poetry. -Not an unrestrained gladness, for he can never escape from that deep, -strange experience of his youth. Often, in thought, he - - “Must hear Humanity in fields and groves - Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang - Brooding above the fierce confederate storm - Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore - Within the walls of cities.” - -But even while he hears these sounds he will not be “downcast or -forlorn.” He will find a deeper music to conquer these clashing -discords. He will learn, and teach, a hidden joy, strong to survive amid -the sorrows of a world like this. He will not look for it in some far-off -unrealized Utopia, - - “But in the very world which is the world - Of all of us,—_the place where in the end_ - _We find our happiness, or not at all_!” - -To this quest of joy, to this proclamation of joy, he dedicates his life. - - “By words - Which speak of nothing more than what we are - Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep - Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain - _To noble raptures_.” - -And herein he becomes a prophet to his age,—a prophet of the secret of -joy, simple, universal, enduring,—the open secret. - -The burden of Wordsworth’s prophecy of joy, as found in his poetry, -is threefold. First, he declares with exultation that he has seen in -Nature the evidence of a living spirit in vital correspondence with -the spirit of man. Second, he expresses the deepest, tenderest feeling -of the inestimable value of the humblest human life,—a feeling which -through all its steadiness is yet strangely illumined by sudden gushes of -penetration and pathos. Third, he proclaims a lofty ideal of the liberty -and greatness of man, consisting in obedience to law and fidelity to duty. - -I am careful in choosing words to describe the manner of this threefold -prophesying, because I am anxious to distinguish it from didacticism. -Not that Wordsworth is never didactic; for he is very often entirely and -dreadfully so. But at such times he is not at his best; and it is in -these long uninspired intervals that we must bear, as Walter Pater has -said, “With patience the presence of an alien element in Wordsworth’s -work, which never coalesced with what is really delightful in it, nor -underwent his peculiar power.” Wordsworth’s genius as a poet did not -always illuminate his industry as a writer. In the intervals he prosed -terribly. There is a good deal of what Lowell calls “Dr. Wattsiness,” in -some of his poems. - -But the character of his best poems was strangely inspirational. They -came to him like gifts, and he read them aloud as if wondering at their -beauty. Through the protracted description of an excursion, or the -careful explanation of a state of mind, he slowly plods on foot; but when -he comes to the mount of vision, he mounts up with wings as an eagle. In -the analysis of a character, in the narration of a simple story, he often -drones, and sometimes stammers; but when the flash of insight arrives, he -sings. This is the difference between the pedagogue and the prophet: the -pedagogue repeats a lesson learned by rote, the prophet chants a truth -revealed by vision. - - -III - -Let me speak first of Wordsworth as a poet of Nature. The peculiar and -precious quality of his best work is that it is done with his eye on the -object and his imagination beyond it. - -Nothing could be more accurate, more true to the facts than Wordsworth’s -observation of the external world. There was an underlying steadiness, -a fundamental placidity, a kind of patient, heroic obstinacy in his -character, which blended with his delicate, almost tremulous sensibility, -to make him rarely fitted for this work. He could look and listen long. -When the magical moment of disclosure arrived, he was there and ready. - -Some of his senses were not particularly acute. Odours seem not to -have affected him. There are few phrases descriptive of the fragrance -of nature in his poetry, and so far as I can remember none of them are -vivid. He could never have written Tennyson’s line about - - “The smell of violets hidden in the green.” - -Nor was he especially sensitive to colour. Most of his descriptions in -this region are vague and luminous, rather than precise and brilliant. -Colour-words are comparatively rare in his poems. Yellow, I think, was -his favourite, if we may judge by the flowers that he mentioned most -frequently. Yet more than any colour he loved clearness, transparency, -the diaphanous current of a pure stream, the light of sunset - - “that imbues - Whate’er it strikes with gem-like hues.” - -But in two things his power of observation was unsurpassed, I think we -may almost say, unrivalled: in sound, and in movement. For these he had -what he describes in his sailor-brother, - - “a watchful heart - Still couchant, an inevitable ear, - And an eye practiced like a blind man’s touch.” - -In one of his juvenile poems, a sonnet describing the stillness of the -world at twilight, he says: - - “Calm is all nature as a resting wheel; - The kine are couched upon the dewy grass, - The horse alone seen dimly as I pass, - _Is cropping audibly his evening meal_.” - -At nightfall, while he is listening to the hooting of the owls and -mocking them, there comes an interval of silence, and then - - “a gentle shock of mild surprise - _Has carried far into his heart the voice_ - _Of mountain torrents_.” - -At midnight, on the summit of Snowdon, from a rift in the cloud-ocean at -his feet, he hears - - “the roar of waters, torrents, streams - Innumerable, roaring with one voice.” - -Under the shadows of the great yew-trees of Borrowdalek he loves - - “To lie and listen to the mountain flood - _Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves_.” - -What could be more perfect than the little lyric which begins - - “Yes, it was the mountain echo - Solitary, clear, profound, - Answering to the shouting cuckoo - Giving to her sound for sound.” - -How poignant is the touch with which he describes the notes of the -fiery-hearted Nightingale, singing in the dusk: - - “they pierce and pierce; - Tumultuous harmony and fierce!” - -But at sunrise other choristers make different melodies: - - “The birds are singing in the distant woods; - Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; - The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; - And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.” - -Wandering into a lovely glen among the hills, he hears all the voices of -nature blending together: - - “The Stream, so ardent in its course before, - Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all - Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice - Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, - The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush - Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, - Which while I listened, seemed like the wild growth - _Or like some natural produce of the air_ - _That could not cease to be_.” - -Wordsworth, more than any other English poet, interprets and glorifies -the mystery of sound. He is the poet who sits oftenest by the Ear-Gate -listening to the whispers and murmurs of the invisible guests who throng -that portal into “the city of Man-Soul.” Indeed the whole spiritual -meaning of nature seems to come to him in the form of sound. - - “Wonder not - If high the transport, great the joy I felt, - Communing in this sort through earth and heaven - With every form of creature, as it looked - Towards the Uncreated with a countenance - Of adoration, with an eye of love. - One song they sang, and it was audible, - Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, - O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, - Forgot her functions and slept undisturbed.” - -No less wonderful is his sense of the delicate motions of nature, the -visible transition of form and outline. How exquisite is the description -of a high-poising summer-cloud, - - “That heareth not the loud winds when they call; - And moveth all together, if it move at all.” - -He sees the hazy ridges of the mountains like a golden ladder, - - “Climbing suffused with sunny air - To stop—no record hath told where!” - -He sees the gentle mists - - “Curling with unconfirmed intent - On that green mountain’s side.” - -He watches the swan swimming on Lake Lucarno,— - - “Behold!—as with a gushing impulse heaves - That downy prow, and softly cleaves - The mirror of the crystal flood, - Vanish inverted hill and shadowy wood.” - -He catches sight of the fluttering green linnet among the hazel-trees: - - “My dazzled sight he oft deceives, - A Brother of the dancing leaves.” - -He looks on the meadows sleeping in the spring sunshine: - - “The cattle are grazing, - Their heads never raising, - There are forty feeding like one!” - -He beholds the far-off torrent pouring down Ben Cruachan: - - “Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; - Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, - Frozen by distance.” - -Now in such an observation of Nature as this, so keen, so patient, so -loving, so delicate, there is an immediate comfort for the troubled mind, -a direct refuge and repose for the heart. To see and hear such things is -peace and joy. It is a consolation and an education. Wordsworth himself -has said this very distinctly. - - “One impulse from a vernal wood - May teach you more of man - Of moral evil and of good - Than all the sages can.” - -But the most perfect expression of his faith in the educating power of -Nature is given in one of the little group of lyrics which are bound -together by the name of Lucy,—love-songs so pure and simple that they -seem almost mysterious in their ethereal passion. - - “Three years she grew in sun and shower, - Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower - On earth was never sown; - This Child I to myself will take; - She shall be mine, and I will make - A Lady of my own. - - Myself will to my darling be - Both law and impulse; and with me - The Girl, in rock and plain, - In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, - Shall feel an overseeing power - To kindle or restrain. - - ... - - The stars of midnight shall be dear - To her; and she shall lean her ear - In many a secret place - Where rivulets dance their wayward round, - _And beauty born of murmuring sound_ - _Shall pass into her face_.’” - -The personification of Nature in this poem is at the farthest removed -from the traditional poetic fiction which peopled the world with Dryads -and Nymphs and Oreads. Nor has it any touch of the “pathetic fallacy” -which imposes the thoughts and feelings of man upon natural objects. It -presents unconsciously, very simply, and yet prophetically, Wordsworth’s -vision of Nature,—a vision whose distinctive marks are vitality and -unity. - -It is his faith that “every flower enjoys the air it breathes.” It is -also his faith that underlying and animating all this joy there is the -life of one mighty Spirit. This faith rises to its most magnificent -expression in the famous _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_: - - “And I have felt - A presence that disturbs me with the joy - Of elevated thought; a sense sublime - Of something far more deeply interfused, - Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, - And the round ocean and the living air, - And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: - A motion and a spirit, that impels - All thinking things, all objects of all thought, - And rolls through all things.” - -The union of this animating Spirit of Nature, with the beholding, -contemplating, rejoicing spirit of man is like a pure and noble marriage, -in which man attains peace and the spousal consummation of his being. -This is the first remedy which Wordsworth finds for the malady of -despair, the first and simplest burden of his prophecy of joy. And he -utters it with confidence, - - “Knowing that Nature never did betray - The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege, - Through all the years of this our life, to lead - From joy to joy: for she can so inform - The mind that is within us, so impress - With quietness and beauty, and so feed - With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, - Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, - Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all - The dreary intercourse of daily life, - Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb - Our cheerful faith that all which we behold - Is full of blessings.” - - -IV - -Side by side with this revelation of Nature, and interwoven with it so -closely as to be inseparable, Wordsworth was receiving a revelation of -humanity, no less marvellous, no less significant for his recovery of -joy. Indeed he himself seems to have thought it the more important of the -two, for he speaks of the mind of man as - - “My haunt and the main region of my song”; - -And again he says that he will set out, like an adventurer, - - “And through the human heart explore the way; - And look and listen—gathering whence I may, - Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.” - -The discovery of humble life, of peasant character, of lowly, trivial -scenes and incidents, as a field for poetry, was not original with -Wordsworth. But he was the first English poet to explore this field -thoroughly, sympathetically, with steady and deepening joy. Burns had -been there before him; but the song of Burns though clear and passionate, -was fitful. Cowper had been there before him; but Cowper was like a -visitor from the polite world, never an inhabitant, never quite able to -pierce gently, powerfully down to the realities of lowly life and abide -in them. Crabbe had been there before him; but Crabbe was something of -a pessimist; he felt the rough shell of the nut, but did not taste the -sweet kernel. - -Wordsworth, if I may draw a comparison from another art, was the Millet -of English poetry. In his verse we find the same quality of perfect -comprehension, of tender pathos, of absolute truth interfused with -delicate beauty that makes Millet’s _Angelus_, and _The Gleaners_ and -_The Sower_ and _The Sheepfold_, immortal visions of the lowly life. -Place beside these pictures, if you will, Wordsworth’s _Solitary Reaper_, -_The Old Cumberland Beggar_, _Margaret_ waiting in her ruined cottage -for the husband who would never return, _Michael_, the old shepherd who -stood, many and many a day, beside the unfinished sheepfold which he had -begun to build with his lost boy, - - “And never lifted up a single stone,”— - -place these beside Millet’s pictures, and the poems will bear the -comparison. - -Coleridge called Wordsworth “a miner of the human heart.” But there is a -striking peculiarity in his mining: he searched the most familiar places, -by the most simple methods, to bring out the rarest and least suspected -treasures. His discovery was that there is an element of poetry, like -some metal of great value, diffused through the common clay of every-day -life. - -It is true that he did not always succeed in separating the precious -metal from the surrounding dross. There were certain limitations in his -mind which prevented him from distinguishing that which was familiar and -precious, from that which was merely familiar. - -One of these limitations was his lack of a sense of humour. At a -dinner-party he announced that he was never witty but once in his life. -When asked to narrate the instance, after some hesitation he said: “Well, -I will tell you. I was standing some time ago at the entrance of my -cottage at Rydal Mount. A man accosted me with the question, ‘Pray, sir, -have you seen my wife pass by?’ Whereupon I said, ‘Why, my good friend, -I didn’t know till this moment that you had a wife!’” The humour of this -story is unintentional and lies otherwhere than Wordsworth thought. The -fact that he was capable of telling it as a merry jest accounts for the -presence of many queer things in his poetry. For example; the lines in -_Simon Lee_, - - “Few months of life has he in store - As he to you will tell, - For still the more he works, the more - Do his weak ankles swell:” - -the stanza in _Peter Bell_, which Shelley was accused of having -maliciously invented, but which was actually printed in the first edition -of the poem, - - “Is it a party in a parlour - Cramming just as they on earth were crammed, - Some sipping punch—some sipping tea - But, as you by their faces see, - All silent and all—damned?” - -the couplet in the original version of _The Blind Highland Boy_ which -describes him as embarking on his voyage in - - “A household tub, like one of those - Which women use to wash their clothes.” - -It is quite certain, I think, that Wordsworth’s insensibility to -the humourous side of things made him incapable of perceiving one -considerable source of comfort and solace in lowly life. Plain and poor -people get a great deal of consolation, in their hard journey, out of the -rude but keen fun that they take by the way. The sense of humour is a -means of grace. - -I doubt whether Wordsworth’s peasant-poetry has ever been widely popular -among peasants themselves. There was an old farmer in the Lake Country -who had often seen the poet and talked with him, and who remembered him -well. Canon Rawnsley has made an interesting record of some of the old -man’s reminiscences. When he was asked whether he had ever read any of -Wordsworth’s poetry, or seen any of his books about in the farmhouses, -he answered: - -“Ay, ay, time or two. But ya’re weel aware there’s potry and potry. -There’s potry wi’ a li’le bit pleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can -laugh at or the childer understand, and some as takes a deal of mastery -to make out what’s said, and a deal of Wordsworth’s was this sort, ye -kna. You could tell fra the man’s faace his potry would niver have no -laugh in it.” - -But when we have admitted these limitations, it remains true that no -other English poet has penetrated so deeply into the springs of poetry -which rise by every cottage door, or sung so nobly of the treasures which -are hidden in the humblest human heart, as Wordsworth has. This is his -merit, his incomparable merit, that he has done so much, amid the hard -conditions, the broken dreams, and the cruel necessities of life, to -remind us how rich we are in being simply human. - -Like Clifford, in the _Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle_, - - “Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,” - -and thenceforth his chosen task was to explore the beauty and to show the -power of that common love. - - “There is a comfort in the strength of love; - ’Twill make a thing endurable, which else - Would overset the brain or break the heart.” - -He found the best portion of a good man’s life in - - “His little, nameless, unremembered acts - Of kindness and of love.” - -In _The Old Cumberland Beggar_ he declared - - “’Tis Nature’s law - That none, the meanest of created things, - Of forms created the most vile and brute, - The dullest or most noxious, should exist - Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good, - A life and soul, to every mode of being - Inseparably linked.” - -And then he went on to trace, not always with full poetic inspiration, -but still with many touches of beautiful insight, the good that the old -beggar did and received in the world, by wakening among the peasants -to whose doors he came from year to year, the memory of past deeds of -charity, by giving them a sense of kinship with the world of want and -sorrow, and by bestowing on them in their poverty the opportunity of -showing mercy to one whose needs were even greater than their own; -for,—the poet adds—with one of those penetrating flashes which are the -surest mark of his genius,— - - “Man is dear to man; the poorest poor - Long for some moments in a weary life - When they can know and feel that they have been, - Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out - Of some small blessings; have been kind to such - As needed kindness, for this single cause - That we have all of us one human heart.” - -Nor did Wordsworth forget, in his estimate of the value of the simplest -life, those pleasures which are shared by all men. - - “Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room; - And hermits are contented with their cells; - And students with their pensive citadels; - Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, - Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom - High as the highest Peak of Furniss-fells, - Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells; - In truth the prison, unto which we doom - Ourselves, no prison is.” - -He sees a Miller dancing with two girls on the platform of a boat moored -in the river Thames, and breaks out into a song on the “stray pleasures” -that are spread through the earth to be claimed by whoever shall find -them. A little crowd of poor people gather around a wandering musician in -a city street, and the poet cries, - - “Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; - Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream; - They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you, - Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!” - -He describes Coleridge and himself as lying together on the greensward in -the orchard by the cottage at Grasmere, and says - - “If but a bird, to keep them company, - Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, - As pleased as if the same had been a maiden Queen.” - -It was of such simple and unchartered blessings that he loved to sing. He -did not think that the vain or the worldly would care to listen to his -voice. Indeed he said in a memorable passage of gentle scorn that he did -not expect his poetry to be fashionable. “It is an awful truth,” wrote he -to Lady Beaumont, “that there neither is nor can be any genuine enjoyment -of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who either live -or wish to live in the broad light of the world,—among those who either -are, or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in -society. This is a truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of -a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of -human nature and reverence for God.” He did not expect that his poetry -would be popular in that world where men and women devote themselves to -the business of pleasure, and where they care only for the things that -minister to vanity or selfishness,—and it never was. - -But there was another world where he expected to be welcome and of -service. He wished his poetry to cheer the solitary, to uplift the -downcast, to bid the despairing hope again, to teach the impoverished -how much treasure was left to them. In short, he intended by the quiet -ministry of his art to be one of those - - “Poets who keep the world in heart,” - -—and so he was. - -It is impossible to exaggerate the value of such a service. Measured by -any true and vital standard Wordsworth’s contribution to the welfare of -mankind was greater, more enduring than that of the amazing Corsican, -Bonaparte, who was born but a few months before him and blazed his way to -glory. Wordsworth’s service was to life at its fountain-head. His remedy -for the despair and paralysis of the soul was not the prescription of a -definite philosophy as an antidote. It was a hygienic method, a simple, -healthful, loving life in fellowship with man and nature, by which -the native tranquillity and vigour of the soul would be restored. The -tendency of his poetry is to enhance our interest in humanity, to promote -the cultivation of the small but useful virtues, to brighten our joy in -common things, and to deepen our trust in a wise, kind, over-ruling God. -Wordsworth gives us not so much a new scheme of life as a new sense of -its interior and inalienable wealth. His calm, noble, lofty poetry is -needed to-day to counteract the belittling and distracting influence -of great cities; to save us from that most modern form of insanity, -publicomania, which sacrifices all the sanctities of life to the craze -for advertising; and to make a little quiet space in the heart, where -those who are still capable of thought, in this age of clattering -machinery, shall be able to hear themselves think. - - -V - -But there is one still deeper element in Wordsworth’s poetry. He tells -us very clearly that the true liberty and grandeur of _mankind_ are -to be found along the line of obedience to law and fidelity to duty. -This is the truth which was revealed to him, slowly and serenely, as a -consolation for the loss of his brief revolutionary dream. He learned -to rejoice in it more and more deeply, and to proclaim it more and more -clearly, as his manhood settled into firmness and strength. - -Fixing his attention at first upon the humblest examples of the power of -the human heart to resist unfriendly circumstances, as in _Resolution -and Independence_, and to endure sufferings and trials, as in _Margaret_ -and _Michael_, he grew into a new conception of the right nobility. He -saw that it was not necessary to make a great overturning of society -before the individual man could begin to fulfil his destiny. “What then -remains?” he cries— - - “To seek - Those helps for his occasion ever near - Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed - On the first motion of a holy thought; - Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer— - A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart, - Issuing however feebly, nowhere flows - Without access of unexpected strength. - But, above all, the victory is sure - For him, who seeking faith by virtue, strives - To yield entire submission to the law - Of conscience—conscience reverenced and obeyed, - As God’s most intimate presence in the soul, - And his most perfect image in the world.” - -If we would hear this message breathed in tones of lyric sweetness, as -to the notes of a silver harp, we may turn to Wordsworth’s poems on the -Skylark,— - - “Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; - True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.” - -If we would hear it proclaimed with grandeur, as by a solemn organ; -or with martial ardour, as by a ringing trumpet, we may read the _Ode -to Duty_ or _The Character of the Happy Warrior_, two of the noblest -and most weighty poems that Wordsworth ever wrote. There is a certain -distinction and elevation about his moral feelings which makes them in -themselves poetic. In his poetry beauty is goodness and goodness is -beauty. - -But I think it is in the Sonnets that this element of Wordsworth’s poetry -finds the broadest and most perfect expression. For here he sweeps upward -from the thought of the freedom and greatness of the individual man to -the vision of nations and races emancipated and ennobled by loyalty to -the right. How pregnant and powerful are his phrases! “Plain living and -high thinking.” “The homely beauty of the good old cause.” “A few strong -instincts and a few plain rules.” “Man’s unconquerable mind.” “By the -soul only, the Nations shall be great and free.” The whole series of -_Sonnets addressed to Liberty_, published in 1807, is full of poetic and -prophetic fire. But none among them burns with a clearer light, none -is more characteristic of him at his best, than that which is entitled -_London, 1802_. - - “Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour; - England hath need of thee; she is a fen - Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, - Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, - Have forfeited their ancient English dower - Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; - Oh! raise us up; return to us again; - And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. - Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; - Thou had’st a voice whose sound was like the sea: - Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, - So didst thou travel on life’s common way - In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart - The lowliest duties on herself did lay.” - -This sonnet embraces within its “scanty plot of ground” the roots of -Wordsworth’s strength. Here is his view of nature in the kinship between -the lonely star and the solitary soul. Here is his recognition of life’s -common way as the path of honour, and of the lowliest duties as the -highest. Here is his message that manners and virtue must go before -freedom and power. And here is the deep spring and motive of all his -work, in the thought that _joy_, _inward happiness_, is the dower that -has been lost and must be regained. - -Here then I conclude this chapter on Wordsworth. There are other things -that might well be said about him, indeed that would need to be said if -this were intended for a complete estimate of his influence. I should -wish to speak of the deep effect which his poetry has had upon the style -of other poets, breaking the bondage of “poetic diction” and leading the -way to a simpler and more natural utterance. I should need to touch upon -his alleged betrayal of his early revolutionary principles in politics, -and to show, (if a paradox may be pardoned), that he never had them and -that he always kept them. He never forsook liberty; he only changed his -conception of it. He saw that the reconstruction of society must be -preceded by reconstruction of the individual. Browning’s stirring lyric, -_The Lost Leader_,— - - “Just for a handful of silver he left us, - Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,”— - -may have been written with Wordsworth in mind, but it was a singularly -infelicitous suggestion of a remarkably good poem. - -All of these additions would be necessary if this estimate were intended -to be complete. But it is not, and so let it stand. - -If we were to choose a motto for Wordsworth’s poetry it might be this: -“Rejoice, and again I say unto you, rejoice.” And if we looked farther -for a watchword, we might take it from that other great poet, Isaiah, -standing between the fierce radicals and sullen conservatives of Israel, -and saying, - - “In quietness and confidence shall be your strength, - In rest and in returning ye shall be saved.” - - - - -“THE GLORY OF THE IMPERFECT” - -ROBERT BROWNING’S POETRY - - -There is a striking contrast between the poetry of Browning and the -poetry of Wordsworth; and this comes naturally from the difference -between the two men in genius, temperament and life. I want to trace -carefully and perhaps more clearly some of the lines of that difference. -I do not propose to ask which of them ranks higher as poet. That seems -to me a futile question. The contrast in kind interests me more than the -comparison of degree. And this contrast, I think, can best be felt and -understood through a closer knowledge of the central theme of each of the -two poets. - -Wordsworth is a poet of recovered joy. He brings consolation and -refreshment to the heart,—consolation which is passive strength, -refreshment which is peaceful energy. His poetry is addressed not to -crowds, but to men standing alone, and feeling their loneliness most -deeply when the crowd presses most tumultuously about them. He speaks -to us one by one, distracted by the very excess of life, separated from -humanity by the multitude of men, dazzled by the shifting variety of hues -into which the eternal light is broken by the prism of the world,—one -by one he accosts us, and leads us gently back, if we will follow him, -into a more tranquil region and a serener air. There we find the repose -of “a heart at leisure from itself.” There we feel the unity of man and -nature, and of both in God. There we catch sight of those eternal stars -of truth whose shining, though sometimes hidden, is never dimmed by the -cloud-confusions of morality. Such is the mission of Wordsworth to the -age. Matthew Arnold has described it with profound beauty. - - “He found us when the age had bound - Our souls in its benumbing round, - He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. - He laid us as we lay at birth - On the cool flowery lap of earth, - Smiles broke from us and we had ease, - The hills were round us, and the breeze - Went o’er the sun-lit fields again: - Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. - Our youth returned; for there was shed - On spirits that had long been dead, - Spirits dried up and closely furled, - The freshness of the early world.” - -But precious as such a service is and ever must be, it does not fill -the whole need of man’s heart. There are times and moods in which it -seems pale and ineffectual. The very contrast between its serenity, its -assurance, its disembodied passion, its radiant asceticism, and the -mixed lights, the broken music, the fluctuating faith, the confused -conflict of actual life, seems like a discouragement. It calls us to -go into a retreat, that we may find ourselves and renew our power to -live. But there are natures which do not easily adapt themselves to a -retreat,—natures which crave stimulus more than consolation, and look -for a solution of life’s problem that can be worked out while they are -in motion. They do not wish, perhaps they are not able, to withdraw -themselves from active life even for the sake of seeing it more clearly. - -Wordsworth’s world seems to them too bare, too still, too monotonous. -The rugged and unpopulous mountains, the lonely lakes, the secluded -vales, do not attract them as much as the fertile plain with its -luxuriant vegetation, the whirling city, the crowded highways of trade -and pleasure. Simplicity is strange to them; complexity is their native -element. They want music, but they want it to go with them in the -march, the parade, the festal procession. The poet for them must be -in the world, though he need not be altogether of it. He must speak -of the rich and varied life of man as one who knows its artificial as -well as its natural elements,—palaces as well as cottages, courts as -well as sheep-folds. Art and politics and literature and science and -churchmanship and society,—all must be familiar to him, material to his -art, significant to his interpretation. His message must be modern and -militant. He must not disregard doubt and rebellion and discord, but take -them into his poetry and transform them. He must front - - “The cloud of mortal destiny,” - -and make the most of the light that breaks through it. Such a poet is -Robert Browning; and his poetry is the direct answer to at least one -side of the modern _Zeitgeist_, restless, curious, self-conscious, -energetic, the active, questioning spirit. - - -I - -Browning’s poetic work-time covered a period of about fifty-six years, -(1833-1889,) and during this time he published over thirty volumes of -verse, containing more than two hundred and thirty poems, the longest, -_The Ring and the Book_, extending to nearly twenty-one thousand lines. -It was an immense output, greater I think, in mass, than that of almost -any other English poet except Shakespeare. The mere fact of such -productiveness is worth noting, because it is a proof of the activity of -the poet’s mind, and also because it may throw some light upon certain -peculiarities in the quality of his work. - -Browning not only wrote much himself, he was also the cause of much -writing in others. Commentaries, guide-books, handbooks, and expositions -have grown up around his poetry so fast that the vines almost hide the -trellis. The Browning Literature now demands not merely a shelf, but a -whole case to itself in the library. It has come to such a pass that one -must choose between reading the books that Browning wrote and the books -that other people have written about Browning. Life is too short for both. - -A reason, if not a justification, for this growth of a locksmith -literature about his work is undoubtedly to be found in what Mr. -Augustine Birrell calls “The Alleged Obscurity of Mr. Browning’s Poetry.” -The adjective in this happy title indicates one of the points in the -voluminous discussion. Does the difficulty in understanding Browning lie -in him, or in his readers? Is it an accidental defect of his style, or -a valuable element of his art, or an inherent profundity of his subject -that makes him hard to read? Or does the trouble reside altogether in -the imagination of certain readers, or perhaps in their lack of it? This -question was debated so seriously as to become at times almost personal -and threaten the unity of households if not the peace of nations. -Browning himself was accustomed to tell the story of a young man who -could not read his poetry, falling deeply in love with a young woman who -would hardly read anything else. She made it a condition of her favour -that her lover should learn to love her poet, and therefore set the -marriage day at a point beyond the time when the bridegroom could present -himself before her with convincing evidence that he had perused the works -of Browning down to the last line. Such was the strength of love that -the condition was triumphantly fulfilled. The poet used to tell with -humourous satisfaction that he assisted in person at the wedding of these -two lovers whose happiness he had unconsciously delayed and accomplished. - -But an incident like this does not contribute much to the settlement of -the controversy which it illustrates. Love is a notorious miracle-worker. -The question of Browning’s obscurity is still debatable; and whatever may -be said on one side or the other, one fact must be recognized: it is not -yet quite clear whether his poetry is clear or not. - -To this fact I would trace the rise and flourishing of Browning Societies -in considerable abundance, during the late Victorian Era, especially near -Boston. The enterprise of reading and understanding Browning presented -itself as an affair too large and difficult for the intellectual capital -of any private person. Corporations were formed, stock companies of -intelligence were promoted, for the purpose of working the field of his -poetry. The task which daunted the solitary individual was courageously -undertaken by phalanxes and cheerfully pursued in fellowship. Thus the -obscurity, alleged or actual, of the poet’s writing, having been at -first a hindrance, afterward became an advertisement to his fame. The -charm of the enigma, the fascination of solving riddles, the pleasure -of understanding something which other people at least professed to -be unable to understand, entered distinctly into the growth of his -popularity. A Browning cult, a Browning propaganda, came into being and -toiled tremendously. - -One result of the work of these clubs and societies is already evident: -they have done much to remove the cause which called them into being. It -is generally recognized that a considerable part of Browning’s poetry is -not really so difficult after all. It can be read and enjoyed by any one -whose mind is in working order. Those innocent and stupid Victorians -were wrong about it. We alert and sagacious George-the-Fifthians need -some tougher poetry to try our mettle. So I suppose the Browning -Societies, having fulfilled their function, will gradually fade away,—or -perhaps transfer their attention to some of those later writers who -have put obscurity on a scientific basis and raised impenetrability to -a fine art. Meantime I question whether all the claims which were made -on behalf of Browning in the period of propaganda will be allowed at -their face value. For example, that _The Ring and the Book_ is “the -greatest work of creative imagination that has appeared since the time of -Shakespeare,”[10] and that _A Grammarian’s Funeral_ is “the most powerful -ode in English, the mightiest tribute ever paid to a man,”[11] and that -Browning’s “style as it stands is God-made, not Browning-made,”[12] -appear even now like drafts on glory which must be discounted before -they are paid. Nor does it seem probable that the general proposition -which was sometimes advanced by extreme Browningites, (and others,) -to the effect that all great poetry _ought_ to be hard to read, and -that a poem which is easy cannot be great, will stand the test of time. -Milton’s _Comus_, Gray’s _Elegy_, Wordsworth’s _Ode on the Intimations of -Immortality_, Shelley’s _Skylark_, Keats’ _Grecian Urn_, and Tennyson’s -_Guinevere_ cannot be reduced to the rank of minor verse by such a -formula. - -And yet it must be said that the very extravagance of the claims which -were made for Browning, the audacity of enthusiasm which he inspired -in his expositors, is a proof of the reality and the potency of his -influence. Men are not kindled where there is no fire. Men do not keep -on guessing riddles unless the answers have some interest and value. A -stock company cannot create a prophet out of straw. Browning must have -had something important to say to the age, and he must have succeeded in -saying it in a way which was suitable, in spite of its defects, to convey -his message, else we may be sure his age never would have listened to -him, even by select companies, nor discussed him, even in a partisan -temper, nor felt his influence, even at second-hand. - -What was it, then, that he had to say, and how did he say it? What was -the theme of his poetry, what the method by which he found it, what -the manner in which he treated it, and what the central element of -his disposition by which the development of his genius was impelled -and guided? These are the questions,—questions of fact rather than of -theory,—that particularly interest me in regard to Browning. And I hope -it may be possible to consider them from a somewhat fresh point of view, -and without entering into disturbing and unprofitable comparisons of rank -with Shakespeare and the other poets. - -But there is no reason why the answers to these questions should be -concealed until the end of the chapter. It may be better to state them -now, in order that we may be able to test them as we go on, and judge -whether they are justified and how far they need to be qualified. There -is a particular reason for taking this course, in the fact that Browning -changed very little in the process of growth. There were alterations -in his style, but there was no real alteration in the man, nor in his -poetry. His first theme was his last theme. His early manner of treatment -was his latest manner of treatment. What he said at the beginning he -said again at the end. With the greatest possible variety of titles he -had but one main topic; with the widest imaginable range of subjects, he -used chiefly one method and reached but one conclusion; with a nature -of almost unlimited breadth he was always under control of one central -impulse and loyal to one central quality. Let me try, then, to condense -the general impression into a paragraph and take up the particulars -afterwards, point by point. - -The clew to Browning’s mind, it seems to me, is vivid and inexhaustible -curiosity, dominated by a strangely steady optimism. His topic is not -the soul, in the abstract, but souls in the concrete. His chosen method -is that of spiritual drama, and for the most part, monodrama. His manner -is the intense, subtle, passionate style of psychological realism. His -message, uttered through the lips of a hundred imaginary characters, but -always with his own accent,—his message is “the Glory of the Imperfect.” - -[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING. - -Painted by G. F. Watts. - -_From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London._] - - -II - -The best criticisms of the poets have usually come from other poets, and -often in the form of verse. Landor wrote of Browning, - - “Since Chaucer was alive and hale - No man hath walked along our roads with step - So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue - So varied in discourse.” - -This is a thumb-nail sketch of Browning’s personality,—not complete, -but very lifelike. And when we add to it Landor’s prose saying that -“his is the surest foot since Chaucer’s, that has waked the echoes from -_the difficult places_ of poetry and of life” we have a sufficiently -plain clew to the unfolding of Browning’s genius. Unwearying activity, -intense curiosity, variety of expression, and a predominant interest -in the difficult places of poetry and of life,—these were the striking -characteristics of his mind. In his heart a native optimism, an -unconquerable hopefulness, was the ruling factor. But of that I shall -not speak until later, when we come to consider his message. For -the present we are looking simply for the mainspring of his immense -intellectual energy. - -When I say that the clew to Browning’s mind is to be found in his -curiosity, I do not mean inquisitiveness, but a very much larger and -nobler quality, for which we have no good word in English,—something -which corresponds with the German _Wissbegier_, as distinguished from -_Neugier_: an ardent desire to know things as they are, to penetrate as -many as possible of the secrets of actual life. This, it seems to me, is -the key to Browning’s intellectual disposition. He puts it into words in -his first poem _Pauline_, where he makes the nameless hero speak of his -life as linked to - - “a principle of restlessness - Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all— - This is myself; and I should thus have been - Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.” - -_Paracelsus_ is only an expansion of this theme in the biography of a -soul. In _Fra Lippo Lippi_ the painter says: - - “God made it all! - For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, - For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s line, - The mountain round it and the sky above, - Much more the figures of man, woman, child, - These are the frame to? What’s it all about? - To be passed over, despised? Or dwelt upon, - Wondered at? oh, this last of course!—you say. - But why not do as well as say, paint these - Just as they are, careless what comes of it? - God’s works—paint any one and count it crime - To let a truth slip. - ... This world’s no blot for us, - Nor blank; it means intensely and means good: - To find its meaning is my meat and drink.” - -No poet was ever more interested in life than Browning, and whatever -else may be said of his poetry it must be admitted that it is very -interesting. He touches all sides of human activity and peers into the -secret places of knowledge. He enters into the life of musicians in -_Abt Vogler_, _Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_, _A Toccata of Galuppi’s_, -and _Charles Avison_; into the life of painters in _Andrea del Sarto_, -_Pictor Ignotus_, _Fra Lippo Lippi_, _Old Pictures in Florence_, -_Gerard de Lairesse_, _Pacchiarotto and How He Worked in Distemper_, -and _Francis Furini_; into the life of scholars in _A Grammarian’s -Funeral_ and _Fust and his Friends_; into the life of politicians in -_Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau_ and _George Bubb Dodington_; into the life -of ecclesiastics in the _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_, _Bishop -Blougram’s Apology_, _The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed’s -Church_, and _The Ring and the Book_; and he makes excursions into all -kinds of byways and crooked corners of life in such poems as _Mr. Sludge, -the Medium_, _Porphyria’s Lover_, _Mesmerism_, _Johannes Agricola in -Meditation_, _Pietro of Abano_, _Ned Bratts_, _Jochanan Hakkadosh_, and -so forth. - -Merely to read a list of such titles is to have evidence of Browning’s -insatiable curiosity. It is evident also that he has a fondness for -out-of-the-way places. He wants to know, even more than he wants to -enjoy. If Wordsworth is the poet of the common life, Browning is the poet -of the uncommon life. Extraordinary situations and eccentric characters -attract him. Even when he is looking at some familiar scene, at some -commonplace character, his effort is to discover something that shall -prove that it is not familiar, not commonplace,—a singular detail, a -striking feature, a mark of individuality. This gives him more pleasure -than any distant vision of an abstraction or a general law. - - “All that I know - Of a certain star - Is, it can throw - (Like the angled spar) - Now a dart of red, - Now a dart of blue; - Till my friends have said - They would fain see, too, - My star that dartles the red and the blue! - Then it stops like a bird; like a flower hangs furled; - They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. - What matter to me if their star is a world? - Mine has opened its soul to me, therefore I love it.” - -One consequence of this penetrating, personal quality of mind is that -Browning’s pages teem with portraits of men and women, which are like -sculptures and paintings of the Renaissance. They are more individual -than they are typical. There is a peculiarity about each one of them -which almost makes us forget to ask whether they have any general -relation and value. The presentations are so sharp and vivid that their -representative quality is lost. - -If Wordsworth is the Millet of poetry, Browning is the Holbein or the -Denner. He never misses the mole, the wrinkle, the twist of the eyebrow, -which makes the face stand out alone, the sudden touch of self-revelation -which individualizes the character. Thus we find in Browning’s poetry few -types of humanity, but plenty of men. - -Yet he seldom, if ever, allows us to forget the background of society. -His figures are far more individual than Wordsworth’s, but far less -solitary. Behind each of them we feel the world out of which they -have come and to which they belong. There is a sense of crowded life -surging through his poetry. The city, with all that it means, is not -often completely out of view. “Shelley’s characters,” says a thoughtful -essayist, “are creatures of wave and sky; Wordsworth’s of green English -fields; Browning’s move in the house, the palace, the street.”[13] In -many of them, even when they are soliloquizing, there is a curious -consciousness of opposition, of conflict. They seem to be defending -themselves against unseen adversaries, justifying their course against -the judgment of absent critics. Thus Bishop Blougram while he talks over -the walnuts and the wine to Mr. Gigadibs, the sceptical hack-writer, has -a worldful of religious conservatives and radicals in his eye and makes -his half-cynical, wholly militant, apology for agnostic orthodoxy to -them. The old huntsman, in _The Flight of the Duchess_, is maintaining -the honour of his fugitive mistress against the dried-up, stiff, -conventional society from which she has eloped with the Gypsies. Andrea -del Sarto, looking at the soulless fatal beauty of his Lucrezia, and -meditating on the splendid failure of his art, cries out to Rafael and -Michelangelo and all his compeers to understand and judge him. - -Even when Browning writes of romantic love, (one of his two favourite -subjects), he almost always heightens its effect by putting it in relief -against the ignorance, the indifference, the busyness, or the hostility -of the great world. In _Cristina_ and _Evelyn Hope_ half the charm of the -passion lies in the feeling that it means everything to the lover though -no one else in the world may know of its existence. _Porphyria’s Lover_, -in a fit of madness, kills his mistress to keep her from going back to -the world which would divide them. The sweet searching melody of _In a -Gondola_ plays itself athwart a sullen distant accompaniment of Venetian -tyranny and ends with a swift stroke of vengeance from the secret Three. - -Take, for an example of Browning’s way of enhancing love by contrast, -that most exquisite and subtle lyric called _Love Among the Ruins_. - - “Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles - Miles and miles - On the solitary pastures where our sheep - Half asleep - Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stay or stop - As they crop— - Was the site once of a city great and gay - (So they say) - Of our country’s very capital, its prince - Ages since - Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far - Peace or war. - - And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve - Smiles to leave - To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece - In such peace, - And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray - Melt away— - That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair - Waits me there - In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul - For the goal, - When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb - Till I come. - - ... - - In one year they sent a million fighters forth - South and North, - And they built their gods a brazen pillar high - As the sky, - Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— - Gold of course. - Oh heart! Oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! - Earth’s returns - For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! - Shut them in, - With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! - Love is best.” - - -III - -“Love is best!” That is one of the cardinal points of Browning’s -creed. He repeats it in a hundred ways: tragically in _A Blot in -the ’Scutcheon_; sentimentally in _A Lover’s Quarrel_, _Two in the -Campagna_, _The Last Ride Together_; heroically in _Colombe’s Birthday_; -in the form of a paradox in _The Statue and the Bust_; as a personal -experience in _By the Fireside_, _One Word More_, and at the end of the -prelude to _The Ring and the Book_. - - “For life, with all it yields of joy and woe - And hope and fear, ... - Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love.” - -But it must be confessed that he does not often say it as clearly, as -quietly, as beautifully as in _Love Among the Ruins_. For his chosen -method is dramatic and his natural manner is psychological. So ardently -does he follow this method, so entirely does he give himself up to this -manner that his style - - “is subdued - To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.” - -In the dedicatory note to _Sordello_, written in 1863, he says “My stress -lay in the incidents in the development of a _soul_; little else is worth -study.” He felt intensely - - “How the world is made for each of us! - How all we perceive and know in it - Tends to some moment’s product thus, - When a soul declares itself—to wit, - By its fruit, the thing it does!” - -In _One Word More_ he describes his own poetry with keen insight: - - “Love, you saw me gather men and women, - Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, - Enter each and all and use their service, - Speak from every mouth,—the speech a poem.” - -It is a mistake to say that Browning is a metaphysical poet: he is a -psychological poet. His interest does not lie in the abstract problems of -time and space, mind and matter, divinity and humanity. It lies in the -concrete problems of opportunity and crisis, flesh and spirit, man the -individual and God the person. He is an anatomist of souls. - - “Take the least man of all mankind, as I; - Look at his head and heart, find how and why - He differs from his fellows utterly.”[14] - -But his way of finding out this personal equation is not by observation -and reflection. It is by throwing himself into the character and making -it reveal itself by intricate self-analysis or by impulsive action. -What his poetry lacks is the temperate zone. He has the arctic circle -of intellect and the tropics of passion. But he seldom enters the -intermediate region of sentiment, reflection, sympathy, equable and -prolonged feeling. Therefore it is that few of his poems have the power -of “sinking inward from thought to thought” as Wordsworth’s do. They -surprise us, rouse us, stimulate us, more than they rest us. He does -not penetrate with a mild and steady light through the portals of the -human heart, making them transparent. He flings them wide open suddenly, -and often the gates creak on their hinges. He is forever tying Gordian -knots in the skein of human life and cutting them with the sword of -swift action or intense passion. His psychological curiosity creates the -difficulties, his intuitive optimism solves them. - - -IV - -The results of this preoccupation with such subjects and of this manner -of dealing with them may be recognized very easily in Browning’s work. - -First of all they turned him aside from becoming a great Nature-poet, -though he was well fitted to be one. It is not that he loves Nature’s -slow and solemn pageant less, but that he loves man’s quick and varied -drama more. His landscapes are like scenery for the stage. They -accompany the unfolding of the plot and change with it, but they do not -influence it. His observation is as keen, as accurate as Wordsworth’s or -Tennyson’s, but it is less steady, less patient, less familiar. It is the -observation of one who passes through the country but does not stay to -grow intimate with it. The forms of nature do not print themselves on his -mind; they flash vividly before him, and come and go. Usually it is some -intense human feeling that makes the details of the landscape stand out -so sharply. In _Pippa Passes_, it is in the ecstasy of love that Ottima -and Sebald notice - - “The garden’s silence: even the single bee - Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped, - And where he hid you only could surmise - By some campanula chalice set a-swing.” - -It is the sense of guilty passion that makes the lightning-flashes, -burning through the pine-forest, seem like dagger-strokes,— - - “As if God’s messenger through the closed wood screen - Plunged and re-plunged his weapon at a venture, - Feeling for guilty thee and me.” - -In _Home Thoughts from Abroad_, it is the exile’s deep homesickness that -brings the quick, delicate vision before his eyes: - - “Oh, to be in England - Now that April’s there, - And whoever wakes in England - Sees, some morning, unaware, - That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf - Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, - While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough - In England—now!” - -But Browning’s touches of nature are not always as happy as this. Often -he crowds the details too closely, and fails to blend them with the -ground of the picture, so that the tonality is destroyed and the effect -is distracting. The foreground is too vivid: the aerial perspective -vanishes. There is an impressionism that obscures the reality. As Amiel -says: “Under pretense that we want to study it more in detail, we -pulverize the statue.” - -Browning is at his best as a Nature-poet in sky-scapes, like the -description of daybreak in _Pippa Passes_, the lunar rainbow in -_Christmas Eve_, and the Northern Lights in _Easter Day_; and also in -a kind of work which might be called symbolic landscape, where the -imaginative vision of nature is made to represent a human experience. -A striking example of this work is the scenery of _Childe Roland_, -reflecting as in a glass the grotesque horrors of spiritual desolation. -There is a passage in _Sordello_ which makes a fertile landscape, -sketched in a few swift lines, the symbol of Sordello’s luxuriant -nature; and another in Norbert’s speech, in _In a Balcony_, which uses -the calm self-abandonment of the world in the tranquil evening light as -the type of the sincerity of the heart giving itself up to love. But -perhaps as good an illustration as we can find of Browning’s quality as a -Nature-poet, is a little bit of mystery called _Meeting at Night_. - - “The gray sea and the long black land; - And the yellow half-moon, large and low; - And the startled little waves that leap - In fiery ringlets from their sleep, - As I gain the cove with pushing prow, - And quench its speed in the slushy sand. - Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; - Three fields to cross till a farm appears; - A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch - And the blue spirt of a lighted match, - And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, - Than the two hearts beating each to each!” - -This is the landscape of the drama. - -A second result of Browning’s preoccupation with dramatic psychology is -the close concentration and “alleged obscurity” of his style. Here again -I evade the critical question whether the obscurity is real, or whether -it is only a natural and admirable profundity to which an indolent -reviewer has given a bad name. That is a question which Posterity must -answer. But for us the fact remains that some of his poetry is hard to -read; it demands close attention and strenuous effort; and when we find -a piece of it that goes very easily, like _The Pied Piper of Hamelin_, -_How They brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix_, _Hervé Riel_, or -the stirring _Cavalier Tunes_, we are conscious of missing the sense of -strain which we have learned to associate with the reading of Browning. - -One reason for this is the predominance of curiosity over harmony in -his disposition. He tries to express the inexpressible, to write the -unwritable. As Dr. Johnson said of Cowley, he has the habit “of pursuing -his thoughts to the last ramifications, by which he loses the grandeur of -generality.” Another reason is the fluency, the fertility, the haste of -his genius, and his reluctance, or inability, to put the brakes on his -own productiveness. - -It seems probable that if Browning had been able to write more slowly -and carefully he might have written with more lucidity. There was a time -when he made a point of turning off a poem a day. It is doubtful whether -the story of _The Ring and the Book_ gains in clearness by being told by -eleven different persons, all of them inclined to volubility. - -Yet Browning’s poetry is not verbose. It is singularly condensed in the -matter of language. He seems to have made his most arduous effort in -this direction. After _Paracelsus_ had been published and pronounced -“unintelligible,” he was inclined to think that there might be some fault -of too great terseness in the style. But a letter from Miss Caroline -Fox was shown to him, in which that lady, (then very young,) took the -opposite view and asked “doth he know that Wordsworth will devote a -fortnight or more to the discovery of the single word that is the one -fit for his sonnet.” Browning appears to have been impressed by this -criticism; but he set himself to work upon it, not so much by way of -selecting words as by way of compressing them. He put _Sordello_ into a -world where many of the parts of speech are lacking and all are crowded. -He learned to pack the largest, possible amount of meaning into the -smallest possible space, as a hasty traveller packs his portmanteau. Many -small articles are crushed and crumpled out of shape. He adopted a system -of elisions for the sake of brevity, and loved, as C. S. Calverley said, - - “to dock the smaller parts of speech - As we curtail th’ already curtailed cur.” - -At the same time he seldom could resist the temptation to put in another -thought, another simile, another illustration, although the poem might be -already quite full. He called out, like the conductor of a street-car, -“Move up in front: room for one more!” He had little tautology of -expression, but much of conception. A good critic says “Browning -condenses by the phrase, elaborates by the volume.”[15] - -One consequence of this system of writing is that a great deal of -Browning’s poetry lends itself admirably to translation,—into English. -The number of prose paraphrases of his poems is great, and so constantly -increasing that it seems as if there must be a real demand for them. -But Coleridge, speaking of the qualities of a true poetic style, -remarked: “Whatever lines can be translated into other words of the same -language without diminution of their significance, either in sense, or -in association, or in any other feeling, are so far vicious in their -diction.” - -Another very notable thing in Browning’s poetry is his fertility -and fluency of rhyme. He is probably the most rapid, ingenious, and -unwearying rhymer among the English poets. There is a story that once, -in company with Tennyson, he was challenged to produce a rhyme for -“rhinoceros,” and almost instantly accomplished the task with a verse in -which the unwieldy quadruped kept time and tune with the phrase “he can -toss Eros.”[16] There are other _tours de force_ almost as extraordinary -in his serious poems. Who but Browning would have thought of rhyming -“syntax” with “tin-tacks,” or “spare-rib” with “Carib,” (_Flight of -Duchess_) or “Fra Angelico’s” with “bellicose,” or “Ghirlandajo” with -“heigh-ho,” (_Old Pictures in Florence_) or “expansive explosive” with “O -Danaides, O Sieve!” (_Master Hugues_). Rhyme, with most poets, acts as a -restraint, a brake upon speech. But with Browning it is the other way. -His rhymes are like wild, frolicsome horses, leaping over the fences and -carrying him into the widest digressions. Many a couplet, many a stanza -would not have been written but for the impulse of a daring, suggestive -rhyme. - -Join to this love of somewhat reckless rhyming, his deep and powerful -sense of humour, and you have the secret of his fondness for the -grotesque. His poetry abounds in strange contrasts, sudden changes of -mood, incongruous comparisons, and odd presentations of well-known -subjects. Sometimes the whole poem is written in this manner. The -_Soliloquy in a Spanish Cloister_, _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_, and -_Caliban upon Setebos_, are poetic gargoyles. Sometimes he begins -seriously enough, as in the poem on Keats, and closes with a bit of -fantastic irony: - - “Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats: - Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup: - Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats— - Both gorge. Who fished the murex up? - What porridge had John Keats?” - -Sometimes the poem opens grotesquely, like _Christmas Eve_, and rises -swiftly to a wonderful height of pure beauty and solemnity, dropping -back into a grotesque at the end. But all this play of fancy must -not be confused with the spirit of mockery or of levity. It is often -characteristic of the most serious and earnest natures; it arises in -fact from the restlessness of mind in the contemplation of evil, or from -the perception of life’s difficulties and perplexities. Shakespeare -was profoundly right in introducing the element of the grotesque into -_Hamlet_, his most thoughtful tragedy. Browning is never really anything -else but a serious thinker, passionately curious to solve the riddle of -existence. Like his own _Sordello_ he - - “Gave to familiar things a face grotesque, - Only, pursuing through the mad burlesque, - A grave regard.” - -We may sum up, then, what we have to say of Browning’s method and manner -by recognizing that they belong together and have a mutual fitness and -inevitableness. We may wish that he had attained to more lucidity and -harmony of expression, but we should probably have had some difficulty -in telling him precisely how to do it, and he would have been likely to -reply with good humour as he did to Tennyson, “The people must take me -as they find me.” If he had been less ardent in looking for subjects -for his poetry, he might have given more care to the form of his poems. -If he had cut fewer blocks, he might have finished more statues. The -immortality of much of his work may be discounted by its want of perfect -art,—the only true preservative of man’s handiwork. But the immortality -of his genius is secure. He may not be ranked finally among the great -masters of the art of poetry. But he certainly will endure as a mine for -poets. They may stamp the coins more clearly and fashion the ornaments -more delicately. But the gold is his. He was the prospector,—the first -dramatic psychologist of modern life. The very imperfections of his work, -in all its splendid richness and bewildering complexity, bear witness to -his favourite doctrine that life itself is more interesting than art, and -more glorious, because it is not yet perfect. - - -V - -“The Glory of the Imperfect,”—that is a phrase which I read in a pamphlet -by that fine old Grecian and noble Christian philosopher, George Herbert -Palmer, many years ago. It seems to me to express the central meaning of -Browning’s poetry. - -He is the poet of aspiration and endeavour; the prophet of a divine -discontent. All things are precious to him, not in themselves, but as -their defects are realized, as man uses them, and presses through them, -towards something higher and better. Hope is man’s power: and the things -hoped for must be as yet unseen. Struggle is man’s life; and the purpose -of life is not merely education, but a kind of progressive creation of -the soul. - - “Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.” - -The world presents itself to him, as the Germans say, _Im Werden_. It is -a world of potencies, working itself out. Existence is not the mere fact -of being, but the vital process of becoming. The glory of man lies in -his power to realize this process in his mind and to fling himself into -it with all his will. If he tries to satisfy himself with things as they -are, like the world-wedded soul in _Easter Eve_, he fails. If he tries to -crowd the infinite into the finite, like Paracelsus, he fails. He must -make his dissatisfaction his strength. He must accept the limitations of -his life, not in the sense of submitting to them, but as Jacob wrestled -with the angel, in order to win, through conflict, a new power, a larger -blessing. His ardent desires and longings and aspirations, yes, even his -defeats and disappointments and failures, are the stuff out of which his -immortal destiny is weaving itself. The one thing that life requires of -him is to act with ardour, to go forward resolutely, to “burn his way -through the world”; and the great lesson which it teaches him is this: - - “But thou shalt painfully attain to joy - While hope and love and fear shall keep thee man.” - -Browning was very much needed in the Nineteenth Century as the antidote, -or perhaps it would be more just to say, as the complement to Carlyle. -For Carlyle’s prophecy, with all its moral earnestness, its virility, -its indomitable courage, had in it a ground-tone of despair. It was the -battle-cry of a forlorn hope. Man must hate shams intensely, must seek -reality passionately, must do his duty desperately; but he can never tell -why. The reason of things is inscrutable: the eternal Power that rules -things is unknowable. Carlyle, said Mazzini, “has a constant disposition -to crush the human by comparing him with God.” But Browning has an -unconquerable disposition to elevate the human by joining him to God. The -power that animates and governs the world is Divine; man cannot escape -from it nor overcome it. But the love that stirs in man’s heart is also -Divine; and if man will follow it, it shall lead him to that height -where he shall see that Power is Love. - - “I have faith such end shall be: - From the first Power was—I knew. - Life has made clear to me - That, strive but for closer view, - Love were as plain to see. - - When see? When there dawns a day - If not on the homely earth, - Then yonder, worlds away, - Where the strange and new have birth - And Power comes full in play.”[17] - -Browning’s optimism is fundamental. Originally a matter of temperament, -perhaps, as it is expressed in _At the Mermaid_,— - - “I find earth not gray, but rosy, - Heaven not grim but fair of hue. - Do I stoop? I pluck a posy, - Do I stand and stare? All’s blue——” - -primarily the spontaneous tone of a healthy, happy nature, it became the -chosen key-note of all his music, and he works it out through a hundred -harmonies and discords. He is “sure of goodness as of life.” He does -not ask “How came good into the world?” For that, after all, is the -pessimistic question; it assumes that the ground of things is evil and -the good is the breaking of the rule. He asks instead “How came evil into -the world?” That is the optimistic question; as long as a man puts it in -that form he is an optimist at heart; he takes it for granted that good -is the native element and evil is the intruder; there must be a solution -of the problem whether he can find it or not; the rule must be superior -to, and triumphant over, the exception; the meaning and purpose of evil -must somehow, some time, be proved subordinate to good. - -That is Browning’s position: - - “My own hope is, a sun will pierce - The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; - That, after Last, returns the First, - Though a wide compass round be fetched; - That what began best, can’t end worst, - Nor what God blessed once prove accurst.” - -The way in which he justifies this position is characteristic of the man. -His optimism is far less defensive than it is militant. He never wavers -from his intuitive conviction that “the world means good.” He follows -this instinct as a soldier follows his banner, into whatever difficulties -and conflicts it may lead him, and fights his way out, now with the -weapons of philosophy, now with the bare sword of faith. - - -VI - -It might seem at first as if it were unfair to attempt any estimate of -the philosophic and religious teaching of a poet like Browning, whose -method we have already recognized as dramatic. Can we ascribe to the poet -himself the opinions which he puts into the mouths of his characters? Can -we hold him responsible for the sentiments which are expressed by the -actors on his stage? - -Certainly this objection must be admitted as a restraint in the -interpretation of his poetry. We are not to take all that his characters -say, literally and directly, as his own belief, any more than we are to -read the speeches of Satan, and Eliphaz, and Bildad, and Zophar, in the -Book of Job, as utterances of the spirit of inspiration. But just as -that great dramatic Scripture, dealing with the problems of evil and -suffering and sovereignty, does contain a doctrine and convey a lesson, -so the poetry of Browning, taken as a whole, utters a distinct and -positive prophetic message. - -In the first place, many of the poems are evidently subjective, written -without disguise in the first person. Among these we may consider _My -Star_; _By the Fireside_; _One Word More_; the Epilogues to _Dramatis -Personæ_ and _Pachiarrotto_ and _Ferishtah’s Fancies_; the introduction -and the close of _The Ring and the Book_; _Christmas Eve_ and _Easter -Day_; the ending of the poem called _Gold Hair_, and of _A Death in the -Desert_, and of _Bishop Blougram’s Apology_; _Prospice_ and _Reverie_. -In the second place we must remember Goethe’s dictum: “Every author in -some degree, pourtrays himself in his works, even be it against his -will.” Even when Browning is writing dramatically, he cannot conceal -his sympathy. The masks are thin. His eyes shine through. “His own -personality,” says Mr. Stedman, “is manifest in the speech and movement -of almost every character of each piece. His spirit is infused as if by -metempsychosis, within them all, and forces each to assume a strange -Pentecostal tone, which we discover to be that of the poet himself.” Thus -it is not impossible, nor even difficult, to reach a fair estimate of his -ethical and religious teaching and discover its principal elements. - -1. First among these I would put a great confidence in God. Browning is -the most theological of modern poets. The epithet which was applied to -Spinoza might well be transferred to him. He is a “God-intoxicated” man. -But in a very different sense, for whereas the philosopher felt God as an -idea, the poet feels Him intensely as a person. The song which he puts -into the lips of the unconscious heroine in _Pippa Passes_,— - - “God’s in his heaven - All’s right with the world,——” - -is the recurrent theme of his poetry. He cries with Paracelsus, - - “God thou art Love, I build my faith on that.” - -Even when his music is broken and interrupted by discords, when it -seems to dissolve and fade away as all human work, in its outward form, -dissolves and fades, he turns, as Abt Vogler turns from his silent -organ, to God; - - “Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? - Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! - What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? - Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?” - -In _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ he takes up the ancient figure of the potter and the -clay and uses it to express his boundless trust in God. - -The characteristic mark of Browning’s view of God is that it is always -taken from the side of humanity. The Perfect Glory is the correlative of -the glory of the imperfect. The Divine Love is the answer to the human -longing. God is, because man needs Him. From this point of view it almost -seems, as a brilliant essayist has said, as if “In Browning, God is -adjective to man.”[18] - -But it may be said in answer, that, at least for man, this is the only -point of view that is accessible. We can never leave our own needs -behind us, however high we may try to climb. Certainly if we succeed in -forgetting them for a moment, in that very moment we have passed out of -the region of poetry, which is the impassioned interpretation of man’s -heart. - -2. The second element of power in Browning’s poetry is that he sees in -the personal Christ the very revelation of God that man’s heart most -needs and welcomes. Nowhere else in all the range of modern poetry has -this vision been expressed with such spiritual ardour, with such poignant -joy. We must turn back to the pages of Isaiah to find anything to equal -the Messianic rapture of the minstrel in _Saul_. - - “He who did most shall bear most: the strongest shall stand the most - weak. - ’Tis the weakness in strength that I cry for! my flesh that I seek - In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be, - A Face like my face that receives thee; a man like to me, - Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this hand - Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! see the Christ stand!” - -We must look into the Christ-filled letters of St. Paul to find the -attractions of the Crucified One uttered as powerfully as they are in the -_Epistle of Karshish_. - - “The very God! think Abib; dost thou think? - So, the All-great, were the All-Loving too— - So, through the thunder comes a human voice - Saying, ‘O heart I made, a heart beats here! - Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! - Thou hast no power, nor mayest conceive of mine, - But love I gave thee, with myself to love, - And thou must love me who have died for thee!’” - -It is idle to assert that these are only dramatic presentations of the -Christian faith. No poet could have imagined such utterances without -feeling their significance; and the piercing splendour of their -expression discloses his sympathy. He reveals it yet more unmistakably -in _Christmas Eve_, (strophe XVII) and in _Easter Day_, (strophe XXX.) -In the Epilogue to _Dramatis Personæ_ it flashes out clearly. The second -speaker, as Renan, has bewailed the vanishing of the face of Christ from -the sorrowful vision of the race. The third speaker, the poet himself, -answers: - - “That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, - Or decomposes but to recompose - Become my universe that feels and knows!” - -“That face,” said Browning to a friend, “that face is the face of Christ: -that is how I feel Him.” - -Surely this is the religious message that the world most needs to-day. -More and more everything in Christianity hangs upon the truth of the -Incarnation. The alternative declares itself. Either no God whom we can -know and love at all, or God personally manifest in Christ! - -3. The third religious element in Browning’s poetry is his faith that -this life is a probation, a discipline for the future. He says, again and -again, - - “I count life just a stuff - To try the soul’s strength on, educe the man.” - -The glory of the imperfect lies in the power of progress, “man’s -distinctive mark.” And progress comes by conflict; conflict with -falsehood and ignorance,— - - “Living here means nescience simply; ’tis next life that helps to learn—” - -and conflict with evil,— - - “Why comes temptation but for man to meet, - And master and make crouch beneath his foot, - And so be pedestalled in triumph?” - -The poet is always calling us to be glad we are engaged in such a noble -strife. - - “Rejoice we are allied - To that which doth provide - And not partake, effect and not receive! - A spark disturbs our clod; - Nearer we hold of God - Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. - - Then welcome each rebuff - That turns earth’s smoothness rough, - Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! - Be our joys three-parts pain! - Strive and hold cheap the strain; - Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!” - -Now this is fine doctrine, lofty, strenuous, stimulating. It appeals -to the will, which is man’s central power. It proclaims the truth that -virtue must be active in its essence though it may also be passive in its -education, positive in its spirit and negative only by contrast. - -But it is in the working out of this doctrine into an ethical system -that Browning enters upon dangerous ground, and arrives at results which -seem to obscure the clearness, and to threaten the stability of the moral -order, by which alone, if the world’s greatest teachers have been right, -the ultimate good of humanity can be attained. Here, it seems to me, -his teaching, especially in its latter utterances, is often confused, -turbulent, misleading. His light is mixed with darkness. He seems almost -to say that it matters little which way we go, provided only we go. - -He overlooks the deep truth that there is an activity of the soul in -self-restraint as well as in self-assertion. It takes as much courage -to dare not to do evil as it does to dare to do good. The hero is -sometimes the man who stands still. Virtue is noblest when it is joined -to virility. But virility alone is not virtue nor does it always lead -to moral victory. Sometimes it leads straight towards moral paralysis, -death, extinction. Browning fails to see this, because his method is -dramatic and because he dramatizes through himself. He puts himself -into this or the other character, and works himself out through it, -preserving still in himself, though all unconsciously, the soul of -something good. Thus he does not touch that peculiar deadening of -spiritual power which is one result of the unrestrained following of -impulse and passion. It is this defect in his vision of life that leads -to the dubious and interrogatory moral of such a poem as _The Statue and -the Bust_. - -Browning values the individual so much that he lays all his emphasis upon -the development of stronger passions and aspirations, the unfolding of a -more vivid and intense personality, and has comparatively little stress -to lay upon the larger thought of the progress of mankind in harmony -and order. Indeed he poetizes so vigorously against the conventional -judgments of society that he often seems to set himself against the -moral sentiments on which those conventional judgments, however warped, -ultimately rest. “Over and over again in Browning’s poetry,” says a -penetrating critic, “we meet with this insistence on the value of moments -of high excitement, of intense living, of full experience of pleasure, -even though such moments be of the essence of evil and fruitful in all -dark consequences.” - -Take for example his treatment of love. He is right in saying “Love is -best.” But is he right in admitting, even by inference, that love has a -right to take its own way of realizing itself? Can love be at its best -unless it is obedient to law? Does it not make its truest music when -it keeps its place in the harmony of purity and peace and good living? -Surely the wild and reckless view of love as its own law which seems to -glimmer through the unconsumed smoke of Browning’s later poems, such as -_Fifine at the Fair_, _The Inn Album_, and _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, -needs correction by a true flash of insight like that which we find in -two lines of _One Word More_: - - “_Dante, who loved well because he hated,_ - _Hated wickedness that hinders loving._” - -Browning was at times misled by a perilous philosophy into a position -where the vital distinction between good and evil dissolved away in a -cloud of unreality. In _Ferishtah’s Fancies_ and _Parleyings with Certain -People of Importance_, any one who has the patience to read them will -find himself in a nebulous moral world. The supposed necessity of showing -that evil is always a means to good tempts to the assertion that it has -no other reality. Perhaps it is altogether an illusion, needed to sting -us into conflict, but really non-existent. Perhaps it is only the shadow -cast by the good,—or “the silence implying sound.” Perhaps it is good -in disguise, not yet developed from the crawling worm into the creature -with wings. After this fashion the whimsical dervish Ferishtah strews his -beans upon the table. - - “This bean was white, this—black, - Set by itself,—but see if good and bad - Each following other in companionship, - Black have not grown less black and white less white, - Till blackish seems but dun, and whitish,—gray, - And the whole line turns—well, or black to thee - Or white alike to me—no matter which.” - -Certainly if this were the essence of Browning’s poetry the best -safeguard against its falsehood would be its own weakness. Such a -message, if this were all, could never attract many hearers, nor inspire -those whom it attracted. Effort, struggle, noble conflict would be -impossible in a world where there were no moral certainties or realities, -but all men felt that they were playing at a stupid game like the Caucus -race in _Alice in Wonderland_, where everything went round in a circle -and every runner received a prize. - -But in fact these elements of weakness in Browning’s work, as it seems to -me, do not belong to his true poetry. They are expressed, generally, in -his most obfuscated style, and at a prohibitory length. They are embodied -in poems which no one is likely to read for fun, and few are capable of -learning by heart. - -But when we go back to his best work we find another spirit, we hear -another message. Clear, resonant, trumpet-like his voice calls to us -proclaiming the glorious possibilities of this imperfect life. Only do -not despair; only do not sink down into conventionality, indifference, -mockery, cynicism; only rise and hope and go forward out of the house of -bondage into the land of liberty. True, the prophecy is not complete. But -it is inspiring. He does not teach us how to live. But he does tell us -to live,—with courage, with love to man, with trust in God,—and he bids -us find life glorious, because it is still imperfect and therefore full -of promise. - - - - -A QUAINT COMRADE BY QUIET STREAMS - - -In April, 1653, Oliver Cromwell, after much bloodshed and amid great -confusion, violently dissolved the “Rump Parliament.” In May of the same -year, Izaak Walton published _The Compleat Angler, or the Contemplative -Man’s Recreation_. ’Twas a strange contrast between the tranquil book -and the tempestuous time. But that the contrast was not displeasing may -be inferred from the fact that five editions were issued during the -author’s life, which ended in 1683, at the house of his son-in-law in the -cathedral close at Winchester, Walton being then in his ninety-first year -and at peace with God and man. - -Doubtless one of the reasons why those early editions, especially the -first, the second, and the fifth, (in which Walton’s friend Charles -Cotton added his “Instructions How to Angle for a Trout or Grayling in a -Clear Stream,”) are now become so rare and costly, is because they were -carried about by honest anglers of the 17th Century in their coat-pockets -or in their wallets, a practice whereby the body of a book is soon worn -out, though its soul be immortal. - -That this last is true of Walton’s _Angler_ seems proven by its continual -reappearance. The Hundredth Edition (called after the rivers Lea and -Dove, which Walton loved) was brought out in 1888, by the genial -fisherman and bibliophile, R. B. Marston of the London _Fishing Gazette_. -Among the other English editions I like John Major’s second (1824); and -Sir John Hawkins’, reissued by Bagster (1808); and Pickering’s richly -illustrated two volumes edited by Sir Harris Nicolas (1836). There is -a 32mo reprint by the same publisher, (and a “diamond” from the Oxford -University Press,) small enough to go comfortably in a vest-pocket with -your watch or your pipe. I must speak also of the admirable introductions -to the _Angler_ written in these latter years by James Russell Lowell, -Andrew Lang, and Richard Le Gallienne; and of the great American edition -made by the Reverend Doctor George W. Bethune in 1847, a work in which -the learning, wit, and sympathy of the editor illuminate the pages. This -edition is already hard to find, but no collector of angling books would -willingly go without it. - -The gentle reader has a wide choice, then, of the form in which he will -take his Walton,—something rare and richly adorned for the library, -or something small and plain for the pocket or the creel. But in what -shape soever he may choose to read the book, if he be not “a severe, -sour-complexioned man” he will find it good company. There is a most -propitiating paragraph in the “Address” at the beginning of the first -edition. Explaining why he has introduced “some innocent harmless mirth” -into his work, Walton writes: - -“I am the willinger to justify this innocent mirth because the whole -discourse is a kind of picture of my own disposition, at least of my -disposition in such days and times as I allow myself, when honest _Nat._ -and _R.R._ and I go a-fishing together.” - -This indeed is one of the great attractions of the book, that it so -naturally and simply shows the author. I know of no other in which this -quality of self-revelation without pretense or apology is as modest and -engaging,—unless it be the _Essays_ of Charles Lamb, or those of M. de -Montaigne. We feel well acquainted with Walton when we have read the -_Angler_, and perhaps have added to our reading his only other volume,—a -series of brief _Lives_ of certain excellent and beloved men of his time, -wherein he not only portrays their characters but further discloses his -own. They were men of note in their day: Sir Henry Wotton, ambassador -to Venice; Dr. John Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s; Richard Hooker, famous -theologian; George Herbert, sacred poet; Bishop Sanderson, eminent -churchman. With most of these, and with other men of like standing, -Walton was in friendship. The company he kept indicates his quality. -Whatever his occupation or his means, he was certainly a gentleman and a -scholar, as well as a good judge of fishing. - -Of the actual events of his life, despite diligent research, little is -known, and all to his credit. Perhaps there were no events of public -importance or interest. He came as near as possible to the fortunate -estate of the nation which has a good repute but no history. - -He was born in the town of Stafford, August 9th, 1593. Of his schooling -he speaks with becoming modesty; and it must have been brief, for at the -age of sixteen or seventeen he was an apprentice in London. Whether he -was a linendraper or an ironmonger is a matter of dispute. Perhaps he -was first one and then the other. His first shop, in the Royal Burse, -Cornhill, was about seven and a half feet long by five wide. But he must -have done a good business in those narrow quarters; for in 1624 he had a -better place on Fleet Street, and from 1628 to 1644 he was a resident of -the parish of St. Dunstan’s, having a comfortable dwelling (and probably -his shop) in Chancery Lane, “about the seventh house on the left hand -side.” He served twice on the grand jury, and was elected a vestryman of -St. Dunstan’s twice. - -It was during his residence here that he lost his first wife, Rachel -Floud, and the seven children whom she had borne to him. In 1644, finding -the city “dangerous for honest men” on account of the civil strife -and disorder, he retired from London, and probably from business, and -lived in the country, “sometimes at Stafford,” (according to Anthony -Wood, the antiquary,) “but mostly in the families of the eminent -clergymen of England, of whom he was much beloved.” This life gave him -large opportunity for his favourite avocation of fishing, and widened -the circle of his friendships, for wherever he came as a guest he was -cherished as a friend. I make no doubt that the love of angling, to which -innocent recreation he was attached by a temperate and enduring passion, -was either the occasion or the promoter of many of these intimacies. -For it has often been observed that this sport inclines those that -practise it to friendliness; and there are no closer or more lasting -companionships than such as are formed beside flowing streams by men who -study to be quiet and go a-fishing. - -After his second marriage, about 1646, to Anne Ken, half-sister of Bishop -Thomas Ken, (author of the well-known hymns, “Awake, my soul, and with -the sun,” and “All praise to Thee, my God, this night,”) Walton went to -live for some years at Clerkenwell. While he was there, the book for -which he had been long preparing, _The Compleat Angler_, was published, -and gave him his sure place in English literature and in the heart of an -innumerable company of readers. - -Never was there a better illustration of “fisherman’s luck” than the -success of Walton’s book. He set out to make a little “discourse of -fish and fishing,” a “pleasant curiositie” he calls it, full of useful -information concerning the history and practice of the gentle art, and, -as the author modestly claims on his title-page, “not unworthy the -perusal of most anglers.” Instead of this he produced an imperishable -classic, which has been read with delight by thousands who have never wet -a line. It was as if a man went forth to angle for smelts and caught a -lordly salmon. - -As a manual of practical instruction the book is long since out of -date. The kind of rod which Walton describes is too cumbrous for the -modern angler, who catches his trout with a split bamboo weighing no -more than four or five ounces, and a thin waterproofed line of silk -beside which Father Izaak’s favourite line twisted of seven horse-hairs -would look like a bed-cord. Most of his recipes for captivating baits -and lures, and his hints about “oyl,” or “camphire” with which they may -be made infallibly attractive to reluctant fish, are now more curious -than valuable. They seem like ancient superstitions,—although this very -summer I have had recommended to me a secret magic ointment one drop -of which upon a salmon-fly would (supposedly) render it irresistible. -(Yes, reader, I did try it; but its actual effect, owing to various -incalculable circumstances, could not be verified. The salmon took the -anointed fly sometimes, but at other times they took the unanointed, and -so I could not make affidavit that it was the oil that allured them. -It may have been some tickling in the brain, some dim memory of the -time when they were little parr, living in fresh water for their first -eighteen months and feeding mainly on floating insects, that made them -wish to rise again.) - -But to return to my subject. The angler of to-day who wishes to -understand the technics of modern fishing-gear will go to such books -as H. B. Wells’ _Fly Rods and Fly Tackle_, or to Dr. George Holden’s -_The Idyl of the Split Bamboo_. This very year two volumes have been -published, each of which in its way goes far beyond Walton: Mr. -William Radcliffe’s _Fishing from the Earliest Times_, which will -undoubtedly take its place as the standard history of the ancient craft -of fish-catching; and Mr. Edward R. Hewitt’s _Secrets of the Salmon_, -a brilliant and suggestive piece of work, full of acute scientific -observation and successful experiment. These belong to what De Quincey -called “the literature of knowledge.” But the _Angler_ belongs to “the -literature of power,”—that which has a quickening and inspiring influence -upon the spirit,—and here it is unsurpassed, I may even say unrivalled, -by any book ever written about any sport. Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge -commending it to his perusal: “It might sweeten a man’s temper at any -time to read _The Compleat Angler_.” - -The unfailing charm of the book lives in its delicately clear -descriptions of the country and of rural life; in its quaint pastoral -scenes, like the interview with the milkmaid and her mother, and the -convocation of gipsies under the hedge; and in its sincerely happy -incitements to patience, cheerfulness, a contented spirit, and a tranquil -mind. - -In its first form the book opened with a dialogue between Piscator and -Viator; but later this was revised to a three-sided conversation in which -Venator, a hunter, and Auceps, a falconer, take the place of Viator and -try valiantly to uphold the merits of their respective sports as superior -to angling. Of course Piscator easily gets the best of them, (authors -always have this power to reserve victory for their favourites,) and -Auceps goes off stage, vanquished, while Venator remains as a convert -and willing disciple, to follow his “Master” by quiet streams and drink -in his pleasant and profitable discourse. As a dialogue it is not very -convincing, it lacks salt and pepper; Venator is too easy a convert; -he makes two or three rather neat repartees, but in general, he seems -to have no mind of his own. But as a monologue it is very agreeable, -being written in a sincere, colloquial, unaffected yet not undignified -manner, with a plenty of digressions. And these, like the by-paths on a -journey, are the pleasantest parts of all. Piscator’s talk appears easy, -unconstrained, rambling, yet always sure-footed, like the walk of one who -has wandered by the little rivers so long that he can move forward safely -without watching every step, finding his footing by a kind of instinct -while his eyes follow the water and the rising fish. - -But we must not imagine that such a style as this, fluent as it seems and -easy to read as it is for any one with an ear for music, either comes -by nature or is attained without effort. Walton speaks somewhere of his -“artless pencil”; but this is true only in the sense that he makes us -forget the processes of his art in the simplicity of its results. He was -in fact very nice in his selection and ordering of words. He wrote and -rewrote his simplest sentences and revised his work in each of the five -earlier editions, except possibly the fourth. - -Take, for example, the bit which I have already quoted from the -“address to the reader” in the first edition, and compare it with the -corresponding passage in the fifth edition: - -“I am the willinger to justify _the pleasant part of it_, because, -_though it is known I can be serious at reasonable times_, yet the -whole discourse is, _or rather was_, a picture of my own disposition, -_especially_ in such days and times as I _have laid aside business, and -gone a-fishing with_ honest Nat. and R. Roe; _but they are gone, and with -them most of my pleasant hours, even as a shadow that passeth away and -returns not_.” - -All the phrases in italics are either altered or added. - -He cites Montaigne’s opinion of cats,—a familiar judgment expressed with -lightness,—and in the first edition Winds up his quotation with the -sentence, “To this purpose speaks Montaigne concerning cats.” In the -fifth edition this is humourously improved to, “Thus _freely_ speaks -Montaigne concerning cats,”—as if it were something noteworthy to take a -liberty with this petted animal. - -The beautiful description of the song of the nightingale, and of the -lark, and the fine passage beginning, “Every misery that I miss is a new -mercy,” are jewels that Walton added in revision. - -In the first edition he gravely tells how the salmon “will force -themselves over the tops of weirs and hedges or stops in the water, _by -taking their tails into their mouths and leaping over those places_, -even to a height beyond common belief.” But upon reflection this -fish-story seems to him dubious; and so in the later edition you find the -mouth-and-tail legend in a poetical quotation, to which Walton cautiously -adds, “_This Michael Drayton tells you_ of this leap or summer-salt of -the salmon.” - -It would be easy to continue these illustrations of Walton’s care in -revising his work through successive editions; indeed a long article, or -even a little book might be made upon this subject, and if I had the time -I should like to do it. - -Another theme would well repay study, and that is the influence of -the King James Version of the Bible upon his style and thought. That -wonderful example of pure, strong, and stately English prose, was first -printed and published when Walton was eighteen years old, about the -time he came to London as an apprentice. Yet to such good purpose did -he read and study it that his two books, the _Angler_ and the _Lives_, -are full of apt quotations from it, and almost every page shows the -exemplary effect of its admirable diction. Indeed it has often seemed to -me that his fine description of the style of the Prophet Amos, (in the -first chapter of the _Angler_,) reveals something of the manner in which -Walton himself desired to write; and in this desire he was not altogether -unsuccessful. - -How clearly the man shines through his book! An honest, kindly man, not -ashamed of his trade, nor of his amusements, nor of his inmost faith. -A man contented with his modest place in the world, and never doubting -that it was a good world or that God made it. A firm man, not without -his settled convictions and strong aversions, yet “content that every -reader should enjoy his own opinion.” A liberal-mannered man, enjoying -the music of birds and of merry songs and glees, grateful for good food, -and “barly-wine, the good liquor that our honest Fore-fathers did use -to drink of,” and a fragrant pipe afterwards; sitting down to meat not -only with “the eminent clergymen of England,” but also, (as his Master -did,) with publicans and sinners; and counting among his friends such -dignitaries as Dr. John Hales, Bishop King, and Sir Henry Wotton, and -such lively and vagarious persons as Ben Jonson, Carey, and Charles -Cotton. A loyal, steadfast man, not given to change, anxiety of mind, or -vain complaining, but holding to the day’s duty and the day’s reward of -joy as God sent them to him, and bearing the day’s grief with fortitude. -Thus he worked and read and angled quietly through the stormy years of -the Civil War and the Commonwealth, wishing that men would beat their -swords into fish-hooks, and cast their leaden bullets into sinkers, and -study peace and the Divine will. - - - - -A STURDY BELIEVER - - -When James Boswell, Esq., wrote _The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D._, he -not only achieved his purpose of giving the world “a rich intellectual -treasure,” but also succeeded in making himself a subject of permanent -literary interest. - -Among the good things which the year 1922 has brought to us I count the -_Boswell redivivus_ from the industrious and skilful hand of Professor -Chauncey Brewster Tinker of Yale. He calls his excellent book, which is -largely enriched with new material in the way of hitherto unpublished -letters, _Young Boswell_. This does not mean that he deals only with the -early years, amatory episodes, and first literary ventures of Johnson’s -inimitable biographer, but that he sees in the man a certain persistent -youngness which accounts for the exuberance of his faults and follies as -well as for the enthusiasm of his hero-worship. - -Mr. Tinker does not attempt to camouflage the incorrigible absurdities -of Boswell’s disposition, nor the excesses of his conduct, but finds -an explanation if not an excuse for them in the fact that he had a -juvenile temperament which inclined him all through life to self-esteem -and self-indulgence, and kept him “very much a boy” until he died of -it. Whether this is quite consistent with his being “in fullest truth a -genius,” as Mr. Tinker claims, may be doubted; for genius in the high -sense is something that ripens if time be given it. But what is certain -beyond a question is that this vain and vagarious little Scotch laird -had in him a gift of observation, a talent of narration, and above all -a power of generous admiration, which enabled him to become, by dint of -hard work, what Macaulay entitled him, “the first of biographers.” - -Ever since it appeared in 1791, Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_ has been a -most companionable book. Reprinted again and again, it finds a perennial -welcome. To see it in a new edition is no more remarkable nowadays than -it once was to see Dr. Oliver Goldsmith in a new and vivid waistcoat. -For my own part I prefer it handsomely drest, with large type, liberal -margins, and a-plenty of illustrations. For it is not a book in which -economy of bulk is needful; it is less suitable for company on a journey -or a fishing-trip, than for a meditative hour in the library after -dinner, or a pleasant wakeful hour in bed, when the reading-lamp glows -clear and steady, and all the rest of the family are asleep or similarly -engaged in recumbent reading. - -There are some books with which we can never become intimate. However -long we may know them they keep us on the cold threshold of acquaintance. -Others boisterously grasp our hand and drag us in, only to bore us and -make us regret the day of our introduction. But if there ever was a -book which invited genially to friendship and delight it is this of -Boswell’s. The man who does not know it is ignorant of some of the best -cheer that can enliven a solitary fireside. The man who does not enjoy -it is insensible alike to the attractions of a noble character vividly -depicted, and to the amusement afforded by the sight of a great genius -in company with an adoring follower capable, at times, of acting like an -engaging ass. - -Yet after all, I have always had my doubts about the supposed -“asininity” of Boswell. As his Great Friend said, “A man who talks -nonsense so well must know that he is talking nonsense.” It is only -fair to accept his own explanation and allow that when he said or did -ridiculous things it was, partly at least, in order to draw out his -Tremendous Companion. Thus we may think with pleasure of Boswell taking -a rise out of Johnson. But we do not need to imagine Johnson taking a -rise out of Boswell; it was not necessary; he rose of his own accord. -He made a candid record of these diverting incidents because, though -self-complacent, he was not touchy, and he had sense enough to see that -the sure way to be entirely entertaining is to be quite frank. - -Boswell threw a stone at one bird and brought down two. His triumphant -effort to write the life of his Immense Hero just as it was, with all its -surroundings, appurtenances, and eccentricities, has won for himself a -singular honour: his proper name has become a common noun. It is hardly -necessary to use a capital letter when we allude to a boswell. His pious -boast that he had “Johnsonized the land,” is no more correct than it -would be to say, (and if he were alive he would certainly say it,) that -he had boswellized biography. - -The success of the book appears the more remarkable when we remember -that of the seventy-five years of Samuel Johnson’s life not more than -two years and two months were passed in the society of James Boswell. -Yet one would almost think that they had been rocked in the same cradle, -or, (if this figure of speech seem irreverent,) that the Laird of -Auchinleck had slept in a little trundle-bed beside the couch of the -Mighty Lexicographer. I do not mean by this that the record is trivial -and cubicular, but simply that Boswell has put into his book as much of -Johnson as it will hold. - -Let no one imagine, however, that a like success can be secured by -following the same recipe with any chance subject. The exact portraiture -of an insignificant person confers information where there is no -curiosity, and becomes tedious in proportion as it is precise.[19] The -first thing needful is to catch a giant for your hero; and in this -little world it is seldom that one like Johnson comes to the net. - -What a man he was,—this “old struggler,” as he called himself,—how -uncouth and noble and genuine and profound,—“a labouring, working mind; -an indolent, reposing body”! What a heart of fortitude in the bosom of -his melancholy, what a kernel of human kindness within the shell of his -rough manner! He was proud but not vain, sometimes rude but never cruel. -His prejudices were insular, but his intellect was continental. There was -enough of contradiction in his character to give it variety, and enough -of sturdy faith to give it unity. It was not easy for him to be good, but -it was impossible for him to be false; and he fought the battle of life -through along his chosen line even to the last skirmish of mortality. - -[Illustration: SAMUEL JOHNSON. - -Painted by Reynolds. - -_From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London._] - -I suppose we Americans might harbour a grudge against him on the score -of his opinion of our forefathers. It is on record that he said of -them, during their little controversy with King George III, that they -were “a race of convicts.” (How exciting it would have been to hear him -say a thing like that to the face of George Washington or Benjamin -Franklin! He was quite capable of it.) But we can afford to laugh at -such an _obiter dictum_ now. And upon my honesty it offends me less at -the present time than Lionel Lispingly Nutt’s condescending advice on -poetry and politics, or Stutterworth Bummell’s patronizing half-praise. -Let a man smite us fairly on one cheek, and we can manage to turn the -other,—out of his reach. But if he deals superciliously with us as “poor -relations,” we can hardly help looking for a convenient and not too -dangerous flight of stairs for his speedy descent. - -Johnson may be rightly claimed as a Tory-Democrat on the strength of his -serious saying that “the interest of millions must ever prevail over that -of thousands,” and the temper of his pungent letter to Lord Chesterfield. -And when we consider also his side remark in defense of card-playing -on the ground that it “generates kindness and consolidates society,” -we may differ from him in our estimate of the game, but we cannot deny -that in small things as well as in great he spoke as a liberal friend of -humanity. - -His literary taste was not infallible; in some instances, (for example -his extreme laudation of Sir John Denham’s poem _Cooper’s Hill_, and his -adverse criticism of Milton’s verse,) it was very bad. In general you may -say that it was based upon theories and rules which are not really of -universal application, though he conceived them to be so. But his style -was much more the product of his own personality and genius. Ponderous it -often was, but seldom clumsy. He had the art of saying what he meant in a -deliberate, clear, forceful way. Words arrayed themselves at his command -and moved forward in serried phalanx. He had the praiseworthy habit of -completing his sentences and building his paragraphs firmly. It will not -do us any good to belittle his merit as a writer, particularly in this -age of slipper-shod and dressing-gowned English. - -His diction was much more varied than people usually suppose. He could -suit his manner to almost any kind of subject, except possibly the very -lightest. He had a keen sense of the shading of synonyms and rarely -picked the wrong word. Of antithesis and the balanced sentence he was -over-fond; and this device, intended originally to give a sharpened -emphasis, being used too often, lends an air of monotony to his writing. -Yet it has its merits too, as may be seen in these extracts from the -fiftieth number of _The Rambler_,—extracts which, by the way, have some -relation to a controversy still raging: - -“Every old man complains of the growing depravity of the world, of -the petulance and insolence of the rising generation. He recounts the -decency and regularity of former times, and celebrates the discipline and -sobriety of the age in which his youth was passed; a happy age, which is -now no more to be expected, since confusion has broken in upon the world -and thrown down all the boundaries of civility and reverence.... It may, -therefore, very reasonably be suspected that the old draw upon themselves -the greatest part of those insults which they so much lament, and that -age is rarely despised but when it is contemptible.... He that would -pass the latter part of his life with honour and decency, must, when he -is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and remember, when he -is old, that he has once been young. In youth, he must lay up knowledge -for his support, when his powers of action shall forsake him; and in age -forbear to animadvert with rigour on faults which experience only can -correct.” - -In meaning this is very much the same as Sir James Barrie’s recent -admirable discourse on “Courage” at the University of St. Andrew’s; but -in manner there is quite a difference. - -It is commonly supposed that Dr. Johnson did a great deal to overload -and oppress the English language by introducing new and awkward words of -monstrous length. His opportunities in that way were large, but he always -claimed that he had used them with moderation and had not coined above -four or five words. When we note that “peregrinity” was one of them, -we are grateful that he refrained so much; but when we remember that -“clubbable” was another, we are glad that he did not refrain altogether. -For there is no quality more easy to recognize and difficult to define -than that which makes a man acceptable in a club; and of this Dr. Johnson -has given us a fine example in his life and an appropriate name in his -word. - -I think one reason why he got on so well with people who differed from -him, and why most of the sensible ones so readily put up with his -downright and often brusque way of expressing his sentiments, was because -they came so evidently from his sincere and unshakeable conviction -that certain things are true, that they can not be changed, and that -they should not be forgotten. Not only in politics, but also and more -significantly in religion, Samuel Johnson stands out as a sturdy believer. - -This seems the more noteworthy when we consider the conditions of his -life. There is hardly one among the great men of history who can be -called so distinctively “a man of letters,” undoubtedly none who has -won as high a position and as large a contemporary influence by sheer -strength of pen. Now the literary life is not generally considered to -be especially favourable to the cultivation of religion; and Johnson’s -peculiar circumstances were not of a kind to make it more favourable in -his case than usual. He was poor and neglected, struggling during a great -part of his career against the heaviest odds. His natural disposition was -by no means such as to predispose him to faith. He was afflicted from -childhood with a hypochondriac and irritable humour; a high, domineering -spirit, housed in an unwieldy and disordered body; plagued by inordinate -physical appetites; inclined naturally to rely with over-confidence -upon the strength and accuracy of his reasoning powers; driven by his -impetuous temper into violent assertion and controversy; deeply depressed -by his long years of obscurity and highly elated by his final success,—he -was certainly not one whom we would select as likely to be a remarkably -religious man. Carlyle had less to embitter him. Goethe had no more to -excuse self-idolatry. And yet, beyond a doubt, Johnson was a sincere, -humble, and, in the main, a consistent Christian. - -Of course, we cannot help seeing that his peculiarities and faults -affected his religion. He was intolerant in his expression of theological -views to a degree which seems almost ludicrous. We may, perhaps, keep a -straight face and a respectful attitude when we see him turning his back -on the Abbé Raynal, and refusing to “shake hands with an infidel.” But -when he exclaims in regard to a young lady who had left the Church of -England to become a Quaker, “I hate the wench and shall ever hate her; I -hate all impudence of a chit; apostasy I nauseate”; and when he answers -the gently expressed hope of a friend that he and the girl would meet, -after all, in a blessed eternity, by saying, “Madam, I am not fond of -_meeting fools anywhere_,” we cannot help joining in the general laughter -of the company to whom he speaks; and as the Doctor himself finally -laughs and becomes cheerful and entertaining, we feel that it was only -the bear in him that growled,—an honest beast, but sometimes very surly. - -As for his remarkable strictures upon Presbyterianism, his declaration -that he preferred the Roman Catholic Church, his expressed hope that John -Knox was buried in the highway, and his wish that a dangerous steeple in -Edinburgh might not be taken down because if it were let alone it might -fall on some of the posterity of John Knox, which, he said, would be -“no great matter,”—if when we read these things we remember that he was -talking to his Scotch friend Boswell, we get a new idea of the audacity -of the great man’s humour. I believe he even stirred up his natural -high-churchism to rise rampant and roar vigourously, for the pleasure of -seeing Boswell’s eyes stand out, and his neat little pigtail vibrate in -dismay. - -There are many other sayings of Johnson’s which disclose a deeper vein of -tolerance; such as that remark about the essential agreement and trivial -differences of all Christians, and his warm commendation, on his dying -bed, of the sermons of Dr. Samuel Clarke, a Dissenting minister. - -But even suppose we are forced to admit that Dr. Johnson was lacking in -that polished liberality, that willingness to admit that every other -man’s opinions are as good as his own, which we have come nowadays to -regard as the chief of the theological virtues; even suppose we must call -him “narrow,” we must admit at the same time that he was “deep”; he had -a profundity of conviction, a sincerity of utterance which made of his -religion something, as the Germans say, “to take hold of with your hands.” - -He had need of a sturdy belief. With that tempestuous, unruly -disposition of his boiling all the time within him, living in the age -of Chesterfield and Bolingbroke, fighting his way through the world amid -a thousand difficulties and temptations, he had great need to get a firm -grip upon some realities of religion and hold fast to them as things that -were settled. His first conviction of the truth of Christianity came to -him while he was at Oxford, through a casual reading of Law’s _Call to -the Unconverted_. There were some years after that, he tells us, when he -was totally regardless of religion. But sickness and trouble brought it -back, “and I hope,” says he, “that I have never lost it since.” - -He was not unwilling to converse with friends at fitting opportunities -in regard to religious subjects, and no one who heard him could have -remained long in doubt as to the nature of his views. There was one -conversation in particular, on the subject of the sacrifice of Christ, at -the close of which he solemnly dictated to his friend a brief statement -of his belief, saying finally, “The peculiar doctrine of Christianity -is that of an universal sacrifice and a perpetual propitiation. Other -prophets only proclaimed the will and the threatenings of God. Christ -satisfied his justice.” Again, one calm, bright Sunday afternoon, when he -was in a boat with some friends upon the sea (I think it was during his -journey to the Hebrides,) he fell into discourse with Boswell about the -fear of death, which was often very terrible to his mind. He would not -admit that the close of life ought to be regarded with cheerfulness or -indifference, or that a rational man should be as willing to leave the -world as to go out of a show-room after he has seen it. “No, sir,” said -he, “there is no rational principle by which a man can die contented, but -a trust in the mercy of God through the merits of Jesus Christ.” He was -not ashamed to say that he was afraid to die. He assumed no braggadocio -before the grave. He was honest with himself, and he felt that he needed -all the fortitude of a religious faith to meet the hour of dissolution -and the prospect of divine judgment without flinching. He could never -have understood the attitude of men who saunter as unconcernedly and -airily towards the day of judgment as if they were going to the play. - -But Johnson was by no means given to unseasonable or unreasonable -religious discourse. He had a holy horror of cant, and of unprofitable -controversy. He once said of a friend who was more loquacious than -discreet, “Why, yes, sir; he will introduce religious discourse without -seeing whether it will end in instruction and improvement, or produce -some profane jest. He would introduce it in the company of Wilkes, and -twenty more _such_.” - -It was Dr. Johnson’s custom to keep a book of _Prayers and Meditations_ -for his own private use. These were printed after his death, and they -reveal to us the sincerity of his inner life as nothing else could do. -Think of the old man kneeling down in his room before he began the -painful labours of a studious day, and repeating this prayer:— - -“_Against inquisitive and perplexing thoughts_: O Lord, my Maker and -Protector, who hast graciously sent me into this world to work out my -salvation, enable me to drive from me all such unquiet and perplexing -thoughts as may mislead or hinder me in the practice of those duties -which Thou hast required. When I behold the works of thy hands, and -consider the course of thy providence, give me grace always to remember -that thy thoughts are not my thoughts, nor thy ways my ways. And while -it shall please Thee to continue me in this world, where much is to be -done and little to be known, teach me by thy Holy Spirit to withdraw my -mind from unprofitable and dangerous inquiries, from difficulties vainly -curious, and doubts impossible to be solved. Let me rejoice in the light -which Thou hast imparted; let me serve Thee with active zeal and humble -confidence, and wait with patient expectation for the time in which the -soul Thou receivest shall be satisfied with knowledge. Grant this, O -Lord, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.” - -These are honest and sensible petitions. And the more a man knows, the -more devoted he is to serious and difficult studies, the more he ought to -feel the need of just such a divine defense and guidance. It is good to -be kept on the track. It is wise to mistrust your own doubts. It is happy -to be delivered from them. - -The fundamental quality of Dr. Johnson’s religion was the sense of -reverence. He was never “known to utter the name of God but on proper -occasions and with due respect.” He approached the consideration of -divine things with genuine solemnity, and could not tolerate sacred -trifling or pious profanity. He was not ashamed to kneel where men could -see him, although he never courted their notice; or to pray where men -could hear him, although he did not desire their approbation any more -than he feared their ridicule. - -There were grave faults and errors in his conduct. But no one had so -keen a sense of their unworthiness as the man himself, who was bravely -fighting against them, and sincerely lamenting their recurrence. They -often tripped him and humiliated him, but they never got him completely -down. He righted himself and went lumbering on. He never sold his heart -to a lie, never confused the evil and the good. When he sinned he knew -it and repented. It gives us confidence in his sincerity when we see him -denying himself the use of wine because he was naturally prone to excess, -and yet allowing it to his friends who were able to use it temperately. -He was no puritan; and, on the other hand, he was no slipshod condoner of -vice or suave preacher of moral indifference. He was a big, honest soul, -trying hard to live straight along the line of duty and to do good as he -found opportunity. - -The kindness and generosity of his heart were known to few save his -intimate friends, and not always appreciated even by those who had most -cause to be grateful to him. The poor broken-down pensioners with whom -he filled his house in later years, and to whom he alluded playfully -as his _seraglio_, were a constant source of annoyance. They grumbled -perpetually and fought like so many cats. But he would not cast them off -any more than he would turn out his favourite mouser, Hodge, for whom he -used to “go out and buy oysters, lest the servants having that trouble -should take a dislike to the poor creature.” He gave away a large part -of his income in charity; and, what was still more generous, he devoted -a considerable portion of his time to counseling young and unsuccessful -authors and, (note this,) _reading their manuscripts_. - -I suppose if one had been a poverty-stricken beginner at literature, in -London of the eighteenth century, the best thing one could have done -would have been to find the way to Dr. Johnson’s house and tell him -how the case stood. If he himself had no money to lend, he would have -borrowed it from some of his friends. And if he could not say anything -encouraging about the manuscripts, he would have been honest and kind -enough to advise the unhappy aspirant to fame to prefer the life of a -competent shoemaker to that of an incompetent scribbler. - -Much of what was best in the character of Johnson came out in his -friendships. He was as good a lover as he was a hater. He was loyal to a -fault, and sincere, though never extravagant, in his admirations. - -The picture of the old man in his last illness, surrounded by the friends -whom he had cherished so faithfully, and who now delighted to testify -their respect and affection for him, and brighten his lingering days with -every attention, has little of the customary horror of a death-bed. It -is strange indeed that he who had always been subject to such a dread of -dying should have found it possible to meet the hour of dissolution with -such composure. His old friend Sir Joshua Reynolds comes in to bid him -farewell, and Johnson makes three requests of him,—to forgive him thirty -pounds which he had borrowed from him, to read the Bible, and never to -use his pencil on a Sunday. Good petitions, which Sir Joshua readily -granted, although we cannot help fearing that he occasionally forgot the -last. - -“Tell me,” says the sick man to his physician, “can I possibly recover? -Give me a direct answer.” Being hard pressed, Dr. Brocklesby confesses -that in his opinion recovery is out of the question. “Then,” says -Johnson, “I will take no more physick, not even my opiates: for I have -prayed that I may render up my soul to God unclouded.” - -And so with kind and thoughtful words to his servant, and a “God bless -you, my dear” to the young daughter of a friend who stood lingering at -the door of his room, this sturdy old believer went out to meet the God -whom he had tried so honestly to serve. His life was an amazing victory -over poverty, sickness, and sin. Greatness alone could not have insured, -nor could perseverance alone have commanded, three of his good fortunes -in this world: that Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his portrait; that -Boswell wrote his biography; and that HIS WIFE said of him that “he was -the most sensible man she had ever met.” - - - - -A PURITAN PLUS POETRY - - -I - -A friend of mine, one of the Elder Bookmen of Harvard, told me some -twenty years ago that he had only once seen Ralph Waldo Emerson vexed out -of his transcendental tranquillity and almost Olympian calm. It was a -Sunday afternoon in Concord, and the philosopher had been drawn from his -study by an unwonted noise in the house. On the back porch he found his -own offspring and some children of the neighbours engaged in a romping, -boisterous game. With visible anger he stopped it, saying, “Even if you -have no reverence for the day, you ought to have enough sense and manners -to respect the traditions of your forefathers.” - -Emerson’s puritanism was in the blood. Seven of his ancestors were -ministers of New England churches of the early type. Among them was -Peter Bulkley, who left his comfortable parish in Bedfordshire, England, -to become the pastor of “the church in the wilderness” at Concord, -Massachusetts; Father Samuel Moody of Agamenticus, Maine, who was such a -zealous reformer that he pursued wayward sinners even into the alehouse -to reprove them; Joseph Emerson of Malden, a “heroic scholar,” who prayed -every night that no descendant of his might ever be rich; and William -Emerson, the patriot preacher, who died while serving in the army of the -Revolution. These were verily “soldiers of the Lord,” and from them and -women of like stamina and mettle, Emerson inherited the best of puritan -qualities: independence, sobriety, fearless loyalty to conscience, -strenuous and militant virtue. - -But he had also a super-gift which was not theirs. That which made him -different from them, gave him a larger and more beautiful vision of the -world, led him into ways of thinking and speaking which to them would -have seemed strange and perilous, (though in conduct he followed the -strait and narrow path,)—in short, that which made him what he was in -himself and to countless other men, a seer, an inspirer, a singer of -new light and courage and joy, was the gift of poetic imagination and -interpretation. He was a puritan _plus_ poetry. - -Graduating from Harvard he began life as a teacher in a Boston school -and afterwards the minister of a Boston church. But there was something -in his temperament which unfitted him for the service of institutions. -He was a servant of ideas. To do his best work he needed to feel himself -entirely independent of everything except allegiance to the truth as -God gave him to see it from day to day. The scholastic routine of a -Female Academy irked him. The social distinctions and rivalries of -city life appeared to him both insincere and tiresome. Even the mild -formulas and regulations of a Unitarian church seemed to hamper him. He -was a come-outer; he wished to think for himself, to proclaim his own -visions, to act and speak only from the inward impulse, though always -with an eye to the good of others. So he left his parish in Boston and -became a preacher at large to “these United States.” His pulpit was the -lecture-platform; his little books of prose and verse carried his words -to a still larger audience; no man in America during his life had a more -extended or a deeper influence; he became famous both as an orator and as -a writer; but in fact he was always preaching. As Lamb said to Coleridge, -“I never heard you do anything else.” - -The central word of all his discourse is Self-reliance,—be yourself, -trust yourself, and fear not! But in order to interpret this rightly one -must have at least an inkling of his philosophy, which was profoundly -religious and essentially poetical. He was a mystic, an intuitional -thinker. He believed that the whole universe of visible things is only -a kind of garment which covers the real world of invisible ideas and -laws and principles. He believed also that each man, having a share -in the Divine Reason which is the source of all things, may have a -direct knowledge of truth through his own innate ideas and intuitive -perceptions. Emerson wrote in his diary, “The highest revelation is that -God is in every man.” - -This way of thinking is called transcendentalism, because it overleaps -logic and scientific reasoning. It is easy to see how such a philosophy -might lead unbalanced persons into wild and queer and absurd views and -practices. And so it did when it struck the neighbourhood of Boston in -the second quarter of the 19th Century, and began to spread from that -sacred centre. - -But with these vagaries Emerson had little sympathy. His mysticism -was strongly tinctured with common sense, (which also is of divine -origin,) and his orderly nature recoiled from eccentric and irregular -ways. Although for a time he belonged to the “Transcendental Club,” he -frequently said that he would not be called a transcendentalist, and -at times he made fun, in a mild and friendly spirit, of the extreme -followers of that doctrine. He held as strongly as any one that the -Divine light of reason in each man is the guide to truth; but he held it -with the important reservation that when this inner light really shines, -free from passion and prejudice, it will never lead a man away from -good judgment and the moral law. All through his life he navigated the -transcendental sea safely, piloted by a puritan conscience, warned off -the rocks by a keen sense of humour, and kept from capsizing by a solid -ballast of New England prudence. - -He was in effect one of the most respected, sagacious, prosperous and -virtuous villagers of Concord. Some slight departures from common custom -he tranquilly tested and as tranquilly abandoned. He tried vegetarianism -for a while, but gave it up when he found that it did him no good. He -attempted to introduce domestic democracy by having the servants sit -at table with the rest of the household, but was readily induced to -abandon the experiment by the protest of his two sensible hired girls -against such an inconvenient arrangement. He began to practise a theory -that manual labour should form part of the scholar’s life, but was -checked by the personal discovery that hard work in the garden meant -poor work in the study. “The writer shall not dig,” was his conclusion. -Intellectual freedom was what he chiefly desired; and this he found could -best be attained in an inconspicuous manner of living and dressing, -not noticeably different from that of the average college professor or -country minister. - -[Illustration: RALPH WALDO EMERSON. - -_From a photograph by Black, Boston._] - -Here you see the man “in his habit as he lived,” (and as thousands -of lecture-audiences saw him,) pictured in the old photograph which -illustrates this chapter. Here is the familiar _décor_ of the -photographer’s studio: the curtain draped with a cord and tassel, -the muslin screen background, and probably that hidden instrument of -torture, the “head-rest,” behind the tall, posed figure. Here are the -solemn “swallow-tail coat,” the conventional cravat, and the black satin -waistcoat. Yet even this antique “carte de visite,” it seems to me, -suggests something more and greater,—the imperturbable, kindly presence, -the noble face, the angelic look, the serene manner, the penetrating -and revealing quality of the man who set out to be “a friend to all who -wished to live in the spirit.” - -Whatever the titles of his lectures,—_Man the Reformer_, _The Method -of Nature_, _The Conduct of Life_, _Fate_, _Compensation_, _Prudence_, -_The Present Age_, _Society and Solitude_,—his main theme is always the -same, “namely the infinitude of the private man.” But this private man -of Emerson’s, mark you, is linked by invisible ties to all Nature and -carries in his breast a spark of the undying fire which is of God. Hence -he is at his best when he feels not only his personal _unity_ but also -his universal _community_, when he relies on himself and at the same time -cries - - “I yield myself to the perfect whole.” - -This kind of independence is the truest form of obedience. - -The charm of Emerson’s way of presenting his thought comes from the -spirit of poetry in the man. He does not argue, nor threaten, nor often -exhort; he reveals what he has seen or heard, for you to make what you -will of it. He relies less on syllogisms than on imagery, symbols, -metaphors. His utterance is as inspirational as the ancient oracle of -Delphi, but he shuns the contortions of the priestess at that shrine. - -The clearness and symmetry of his sentences, the modulations of his -thrilling voice, the radiance of his fine features and his understanding -smile, even his slight hesitations and pauses over his manuscript as -he read, lent a singular attraction to his speech. Those who were -mistrustful of his views on theology and the church, listened to him -with delight when he poetized on art, politics, literature, human -society and the natural world. To the finest men and women of America -in the mid-Victorian epoch he was the lecturer _par excellence_, the -intellectual awakener and liberator, the messenger calling them to break -away from dull, thoughtless, formal ways of doing things, and live freely -in harmony with the laws of God and their own spirit. They heard him -gladly. - -I wonder how he would fare to-day, when lecturers, male or female, have -to make a loud noise to get a hearing. - - -II - -Emerson’s books, prose and verse, remain with us and still live,—“the -precious life-blood of a masterspirit, embalmed and treasured up on -purpose to a life beyond life.” That they are companionable is proved by -the way all sorts of companionable people love them. I know a Pullman car -conductor who swears by Emerson. A young French Canadian woodsman, (who -is going to work his way through college,) told me the other day that -he liked Emerson’s essays better than any other English book that he had -read. Restive girls and boys of the “new generation” find something in -him which appeals to them; reading farmers of New England and the West -prefer him to Plato; even academic professors and politicians qualifying -for statesmen feel his stimulating and liberating influence, although -(or perhaps because) he sometimes says such hard things about them. I -guess that nothing yet written in America is likely to live longer than -Emerson’s best work. - -His prose is better known and more admired than his verse, for several -reasons: first, because he took more pains to make the form of it as -perfect as he could; second, because it has a wider range and an easier -utterance; third, because it has more touches of wit and of familiarity -with the daily doings of men; and finally, because the majority of -readers probably prefer prose for silent reading, since the full charm of -good verse is revealed only in reading aloud. - -But for all that, with Emerson, (as with a writer so different as -Matthew Arnold,) I find something in the poems which is not in the -essays,—a more pure and subtle essence of what is deepest in the man. -Poetry has a power of compression which is beyond prose. It says less and -suggests more. - -Emerson wrote to the girl whom he afterwards married: “I am born a -poet,—of a low class without doubt, but a poet.... My singing, to be -sure, is very husky and is for the most part in prose. Still I am a poet -in the sense of a perceiver and dear lover of the harmonies that are -in the soul and in matter, and specially of the correspondence between -them.” This is penetrating self-criticism. That he was “of a low class” -as poet is more than doubtful,—an error of modesty. But that his singing -was often “husky” cannot be denied. He never troubled himself to learn -the art of song. The music of verse, in which Longfellow gained such -mastery, and Lowell and Whittier had such native gifts, is not often -found in Emerson’s poetry. His measures rarely flow with freedom and -harmony. They are alternately stiff and spasmodic, and the rhymes are -sometimes threadbare, sometimes eccentric. Many of his poems are so -condensed, so tight-packed with thought and information that they seem to -labour along like an overladen boat in a choppy sea. For example, this: - - “The journeying atoms, - Primordial wholes, - Firmly draw, firmly drive, - By their animate poles.” - -Or this: - - “Puny man and scentless rose - Tormenting Pan to double the dose.” - -But for these defects of form Emerson as poet makes ample amends by the -richness and accuracy of his observation of nature, by the vigorous -flight of his imagination, by the depth and at times the passionate -controlled intensity of his feeling. Of love-poetry he has none, except -the philosophical. Of narrative poetry he has practically none, unless -you count such brief, vivid touches as,— - - “By the rude bridge that arched the flood, - Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, - Here once the embattled farmers stood, - And fired the shot heard round the world.” - -But his descriptive pieces are of a rare beauty and charm, truthful in -broad outline and delicate detail, every flower and every bird in its -right colour and place. Walking with him you see and breathe New England -in the light of early morn, with the dew sparkling on the grass and all -the cosmic forces working underneath it. His reflective and symbolic -poems, like _Each and All_, _The Problem_, _Forerunners_, _Days_, _The -Sphinx_, are full of a searching and daring imaginative power. He has -also the genius of the perfect phrase. - - “The frolic architecture of the snow.” - - “Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, - As the best gem upon her zone” - - “The silent organ loudest chants - The Master’s requiem.” - - “Music pours on mortals - Its beautiful disdain.” - - “Over the winter glaciers, - I see the summer glow, - And through the wild-piled snowdrift - The warm rose-buds below.” - - “I thenceforward and long after, - Listen for their harp-like laughter, - And carry in my heart, for days, - Peace that hallows rudest ways.” - -His _Threnody_, written after the early death of his first-born son, has -always seemed to me one of the most moving elegies in the English tongue. -His patriotic poems, especially the _Concord Ode_, are unsurpassed as -brief, lyrical utterances of the spirit of America. In certain moods, -when the mind is in vigour and the windows of far vision open at a touch, -Emerson’s small volume of _Poems_ is a most companionable book. - - * * * * * - -As his prose sometimes intrudes into his verse and checks its flow, so -his poetry often runs over into his prose and illuminates it. What could -be more poetic in conception than this sentence from his first book, -_Nature_? “If the stars should appear but one night in a thousand years, -how would men believe and adore and preserve for many generations the -remembrance of the city of God which had been shown!” - -Emerson’s _Essays_ are a distillation of his lectures. His way of making -these was singular and all his own. It was his habit to keep note-books -in which he jotted down bits of observation about nature, stray thoughts -and comparisons, reflections on his reading, and striking phrases which -came to him in meditation or talk. Choosing a subject he planted it in -his mind and waited for ideas and illustrations to come to it, as birds -or insects to a flower. When a thought appeared he followed it, “as a -boy might hunt a butterfly,” and when it was captured he pinned it in -his “thought-book.” No doubt there were mental laws at work all the -time, giving guidance and direction to the process of composition which -seemed so irregular and haphazard. There is no lack of vital unity in -one of Emerson’s lectures or essays. It deals with a single subject and -never gets really out of sight of the proposition with which it begins. -Yet it seldom gives a complete, all-round view of it. It is more like a -series of swift and vivid glimpses of the same object seen from different -stand-points, a collection of snap-shot pictures taken in the course of a -walk around some great mountain. - -From the pages of his note-books he gathered the material for one of -his lectures, selecting and arranging it under some such title as Fate, -Genius, Beauty, Manners, Duty, The Anglo-Saxon, The Young American, -and giving it such form and order as he thought would be most effective -in delivery. If the lecture was often repeated, (as it usually was,) -the material was frequently rearranged, the pages were shifted, the -illustrations changed. Then, after it had served its purpose, the -material was again rearranged and published in a volume of _Essays_. - -It is easy to trace in the essays the effects of this method of writing. -The material is drawn from a wide range of reading and observation. -Emerson is especially fond of poetry, philosophy and books of anecdote -and biography. He quotes from Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, George Herbert, -Wordsworth, Plutarch, Grimm, St. Simon, Swedenborg, Behmen the mystic, -Plato, and the religious books of the East. His illustrations come from -far and near. Now they are strange and remote, now homely and familiar. -The Zodiac of Denderah; the Savoyards who carved their pine-forests into -toys; the _lustrum_ of silence which Pythagoras made his disciples keep; -Napoleon on the _Bellerophon_ watching the drill of the English soldiers; -the Egyptian legend that every man has two pair of eyes; Empedocles -and his shoe; the flat strata of the earth; a soft mushroom pushing up -through the hard ground;—all these allusions and a hundred more are found -in the same volume. On his pages, close beside the Parthenon, St. Paul’s, -the Sphinx, Ætna and Vesuvius, you will read of the White Mountains, -Monadnock, Katahdin, the pickerel-weed in bloom, the wild geese honking -across the sky, the chickadee singing in the face of winter, the Boston -State-house, Wall Street, cotton-mills, railroads, Quincy granite, and -so forth. Nothing is too far away to seem real to him, nothing too near -to seem interesting and valuable. There is an abundance, sometimes a -superabundance, of material in his essays, not always well-assorted, but -all vivid and suggestive. - -The structure of the essay, the way of putting the material together, -does not follow any fixed rule or system. Yet in most cases it has a -well-considered and suitable form; it stands up; it is architecturally -built, though the art is concealed. I once amused myself trying to -analyze some of the essays, and found that many of the best ones have a -definite theme, like a text, and follow a regular plan of development, -with introduction, discussion, and conclusion. In some cases Emerson does -not disdain the “heads and horns” of the old-fashioned preacher, and -numbers his points “first,” “second,” “third,”—perhaps even “fourth.” But -this is rare. For the most part the essays do not seem to be constructed -but to grow. They are like conversations with the stupid things left out. -They turn aside from dull points, and omit connecting links, and follow -an attractive idea wherever it may lead. They seldom exhaust a subject, -but they usually illuminate it. - -“The style is the man,” and in this case it is well suited to his -material and his method. It is brilliant, sparkling, gem-like. He has -great freedom in the choice of words, using them sometimes in odd ways -and not always correctly. Generally his diction is made up of terse, -pungent Anglo-Saxon phrases, but now and then he likes to bring in a -stately word of Greek or Latin origin, with a telling effect of contrast. -Most of his sentences are short and clear; it is only in the paragraph -that he is sometimes cloudy. Every essay is rich in epigrams. If one -reads too much of a style like this, the effect becomes fatiguing. You -miss the long, full, steady flow of sentences with varied cadence and -changing music. - -Emerson’s river is almost all rapids. The flash and sparkle of phrase -after phrase tire me after a while. But for a short voyage nothing could -be more animated and stimulating. I read one essay at a time and rise -refreshed. - -But the secret of Emerson’s power, (to change the figure,) is in the -wine which he offers, not the cup into which he pours it. His great -word,—“self-reliance,”—runs through all his writing and pervades all that -he says. At times it is put in an extreme form, and might lead, if rashly -followed, to intellectual conceit and folly. But it is balanced by other -words, no less potent,—self-criticism, modesty, consideration, prudence, -and reverence. He is an aspiring, hopeful teacher of youth; correcting -follies with a sharp wit; encouraging noble ambitions; making the face -of nature luminous with the glow of poetic imagination; and elevating -life with an ideal patriotism and a broad humanity. In all his writing -one feels the serene, lofty influence of a sane and chastened optimism, -the faith which holds, amid many appearances which are dark, mysterious -and terrifying, that Good is stronger than Evil and will triumph at last -everywhere. - -Read what he says in the essay called _Compensation_: “There is no -penalty to virtue; no penalty to wisdom; they are proper additions of -being. In a virtuous action I properly _am_; in a virtuous act I add to -the world; I plant into deserts conquered from Chaos and Nothing, and -see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon. There can be no -excess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty, when these attributes -are considered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always -affirms an Optimism, never a Pessimism.” - -This is the note that brings a brave joy to the ear of youth. Old age -gladly listens to the same note in the deeper, quieter music of Emerson’s -poem, _Terminus_. - - “As the bird trims her to the gale, - I trim myself to the storm of time, - I man the rudder, reef the sail, - Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: - ‘Lowly faithful, banish fear, - Right onward drive unharmed; - The port, well worth the cruise, is near, - And every wave is charmed.’” - - - - -AN ADVENTURER IN A VELVET JACKET - - -Thus gallantly he appears in my mind’s eye when I pause in rereading -one of his books and summon up a fantasm of the author,—Robert Louis -Stevenson, gentleman adventurer in life and letters, his brown eyes -shining in a swarthy face, his lean, long-enduring body adorned with a -black-velvet jacket. - -This garment is no disguise but a symbol. It is short, so as not to -impede him with entangling tails. It is unconventional, as a protest -against the tyranny of fashion. But it is of velvet, mark you, to -match a certain niceness of choice and preference of beauty,—yes, and -probably a touch of bravura,—in all its wearer’s vagaries. ’Tis like the -silver spurs, broad sombrero and gay handkerchief of the thoroughbred -cowboy,—not an element of the dandiacal, but a tribute to romance. -Strange that the most genuine of men usually have a bit of this in their -composition; your only incurable _poseur_ being the fellow who affects -never to pose and betrays himself by his attitude of scorn. - -Of course, Stevenson did not always wear this symbolic garment. In fact -the only time I met him in the flesh his clothes had a discouraging -resemblance to those of the rest of us at the Authors Club in New York. -And a few months ago, when I traced his “footprints on the sands of -time” at Waikiki beach, near Honolulu, the picture drawn for me by those -who knew him when he passed that way, was that of a lank, bare-footed, -bright-eyed, sun-browned man who daundered along the shore in white-duck -trousers and a shirt wide open at the neck. But the velvet jacket was in -his wardrobe, you may be sure, ready for fitting weather and occasion. He -wore it, very likely, when he went to beard the Honolulu colourman who -was trying to “do” his stepson-in-law in the matter of a bill for paints. -He put it on when he banqueted with his amiable but bibulous friend, King -Kalakaua. You can follow it through many, if not most, of the photographs -which he had taken from his twentieth to his forty-fourth, and last, -year. And in his style you can almost always feel it,—the touch of -distinction, the ease of a native elegance, the assurance of a well-born -wanderer,—in short, the velvet jacket. - -[Illustration: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. - -_From a photograph, negative of which is owned by Charles Scribner’s -Sons._] - -Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson began the adventure of life in a decent -little house in Howard Place, Edinburgh, on November 13, 1850. He -completed it on the Samoan island of Upolu in the South Seas, December 3, -1894,—completed it, I think, for though he left his work unfinished he -had arrived at the port of honour and the haven of happy rest. - -His father, and his father’s father, were engineers connected with the -Board of Northern Lights. This sounds like being related to the Aurora -Borealis; and indeed there was something of mystery and magic about -Stevenson, as if an influence from that strange midnight dawn had entered -his blood. But as a matter of fact the family occupation was nothing more -uncanny than that of building and maintaining lighthouses and beacons -along the Scottish coast, a profession in which they won considerable -renown and to which the lad himself was originally assigned. He made a -fair try at it, and even won a silver medal for an essay on improvements -in lighthouses. But the calling did not suit him, and he said afterward -that he gained little from it except “properties for some possible -romance, or words to add to my vocabulary.” - -This lanky, queer, delicate, headstrong boy was a dreamer of dreams, and -from youth desperately fond of writing. He felt himself a predestinated -author, and like a true Scot toiled diligently to make his calling and -election sure. - -But there was one thing for which he cared more than for writing, -and that was living. He plunged into it eagerly, with more zest than -wisdom, trying all the games that cities offer, and learning some rather -disenchanting lessons at a high price. For in truth neither his physical, -nor (as he later discovered) his moral, nature was suited to the sowing -of wild oats. His constitution was one of the frailest ever exposed to -the biting winds and soaking mists of the North British Boston. Early -death seemed to be written in his horoscope. But an indomitable spirit -laughs at dismal predictions. Robert Louis Stevenson, (as he now called -himself, velvet-jacketing his own name,) was not the man to be easily -snuffed out by weak lungs or wild weather. Mocking at “bloody Jack” he -held fast to life with grim, cheerful, grotesque courage; his mother, his -wife, his trusty friends, heartened him for the combat; and he succeeded -in having a wider experience and doing more work than falls to the lot of -many men in rudely exuberant health. To do this calls for a singular kind -of bravery, not inferior to, nor unlike, that of the good soldier who -walks with Death undismayed. - -Undoubtedly Stevenson was born with a _Wanderlust_. - - “My mistress was the open road - And the bright eyes of danger.” - -Ill health gave occasion and direction to many voyages and experiments, -some of which bettered him, while others made him worse. As a bachelor -he roamed mountains afoot and travelled rivers in his own boat, explored -the purlieus and sublittorals of Paris, London, and Edinburgh, lodged “on -the seacoast of Bohemia,” crossed the ocean as an emigrant, and made -himself vagrantly at home in California where he married the wife “the -great Artificer made for him.” They passed their honeymoon in a deserted -miner’s cabin, and then lived around, in Scotland, the Engadine, Southern -France, Bournemouth, the Adirondacks, and on a schooner among the South -Sea Islands, bringing up at last in the pleasant haven of Vailima. On -all these distant roads Death pursued him, and, till the last ten years, -Poverty was his companion. Yet he looked with keen and joyful eyes -upon the changing face of the world and into its shadowy heart without -trembling. He kept his spirit unbroken, his faith unquenched even when -the lights burned low. He counted life - - “just a stuff - To try the soul’s strength on and educe the man.” - -He may have stumbled and sometimes fallen, things may have looked black -to him; but he never gave up, and in spite of frailties and burdens, he -travelled a long way,—upward. Through all his travels and tribulations he -kept on writing, writing, writing,—the very type of a migratory author. -He made his first appearance in a canoe. The log of this journey, -_An Inland Voyage on French Rivers_, published in 1878, was a modest, -whimsical, charming début in literature. In 1879 he appeared again, -and this time with a quaint companion. _Travels with a Donkey in the -Cevennes_ is one of the most delightful, uninstructive descriptions of a -journey ever written in English. It contains no practical information but -plenty of pleasure and profit. I do not envy the reader who can finish -it without loving that obstinate little mouse-coloured Modestine, and -feeling that she is one of the best-drawn female characters, of her race, -in fiction. - -From this good, quiet beginning his books followed rapidly, and (after -_Treasure Island_, that incomparable boys’ book for men,) with growing -popularity among the judicious, the “gentle readers,” who choose -books not because they are recommended by professors or advertised in -department stores, but because they are really well written and worth -reading. - -It is difficult to classify Stevenson’s books, perhaps just because they -are migrants, borderers. Yet I think a rough grouping, at least of his -significant works, may be made. There are five volumes of travels; six -or seven volumes of short stories; nine longer novels or romances; three -books of verse; three books of essays; one biography; and one study of -South Sea politics. This long list lights up two vital points in the man: -his industry and his versatility. - -“A virtue and a vice,” say you? Well, that may be as you choose to -take it, reader. But if you say it in a sour or a puritanical spirit, -Stevenson will gaily contradict you, making light of what you praise and -vaunting what you blame. - -Industry? Nonsense! Did he not write _An Apology for Idlers_? Yet -unquestionably he was a toiler; his record proves it. Fleeing from one -land to another to shake off his implacable enemy; camping briefly in -strange places; often laid on his back by sickness and sometimes told -to “move on” by Policeman Penury; collecting his books by post and -correcting his proofs in bed; he made out to produce twenty-nine volumes -in sixteen years,—say 8,000 pages of 300 words, each,—a thing manifestly -impossible without a mort of work. But of this he thought less than of -the fact that he did it, as a rule, cheerfully and with a high heart. -Herein he came near to his own ideal of success: “To be honest, to be -kind—to earn a little and to spend a little less, to make upon the -whole a family happier for his presence, to renounce when that shall be -necessary and not to be embittered, to keep a few friends, but these -without capitulation,—above all, on the same grim condition, to keep -friends with himself—here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude -and delicacy.” Of his work I think he would have said that he stuck to -it, first, because he needed the money that it brought in, and second, -because he enjoyed it exceedingly. With this he would have smiled away -the puritan who wished to pat him on the back for industry. - -That he was versatile, turned from one subject to another, tried many -forms of his art, and succeeded in some better than in others, he would -have admitted boldly—even before those critics who speak slightingly -of versatility as if it marked some inferiority in a writer, whereas -they dislike it chiefly because it gives them extra trouble in putting -him into his precise pigeonhole of classification. Stevenson would -have referred these gentlemen to his masters Scott and Thackeray for a -justification. His versatility was not that of a weathercock whirled -about by every wind of literary fashion, but that of a well-mounted gun -which can be turned towards any mark. He did not think that because he -had struck a rich vein of prose story-telling he must follow that lead -until he had worked it or himself out. He was a prospector as well as a -miner. He wished to roam around, to explore things, books, and men, to -see life vividly as it is, and then to write what he thought of it in any -form that seemed to him fit,—essay, or story, or verse. And this he did, -thank God, without misgiving, and on the whole greatly to our benefit and -enjoyment. - -I am writing now of the things which make his books companionable. That -is why I have begun with a thumb-nail sketch of the man in the velvet -jacket who lives in them and in his four volumes of letters,—the best -English letters, it seems to me, since Lamb and Thackeray. That also is -why I have not cared to interrupt this simple essay by telling which of -his works strike me as comparative failures, and giving more or less -convincing reasons why certain volumes in my “collective edition” are -less worn than others. - -’Tis of these others that I wish to speak,—the volumes whose bindings -are like a comfortable suit of old clothes and on whose pages there are -pencil-marks like lovers’ initials cut upon the bark of friendly trees. -What charm keeps them alive and fresh, in an age when most books five -years old are considered out of date and everything from the unspacious -times of Queen Victoria is cordially damned? What manner of virility is -in them to evoke, and to survive, such a flood of “Stevensoniana”? What -qualities make them still welcome to so wide a range of readers, young -and old, simple and learned,—yes, even among that fair and capricious -sex whose claim to be courted his earlier writings seem so lightly (or -prudently) to neglect? - - -I - -Over and above the attraction of his pervading personality, I think -the most obvious charm of Stevenson’s books lies in the clear, vivid, -accurate and strong English in which they are written. Reading them is -like watching a good golfer drive or putt the ball with clean strokes -in which energy is never wanting and never wasted. He does not foozle, -or lose his temper in a hazard, or brandish his brassy like a war-club. -There is a grace of freedom in his play which comes from practice and -self-control. - -Stevenson describes (as far as such a thing is possible) the way in which -he got his style. “All through my boyhood and youth,” says he, “I was -known and pointed out for the pattern of an idler, and yet I was always -busy on my own private end, which was to learn to write.” He traces -with gusto, and doubtless with as much accuracy as can be expected in a -map drawn from memory, the trails of early admiration which he followed -towards this goal. His list of “authors whom I have imitated” is most -entertaining: Hazlitt, Lamb, Wordsworth, Sir Thomas Browne, Defoe, -Hawthorne, Montaigne, Baudelaire, Obermann. In another essay, on “Books -Which Have Influenced Me,” he names _The Bible_, _Hamlet_, _As You Like -It_, _King Lear_, _Le Vicomte de Bragelonne_, _The Pilgrim’s Progress_, -_Leaves of Grass_, Herbert Spencer’s books, Lewes’s _Life of Goethe_, -the _Meditations_ of Marcus Aurelius, the poems of Wordsworth, George -Meredith’s _The Egoist_, the essays of Thoreau and Hazlitt, Mitford’s -_Tales of Old Japan_,—a strange catalogue, but not incoherent if you -remember that he is speaking now more of their effect upon his way of -thinking than of their guidance in his manner of writing,—though in this -also I reckon he learned something from them, especially from the English -Bible. - -Besides the books which he read, he carried about with him little -blank-books in which he jotted down the noteworthy in what he saw, heard, -or imagined. He learned also from penless authors, composers without a -manuscript, masters of the _viva-voce_ style, like Robert, the Scotch -gardener, and John Todd, the shepherd. When he saw a beggar on horseback, -he cared not where the horse came from, he watched the rascal ride. -If an expression struck him “for some conspicuous force, some happy -distinction,” he promptly annexed it;—because he understood it, it was -his. - -In two separate essays, each of which he calls “A Gossip,” he pays -tribute to “the bracing influence of old Dumas,” and to the sweeping -power and broad charm of Walter Scott, “a great romantic—an idle child,” -the type of easy writers. But Stevenson is of a totally different type, -though of a kindred spirit. He is the best example in modern English of -a careful writer. He modelled and remodelled, touched and retouched his -work, toiled tremendously. The chapter on Honolulu in _The Wrecker_, was -rewritten ten times. His essays for _Scribner’s Magazine_ passed through -half a dozen revisions. - -His end in view was to bring his language closer to life, not to use -the common language of life. That, he maintained, was too diffuse, too -indiscriminate. He wished to condense, to distil, to bring out the real -vitality of language. He was like _Sentimental Tommy_ in Barrie’s book, -willing to cogitate three hours to find the solitary word which would -make the thing he had in mind stand out distinct and unmistakable. -What matter if his delay to finish his paper lost him the prize in the -competition? Tommy’s prize was the word; when he had that his work was -crowned. - -A willingness to be content with the wrong colour, to put up with the -word which does not fit, is the mark of inferior work. For example, the -author of _Trilby_, wishing to describe a certain quick, retentive look, -speaks of the painter’s “_prehensile_ eye.” The adjective startles, but -does not illuminate. The prehensile quality belongs to tails rather than -to eyes. - -There is a modern school of writers fondly given to the cross-breeding of -adjectives and nouns. Their idea of a vivid style is satisfied by taking -a subject which belongs to one region of life and describing it in terms -drawn from another. Thus if they write of music, they use the language of -painting; if of painting, they employ the terminology of music. They give -us pink songs of love, purple roars of anger, and gray dirges of despair. -Or they describe the andante passages of a landscape, and the minor key -of a heroine’s face. - -This is the extravagance of a would-be pointed style which mistakes the -incongruous for the brilliant. Stevenson may have had something to do -with the effort to escape from the polished commonplace of an English -which admitted no master earlier than Addison or later than Macaulay. -He may have been a leader in the hunting of the unexpected, striking, -pungent word. But for the excesses and absurdities of this school of -writing in its decadence, he had no liking. He knew that if you are going -to use striking words you must be all the more careful to make them hit -the mark. - -He sets forth his theory of style in the essay called _A Humble -Remonstrance_. It amounts to this: First, you shall have an idea, a -controlling thought; then you shall set your words and sentences marching -after it as soldiers follow their captain; and if any turns back, looks -the other way, fails to keep step, you shall put him out of the ranks as -a malingerer, a deserter at heart. “The proper method of literature,” -says he, “is by selection, which is a kind of negative exaggeration.” -But the positive exaggeration,—the forced epithet, the violent phrase, -the hysterical paragraph,—he does not allow. Hence we feel at once a -restraint and an intensity, a poignancy and a delicacy in his style, -which make it vivid without ever becoming insane even when he describes -insanity, as he does in _The Merry Men_, _Olalla_, and _Dr. Jekyll and -Mr. Hyde_. His words are focussed on the object as with a burning-glass. -They light it up; they kindle it; but they do not distort it. - -Now a style like this may have its occasional fatigues: it may convey a -sense of over-carefulness, of a choice somewhat too meticulous,—to use -a word which in itself illustrates my meaning. But after all it has a -certain charm, especially in these days of slipshod, straddling English. -You like to see a man put his foot down in the right place, neither -stumbling nor swaggering. The assurance with which he treads may be the -result of forethought and concentration, but to you, reading, it gives -a feeling of ease and confidence. You follow him with pleasure because -he knows where he is going and has taken pains to study the best way of -getting there. - -Take a couple of illustrations from the early sketches which Stevenson -wrote to accompany a book of etchings of Edinburgh,—hack work, you may -call them; but even hack work can be done with a nice conscience. - -Here is the Edinburgh climate: “The weather is raw and boisterous in -winter, shifty and ungenial in summer, and a downright meteorological -purgatory in spring. The delicate die early, and I, as a survivor among -bleak winds and plumping rains, have been sometimes tempted to envy them -their fate.” - -Here is the Scottish love of home: (One of the tall “lands,” inhabited -by a hundred families, has crumbled and gone down.) “How many people all -over the world, in London, Canada, New Zealand, could say with truth, -‘The house I was born in fell last night’!” - -Now turn to a volume of short stories. Here is a Hebridean night, in _The -Merry Men_: “Outside was a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and -there a cloud still hanging, last stragglers of the tempest. It was near -the top of the flood, and the Merry Men were roaring in the windless -quiet.” - -Here is a sirocco in Spain: “It came out of malarious lowlands, and over -several snowy sierras. The nerves of those on whom it blew were strung -and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust; their legs ached under -the burden of their body; and the touch of one hand upon another grew to -be odious.” - -Now take an illustration from one of his very early essays, _Notes on the -Movements of Young Children_, printed in 1874. Here are two very little -girls learning to dance: “In these two, particularly, the rhythm was -sometimes broken by an excess of energy, _as though the pleasure of the -music in their light bodies could endure no longer the restraint of the -regulated dance_.” - -These examples are purposely chosen from tranquil pages; there is nothing -far-fetched or extraordinary about them; yet I shall be sorry for you, -reader, if you do not feel something rare and precious in a style like -this, in which the object, however simple, is made alive with a touch, -and stands before you as if you saw it for the first time. - - -II - -Tusitala,—“Teller of Tales,”—was the name which the South Sea Islanders -gave to Stevenson; and he liked it well. Beginning as an essayist, he -turned more and more, as his life went on, to the art of prose fiction -as that in which he most desired to excel. It was in this field, indeed, -that he made his greatest advance. His later essays do not surpass his -earlier ones as much as his later stories excel his first attempts. - -Here I conceive my reader objecting: Did not _Treasure Island_ strike -twelve early in the day? Is it not the best book of its kind in English? - -Yes, my fellow Stevensonian, it is all that you say, and more,—of its -kind it has no superior, so far as I know, in any language. But the man -who wrote it wrote also books of a better kind,—deeper, broader, more -significant, and in writing these he showed, in spite of some relapses, -a steadily growing power which promised to place him in the very highest -rank of English novelists. - -_The Master of Ballantrae_, maugre its defects of construction, has the -inevitable atmosphere of fate, and the unforgettable figures of the -two brothers, born rivals. The second part of _David Balfour_ is not -only a better romance, but also a better piece of character drawing, -than the first part. _St. Ives_, which was left unfinished, may have -been little more than a regular “sword-and-cloak” story, more choicely -written, perhaps, than is usual among the followers of “old Dumas.” But -Stevenson’s other unfinished book, _Weir of Hermiston_, is the torso of -a mighty and memorable work of art. It has the lines and the texture of -something great. - -Why, then, was it not finished? Ask Death. - -_Lorna Doone_ was written at forty-four years: _The Scarlet Letter_ at -forty-six: _The Egoist_ at fifty-one: _Tess of the D’Urbervilles_ at -fifty-one. Stevenson died at forty-four. But considerations of what he -might have done, (and disputes about the insoluble question,) should not -hinder us from appraising his actual work as a teller of tales which do -not lose their interest nor their charm. - -He had a theory of the art of narration which he stated from time to time -with considerable definiteness and inconsiderable variations. It is not -obligatory to believe that his stories were written on this theory. It is -more likely that he did the work first as he wanted to do it, and then, -like a true Scot, reasoned out an explanation of why he had done it in -just that way. But even so, his theory remains good as a comment on the -things that he liked best in his own stories. Let us take it briefly. - -His first point is that fiction does not, and can not, compete with -real life. Life has a vastly more varied interest because it is more -complex. Fiction must not try to reproduce this complexity literally, -for that is manifestly impossible. What the novelist has to do is to -turn deliberately the other way, and seek to hold you by simplifying -and clarifying the material Which life presents. He wins not by trying -to tell you everything, but by telling you that which means most in the -revelation of character and in the unfolding of the story. Of necessity -he can deal only with a part of life, and that chiefly on the dramatic -side, the dream side; for a life in which the ordinary, indispensable -details of mere existence are omitted is, after all, more or less -dream-like. Therefore, the story-teller must renounce the notion of -making his story a literal transcript of even a single day of actual -life, and concentrate his attention upon those things which seem to him -the most real in life,—the things that count. - -Now a man who takes this view of fiction, if he excels at all, will -be sure to do so in the short story, a form in which the art of -omission is at a high premium. Here, it seems to me, Stevenson is a -master unsurpassed. _Will o’ the Mill_ is a perfect idyl; _Markheim_, -a psychological tale in Hawthorne’s manner; _Olalla_, a love-story of -tragic beauty; and _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_, in spite of its obvious -moving-picture artifice, a parable of intense power. - -Stevenson said to Graham Balfour: “There are three ways of writing a -story. You may take a plot and fit characters to it, or you may take a -character and choose incidents and situations to develop it, or lastly -you may take a certain atmosphere and get actions and persons to express -and realize it. I’ll give you an example—_The Merry Men_. There I began -with the feeling of one of those islands on the west coast of Scotland, -and I gradually developed the feeling with which that coast affected -me.” This, probably, is somewhat the way in which Hawthorne wrote _The -House of the Seven Gables_; yet I do not think that is one of his best -romances, any more than I think _The Merry Men_ one of Stevenson’s -best short stories. It is not memorable as a tale. Only the bits of -description live. _The Treasure of Franchard_, light and airy as it is, -has more of that kind of reality which Stevenson sought. Therefore it -seems as if his third “way of writing a story” were not the best suited -to his genius. - -The second way,—that in which the plot links and unfolds the -characters,—is the path on which he shows at his best. Here the gentleman -adventurer was at ease from the moment he set forth on it. In _Treasure -Island_ he raised the dime novel to the level of a classic. - -It has been charged against Stevenson’s stories that there are no women -in them. To this charge one might enter what the lawyers call a plea of -“confession and avoidance.” Even were it true, it would not necessarily -be fatal. It may well be doubted whether that primitive factor which -psychologists call “sex-interest” plays quite such a predominant, -perpetual, and all-absorbing part in real life as that which neurotic -writers assign to it in their books. But such a technical, (and it must -be confessed, somewhat perilous,) defense is not needed. There are plenty -of women in Stevenson’s books,—quite as many, and quite as delightful -and important as you will find in the ordinary run of life. Marjory in -_Will o’ the Mill_ is more lovable than Will himself. Olalla is the true -heroine of the story which bears her name. Catriona and Miss Grant, in -the second part of _David Balfour_, are girls of whom it would be an -honour to be enamoured; and I make no doubt that David, (like Stevenson) -was hard put to it to choose between them. Uma, in _The Beach of Falesa_, -is a lovely insulated Eve. The two Kirsties, in _Weir of Hermiston_, -are creatures of intense and vivid womanhood. It would have been quite -impossible for a writer who had such a mother as Stevenson’s, such a -friend of youth as Mrs. Sitwell, such a wife as Margaret Vandegrift, to -ignore or slight the part which woman plays in human life. If he touches -it with a certain respect and _pudor_, that also is in keeping with his -character,—the velvet jacket again. - -The second point in his theory of fiction is that in a well-told tale -the threads of narrative should converge, now and then, in a scene which -expresses, visibly and unforgettably, the very soul of the story. He -instances Robinson Crusoe finding the footprint on the beach, and the -Pilgrim running from the City of Destruction with his fingers in his ears. - -There are many of these flash-of-lightning scenes in Stevenson’s stories. -The duel in _The Master of Ballantrae_ where the brothers face each other -in the breathless winter midnight by the light of unwavering candles, -and Mr. Henry cries to his tormentor, “I will give you every advantage, -for I think you are about to die.” The flight across the heather, in -_Kidnapped_, when Davie lies down, forspent, and Alan Breck says, “Very -well then, I’ll carry ye”; whereupon Davie looks at the little man and -springs up ashamed, crying “Lead on, I’ll follow!” The moment in _Olalla_ -when the Englishman comes to the beautiful Spanish mistress of the house -with his bleeding hand to be bound up, and she, catching it swiftly to -her lips, bites it to the bone. The dead form of Israel Hands lying -huddled together on the clean, bright sand at the bottom of the lagoon of -_Treasure Island_. Such pictures imprint themselves on memory like seals. - -The third point in Stevenson’s theory is, that details should be -reduced to a minimum in number and raised to a maximum in significance. -He wrote to Henry James, (and the address of the letter is amusing,) -“How to escape from the besotting _particularity_ of fiction? ‘Roland -approached the house; it had green doors and window blinds; and there was -a scraper on the upper step.’ To hell with Roland and the scraper!” Many -a pious reader would say “thank you” for this accurate expression of his -sentiments. - -But when Stevenson sets a detail in a story you see at once that it -cannot be spared. Will o’ the Mill, throwing back his head and shouting -aloud to the stars, seems to see “a momentary shock among them, and a -diffusion of frosty light pass from one to another along the sky.” When -Markheim has killed the antiquarian and stands in the old curiosity -shop, musing on the eternity of a moment’s deed,—“first one and then -another, with every variety of pace and voice,—one deep as the bell from -a cathedral turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a -waltz,—the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.” -Turning over the bit of paper on which “the black spot,” the death-notice -of the pirates, has been scrawled with charcoal, Jim Hawkins finds it has -been cut from the last page of a Bible, and on the other side he reads -part of a verse from the last chapter of the Revelation: _Without are -dogs and murderers_. - -There is no “besotting particularity” in such details as these. On the -contrary they illustrate the classic conception of a work of art, in -which every particular must be vitally connected with the general, and -the perfection of the smallest part depends upon its relation to the -perfect whole. Now this is precisely the quality, and the charm, of -Stevenson’s stories, short or long. He omits the non-essential, but his -eye never misses the significant. He does not waste your time and his -own in describing the coloured lights in the window of a chemist’s shop -where nothing is to happen, or the quaint costume of a disagreeable -woman who has no real part in the story. That kind of realism, of local -colour, does not interest him. But he is careful to let you know that -Alan Breck wore a sword that was much too long for him; that Mr. Hyde -was pale and dwarfish, gave an impression of deformity without any -nameable malformation, and bore himself “with a sort of murderous mixture -of timidity and boldness”; that John Silver could use his wooden leg as -a terrible weapon; that the kitchen of the cottage on Aros was crammed -with rare incongruous treasures from far away; and that on a certain -cold sunny morning “the blackbirds sung exceeding sweet and loud about -the House of Durisdeer, and there was a noise of the sea in all the -chambers.” Why these _trivia_? Why such an exact touch on these details? -Because they count. - -Yet Stevenson’s tales and romances do not give—at least to me—the effect -of over-elaboration, of strain, of conscious effort; there is nothing -affected and therefore nothing tedious in them. They move; they carry you -along with them; they are easy to read; one does not wish to lay them -down and take a rest. There is artifice in them, of course, but it is -a thoroughly natural artifice,—as natural as a clean voice and a clear -enunciation are to a well-bred gentleman. He does not think about them; -he uses them in his habit as he lives. Tusitala enjoys his work as a -teller of tales; he is at home in it. His manner is his own; it suits -him; he wears it without fear or misgiving,—the velvet jacket again. - - -III - -Of Stevenson as a moralist I hesitate to write because whatever is said -on this point is almost certain to be misunderstood. On one side are -the puritans who frown at a preacher in a velvet jacket; on the other -side the pagans who scoff at an artist who cares for morals. Yet surely -there is a way between the two extremes where an artist-man may follow -his conscience with joy to deal justly, to love mercy, and to walk -humbly with his God. And having caught sight of that path, though he may -trace it but dimly and follow it stumbling, surely such a man may say -to his fellows, “This is the good way; let us walk in it.” Not one of -the great writers who have used the English language, so far as I know, -has finished his career without wishing to moralize, to teach something -worth learning, to stand in the pulpit of experience and give an honest -message to the world. Stevenson was no exception to this rule. He avowed -the impulse frankly when he said to William Archer, “I would rise from -the dead to preach.” - -In his stories we look in vain for “morals” in the narrow sense,—proverbs -printed in italics and tagged on to the tale like imitation oranges tied -to a Christmas tree. The teaching of his fiction is like that of life, -diffused through the course of events and embodied in the development -of characters. But as the story unfolds we are never in doubt as to the -feelings of the narrator,—his pity for the unfortunate; his scorn for -the mean, the selfish, the hypocritical; his admiration for the brave, -the kind, the loyal and cheerful servants of duty. Never at his lightest -and gayest does he make us think of life as a silly farce; nor at his -sternest and saddest does he leave us disheartened, “having no hope and -without God in the world.” Behind the play there is a meaning, and beyond -the conflict there is a victory, and underneath the uncertainties of -doubt there is a foothold for faith. - -I like what Stevenson wrote to an old preacher, his father’s friend. -“Yes, my father was a ‘distinctly religious man,’ but not a pious.... -His sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic thinker. Now granted that -life is tragic to the marrow, it seems the proper service of religion -to make us accept and serve in that tragedy, as officers in that other -and comparable one of war. Service is the word, active service in the -military sense; and the religious man—I beg pardon, the pious man—is he -who has a military joy in duty,—not he who weeps over the wounded.” - -This is the point of view from which Stevenson writes as a novelist; -you can feel it even in a romance as romantic as _Prince Otto_; and in -his essays, where he speaks directly and in the first person, this way -of taking life as an adventure for the valourous and faithful comes out -yet more distinctly. The grace and vigour of his diction, the pointed -quality of his style, the wit of his comment on men and books, add to the -persuasiveness of his teaching. I can see no reason why morality should -be drab and dull. It was not so in Stevenson’s character, nor is it so -in his books. That is one reason why they are companionable. - -“There is nothing in it [the world],” wrote he to a friend, “but the -moral side—but the great battle and the breathing times with their -refreshments. I see no more and no less. And if you look again, it is not -ugly, and it is filled with promise.” - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] _Syllabus Scriptorum Veterum Recentiumque qui Veritatem Religionis -Christianæ Asseruerunt_: Hamburg, 1725. - -[2] _The Poetry of Tennyson._ Scribner’s: New York, 1889-1920. - -[3] Smith, Elder & Co.: London, 1880. - -[4] _The Bible in Browning._ Macmillan: New York, 1903. - -[5] “The Works of Mr. Abraham Cowley.” London, 1710. Preface to -_Pindarique Odes_, volume I, page 184. - -[6] Lowth, _De Sacra Poesi Hebræorum Praelectiones_. Oxon., 1753. - -[7] _English Odes_, selected by Edmund Gosse. Preface, page xiii. - -[8] _The Book of Psalms._ 2 volumes, London, 1883. Volume I, page 82. - -[9] Joseph Addison, 1712. - -[10] Reverend A. H. Strong, _The Great Poets and their Theology_, p. 384. - -[11] John Jay Chapman, _Emerson and Other Essays_, p. 195. - -[12] J. H. Nettleship, _Robert Browning, Essays and Thoughts_, p. 292. - -[13] Miss Vida D. Scudder, _The Life of the Spirit in Modern English -Poets_. - -[14] Epilogue to _Dramatis Personæ_. - -[15] Cheney, _The Golden Guess_, p. 143. - -[16] _Memoir of Alfred Lord Tennyson_, vol. II, p. 230. - -[17] _Asolando_, “Reverie.” - -[18] J. J. Chapman, _Emerson, and Other Essays_. - -[19] I am haunted by the notion that Johnson himself said this, but I -cannot find the passage for quotation. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Companionable Books, by Henry van Dyke - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPANIONABLE BOOKS *** - -***** This file should be named 61345-0.txt or 61345-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/4/61345/ - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian -Libraries) - -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 -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: Companionable Books - -Author: Henry van Dyke - -Release Date: February 8, 2020 [EBook #61345] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPANIONABLE BOOKS *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian -Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" height="800" alt="Cover image" /> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> - -<div class="front-matter"> - -<p class="center larger">BY HENRY VAN DYKE</p> - -<ul> -<li>Companionable Books</li> -<li>The Valley of Vision</li> -<li>Camp-Fires and Guide-Posts</li> -<li>Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land</li> -<li>Little Rivers</li> -<li>Fisherman’s Luck</li> -</ul> - -<ul> -<li>Days Off</li> -<li>The Unknown Quantity</li> -<li>The Ruling Passion</li> -<li>The Blue Flower</li> -</ul> - -<ul> -<li>Poems, Collection in one volume</li> -<li>Songs Out of Doors</li> -</ul> - -<ul> -<li>Golden Stars</li> -<li>The Red Flower</li> -<li>The Grand Canyon, and Other Poems</li> -<li>The White Bees, and Other Poems</li> -<li>The Builders, and Other Poems</li> -<li>Music, and Other Poems</li> -<li>The Toiling of Felix, and Other Poems</li> -<li>The House of Rimmon</li> -</ul> - -<ul> -<li>Studies in Tennyson</li> -<li>Poems of Tennyson</li> -<li>Fighting for Peace</li> -</ul> - -<p class="center">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> - -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> - -<h1>COMPANIONABLE BOOKS</h1> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus1"> -<img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">JOHN KEATS.</p> -<p class="caption">Painted by Joseph Severn.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.</i></p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> - -<div class="front-matter"> - -<p class="titlepage larger red">COMPANIONABLE<br /> -BOOKS</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -<span class="red">HENRY VAN DYKE</span></p> - -<p class="smaller mt3"><i>“What is this reading, which I must -learn,” asked Adam, “and what is it -like?”</i></p> - -<p class="smaller"><i>“It is something beyond gardening,” -answered Raphael, “and at times you -will find it a heavy task. But at its best -it will be like listening through your eyes; -and you shall hear the flowers laugh, the -trees talk, and the stars sing.”</i></p> - -<p class="smaller noindent"><span class="smcap">Solomon Singlewitz</span>—<cite>The Life of -Adam</cite></p> - -<p class="titlepage">NEW YORK<br /> -<span class="red">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span><br /> -1922</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1922, by<br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></p> - -<p class="center smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1920, by HARPER BROTHERS</span></p> - -<p class="center smaller">Printed in the United States of America</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Published October, 1922</p> - -<div class="figcenter mt3" style="width: 150px;"> -<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="150" height="170" alt="Logo of the Scribner Press" /> -</div> - -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="gothic">To</span><br /> -MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smaller">AUTHOR AND RANCHMAN<br /> -ONCE MY SCHOLAR<br /> -ALWAYS MY FRIEND</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> - -<h2>PREFACE</h2> - -<p>Many books are dry and dusty, there is no juice -in them; and many are soon exhausted, you would -no more go back to them than to a squeezed orange; -but some have in them an unfailing sap, both from -the tree of knowledge and from the tree of life.</p> - -<p>By companionable books I mean those that are -worth taking with you on a journey, where the -weight of luggage counts, or keeping beside your -bed, near the night-lamp; books that will bear reading -often, and the more slowly you read them the -better you enjoy them; books that not only tell you -how things look and how people behave, but also -interpret nature and life to you, in language of -beauty and power touched with the personality of -the author, so that they have a real voice audible to -your spirit in the silence.</p> - -<p>Here I have written about a few of these books -which have borne me good company, in one way -or another,—and about their authors, who have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> -put the best of themselves into their work. Such -criticism as the volume contains is therefore mainly -in the form of appreciation with reasons for it. The -other kind of criticism you will find chiefly in the -omissions.</p> - -<p>So (changing the figure to suit this cabin by the -sea) I send forth my new ship, hoping only that it -may carry something desirable from each of the -ports where it has taken on cargo, and that it may -not be sunk by the enemy before it touches at a -few friendly harbours.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Henry van Dyke.</span></p> - -<p class="smaller"><span class="smcap">Sylvanora</span>, <i>Seal Harbour, Me., August 19, 1922</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>I.</i></td> - <td><i>The Book of Books</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_BOOK_OF_BOOKS">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>II.</i></td> - <td><i>Poetry in the Psalms</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#POETRY_IN_THE_PSALMS">33</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>III.</i></td> - <td><i>The Good Enchantment of Dickens</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_GOOD_ENCHANTMENT_OF_CHARLES_DICKENS">63</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>IV.</i></td> - <td><i>Thackeray and Real Men</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THACKERAY_AND_REAL_MEN">103</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>V.</i></td> - <td><i>George Eliot and Real Women</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#GEORGE_ELIOT_AND_REAL_WOMEN">131</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>VI.</i></td> - <td><i>The Poet of Immortal Youth (Keats)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_POET_OF_IMMORTAL_YOUTH">165</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>VII.</i></td> - <td><i>The Recovery of Joy (Wordsworth)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_RECOVERY_OF_JOY">189</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>VIII.</i></td> - <td><i>“The Glory of the Imperfect” (Browning)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_GLORY_OF_THE_IMPERFECT">233</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>IX.</i></td> - <td><i>A Quaint Comrade by Quiet Streams (Walton)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#A_QUAINT_COMRADE_BY_QUIET_STREAMS">289</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>X.</i></td> - <td><i>A Sturdy Believer (Samuel Johnson)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#A_STURDY_BELIEVER">307</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>XI.</i></td> - <td><i>A Puritan Plus Poetry (Emerson)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#A_PURITAN_PLUS_POETRY">333</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdr"><i>XII.</i></td> - <td><i>An Adventurer in a Velvet Jacket (Stevenson)</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#AN_ADVENTURER_IN_A_VELVET_JACKET">357</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> - -<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table summary="List of illustrations"> - <tr> - <td><i>John Keats</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus1">Frontispiece</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">Facing<br />page</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Charles Dickens as Captain Bobadil in “Every Man in His Humour”</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus2">82</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>William Makepeace Thackeray</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus3">120</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>William Wordsworth</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus4">200</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Robert Browning</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus5">246</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Samuel Johnson</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus6">314</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Ralph Waldo Emerson</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus7">340</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><i>Robert Louis Stevenson</i></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus8">360</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><i>In the cover design by Margaret Armstrong the books and authors -are represented by the following symbolic flowers: Bible—grapes; -Psalms—wheat; Dickens—English holly; Thackeray—English rose; -George Eliot—ivy; Keats—bleeding-heart; Wordsworth—daffodil; -Browning—pomegranate; Izaak Walton—strawberry; Johnson—oak; -Stevenson—Scottish bluebell.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_BOOK_OF_BOOKS">THE BOOK OF BOOKS<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>An Apologue</i></span></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was once an Eastern prince who was much -enamoured of the art of gardening. He wished that -all flowers delightful to the eye, and all fruits pleasant -to the taste and good for food, should grow in -his dominion, and that in growing the flowers should -become more fair, the fruits more savoury and nourishing. -With this thought in his mind and this desire -in his heart, he found his way to the Ancient -One, the Worker of Wonders who dwells in a secret -place, and made known his request.</p> - -<p>“For the care of your gardens and your orchards,” -said the Ancient One, “I can do nothing, since that -charge has been given to you and to your people. -Nor will I send blossoming plants and fruiting trees -of every kind to make your kingdom rich and beautiful -as by magic, lest the honour of labour should be -diminished, and the slow reward of patience despised, -and even the living gifts bestowed upon you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -without toil should wither and die away. But this -will I do: a single tree shall be brought to you from -a far country by the hands of my servants, and you -shall plant it in the midst of your land. In the -body of that tree is the sap of life that was from the -beginning; the leaves of it are full of healing; its -flowers never fail, and its fruitage is the joy of every -season. The roots of the tree shall go down to the -springs of deep waters; and wherever its pollen is -drifted by the wind or borne by the bees, the gardens -shall put on new beauty; and wherever its seed -is carried by the fowls of the air, the orchards shall -yield a richer harvest. But the tree itself you shall -guard and cherish and keep as I give it you, neither -cutting anything away from it, nor grafting anything -upon it; for the life of the tree is in all the -branches, and the other trees shall be glad because -of it.”</p> - -<p>As the Ancient One had spoken, so it came to -pass. The land of that prince had great renown of -fine flowers and delicious fruits, ever unfolding in -new colours and sweeter flavours the life that was -shed among them by the tree of trees.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Something like the marvel of this tale may be -read in the history of the Bible. No other book in -the world has had such a strange vitality, such an -outgoing power of influence and inspiration. Not -only has it brought to the countries in whose heart -it has been set new ideals of civilization, new models -of character, new conceptions of virtue and hopes of -happiness; but it has also given new impulse and -form to the shaping imagination of man, and begotten -beauty in literature and the other arts.</p> - -<p>Suppose, for example, that it were possible to dissolve -away all the works of art which clearly owe -their being to thoughts, emotions, or visions derived -from the Bible,—all sculpture like Donatello’s -“David” and Michelangelo’s “Moses”; all painting -like Raphael’s “Sistine Madonna” and Murillo’s -“Holy Family”; all music like Bach’s “Passion” -and Handel’s “Messiah”; all poetry like Dante’s -“Divine Comedy” and Milton’s “Paradise Lost,”—how -it would impoverish the world!</p> - -<p>The literary influence of the Bible appears the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -more wonderful when we consider that it is the -work of a race not otherwise potent or famous in -literature. We do not know, of course, what other -books may have come from the Jewish nation and -vanished with whatever of power or beauty they -possessed; but in those that remain there is little of -exceptional force or charm for readers outside of the -Hebrew race. They have no broad human appeal, -no universal significance, not even any signal excellence -of form and imagery. Josephus is a fairly -good historian, sometimes entertaining, but not -comparable to Herodotus or Thucydides or Tacitus -or Gibbon. The Talmuds are vast storehouses of -things new and old, where a careful searcher may -now and then find a legendary gem or a quaint -fragment of moral tapestry. In histories of mediæval -literature, Ibn Ezra of Toledo and Rashi of -Lunel are spoken of with respect. In modern letters, -works as far apart as the philosophical treatises -of Spinoza and the lyrics of Heinrich Heine have -distinction in their kind. No one thinks that the -Hebrews are lacking in great and varied talents; -but how is it that in world-literature their only contribution<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -that counts is the Bible? And how is it -that it counts so immensely?</p> - -<p>It is possible to answer by saying that in the Old -Testament we have a happily made collection of the -best things in the ancient literature of the Jews, and -in the New Testament we have another anthology -of the finest of the narratives and letters which were -produced by certain writers of the same race under -a new and exceedingly powerful spiritual impulse. -The Bible is excellent because it contains the cream -of Hebrew thought. But this answer explains nothing. -It only restates the facts in another form. -How did the cream rise? How did such a collection -come to be made? What gives it unity and coherence -underneath all its diversity? How is it that, -as a clear critic has well said, “These sixty books, -with all their varieties of age, authorship, literary -form, are, when properly arranged, felt to draw together -with a unity like the connectedness of a dramatic -plot?”</p> - -<p>There is an answer, which if it be accepted, carries -with it a solution of the problem.</p> - -<p>Suppose a race chosen by some process of selection<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -(which need not now be discussed or defined) -to develop in its strongest and most absolute form -that one of man’s faculties which is called the religious -sense, to receive most clearly and deeply the -impression of the unity, spirituality, and righteousness -of a Supreme Being present in the world. Imagine -that race moving through a long and varied -experience under this powerful impression, now -loyal to it, now rebelling against it, now misinterpreting -it, now led by the voice of some prophet to -understand it more fully and feel it more profoundly, -but never wholly losing it for a single generation. -Imagine the history of that race, its poetry, -the biography of its famous men and women, -the messages of its moral reformers, conceived and -written in constant relation to that strongest factor -of conscious life, the sense of the presence and power -of the Eternal.</p> - -<p>Suppose, now, in a time of darkness and humiliation, -that there rises within that race a prophet who -declares that a new era of spiritual light has come, -preaches a new revelation of the Eternal, and claims -in his own person to fulfil the ancient hopes and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -promises of a divine deliverer and redeemer. Imagine -his followers, few in number, accepting his -message slowly and dimly at first, guided by companionship -with him into a clearer understanding -and a stronger belief, until at last they are convinced -that his claims are true, and that he is the saviour -not only of the chosen people, but also of the whole -world, the revealer of the Eternal to mankind. -Imagine these disciples setting out with incredible -courage to carry this message to all nations, so -deeply impressed with its truth that they are supremely -happy to suffer and die for it, so filled with -the passion of its meaning that they dare attempt -to remodel the life of the world with it. Suppose a -human story like this underneath the writing of the -books which are gathered in the Bible, and you -have an explanation—it seems to me the only reasonable -explanation—of their surpassing quality and -their strange unity.</p> - -<p>This story is not a mere supposition: its general -outline, stated in these terms, belongs to the realm -of facts which cannot reasonably be questioned. -What more is needed to account for the story itself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -what potent and irresistible reality is involved in -this record of experience, I do not now ask. This is -not an estimate of the religious authority of the -Bible, nor of its inspiration in the theological sense -of that word, but only of something less important, -though no less real—its literary influence.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The fountain-head of the power of the Bible in -literature lies in its nearness to the very springs and -sources of human life—life taken seriously, earnestly, -intensely; life in its broadest meaning, including -the inward as well as the outward; life interpreted -in its relation to universal laws and eternal -values. It is this vital quality in the narratives, -the poems, the allegories, the meditations, the discourses, -the letters, gathered in this book, that -gives it first place among the books of the world not -only for currency, but also for greatness.</p> - -<p>For the currency of literature depends in the long -run upon the breadth and vividness of its human -appeal. And the greatness of literature depends -upon the intensive significance of those portions of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -life which it depicts and interprets. Now, there is -no other book which reflects so many sides and -aspects of human experience as the Bible, and this -fact alone would suffice to give it a world-wide interest -and make it popular. But it mirrors them -all, whether they belong to the chronicles of kings -and conquerors, or to the obscure records of the -lowliest of labourers and sufferers, in the light of a -conviction that they are all related to the will and -purpose of the Eternal. This illuminates every figure -with a divine distinction, and raises every event -to the <i>n</i>th power of meaning. It is this fact that -gives the Bible its extraordinary force as literature -and makes it great.</p> - -<p><i>Born in the East and clothed in Oriental form and -imagery, the Bible walks the ways of all the world with -familiar feet and enters land after land to find its own -everywhere. It has learned to speak in hundreds of -languages to the heart of man. It comes into the palace -to tell the monarch that he is a servant of the Most -High, and into the cottage to assure the peasant that -he is a son of God. Children listen to its stories with -wonder and delight, and wise men ponder them as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -parables of life. It has a word of peace for the time -of peril, a word of comfort for the day of calamity, a -word of light for the hour of darkness. Its oracles are -repeated in the assembly of the people, and its counsels -whispered in the ear of the lonely. The wicked and -the proud tremble at its warning, but to the wounded -and the penitent it has a mother’s voice. The wilderness -and the solitary place have been made glad by it, -and the fire on the hearth has lit the reading of its well-worn -page. It has woven itself into our deepest affections -and coloured our dearest dreams; so that love and -friendship, sympathy and devotion, memory and hope, -put on the beautiful garments of its treasured speech, -breathing of frankincense and myrrh.</i></p> - -<p><i>Above the cradle and beside the grave its great words -come to us uncalled. They fill our prayers with power -larger than we know, and the beauty of them lingers -on our ear long after the sermons which they adorned -have been forgotten. They return to us swiftly and -quietly, like doves flying from far away. They surprise -us with new meanings, like springs of water -breaking forth from the mountain beside a long-trodden -path. They grow richer, as pearls do when they are -worn near the heart.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>No man is poor or desolate who has this treasure -for his own. When the landscape darkens and the -trembling pilgrim comes to the Valley named of the -Shadow, he is not afraid to enter: he takes the rod and -staff of Scripture in his hand; he says to friend and -comrade, “Good-by; we shall meet again”; and comforted -by that support, he goes toward the lonely pass -as one who walks through darkness into light.</i></p> - -<p>It would be strange indeed if a book which has -played such a part in human life had not exercised -an extraordinary influence upon literature. As a -matter of fact, the Bible has called into existence -tens of thousands of other books devoted to the -exposition of its meaning, the defense and illustration -of its doctrine, the application of its teaching, -or the record of its history. The learned Fabricius, -in the early part of the eighteenth century, published -a <i lang="fr">catalogue raisonné</i> of such books, filling -seven hundred quarto pages.<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Since that time the -length of the list has probably more than trebled. -In addition, we must reckon the many books of -hostile criticism and contrary argument which the -Bible has evoked, and which are an evidence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -revolt against the might of its influence. All this -tangle of Biblical literature has grown up around it -like a vast wood full of all manner of trees, great -and small, useful and worthless, fruit-trees, timber-trees, -berry-bushes, briers, and poison-vines. But -all of them, even the most beautiful and tall, look -like undergrowth, when we compare them with the -mighty oak of Scripture, towering in perennial -grandeur, the father of the forest.</p> - -<p>Among the patristic writers there were some of -great genius like Origen and Chrysostom and Augustine. -The mediæval schools of theology produced -men of philosophic power, like Anselm and -Thomas Aquinas; of spiritual insight, like the author -of the <cite>Imitatio Christi</cite>. The eloquence of France -reached its height in the discourses of Bossuet, Bourdaloue, -and Massillon. German became one of the -potent tongues of literature when Martin Luther -used it in his tracts and sermons, and Herder’s -<cite>Geist der hebräischen Poesie</cite> is one of the great books -in criticism. In English, to mention such names as -Hooker and Fuller and Jeremy Taylor is to recall -the dignity, force, and splendour of prose at its best.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -Yet none of these authors has produced anything -to rival the book from which they drew their common -inspiration.</p> - -<p>In the other camp, though there have been many -brilliant assailants, not one has surpassed, or even -equalled, in the estimation of the world, the literary -excellence of the book which they attacked. The -mordant wit of Voltaire, the lucid and melancholy -charm of Renan, have not availed to drive or draw -the world away from the Bible; and the effect of all -assaults has been to leave it more widely read, better -understood, and more intelligently admired than -ever before.</p> - -<p>Now it must be admitted that the same thing is -true, at least in some degree, of other books which -are held to be sacred or quasi-sacred: they are superior -to the distinctively theological literature which -has grown up about them. I suppose nothing of -the Mussulmans is as great as the “Koran,” nothing -of the Hindus as great as the “Vedas”; and -though the effect of the Confucian classics, from -the literary point of view, may not have been altogether -good, their supremacy in the religious library<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -of the Chinese is unquestioned. But the singular -and noteworthy thing about the influence of the -Bible is the extent to which it has permeated general -literature, the mark which it has made in all -forms of belles-lettres. To treat this subject adequately -one would need to write volumes. In this -chapter I can touch but briefly on a few points of -the outline as they come out in English literature.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In the Old-English period, the predominant influence -of the Scriptures may be seen in the frequency -with which the men of letters turned to -them for subjects, and in the Biblical colouring and -texture of thought and style. Cædmon’s famous -“Hymn” and the other poems like “Genesis,” -“Exodus,” “Daniel,” and “Judith,” which were -once ascribed to him; Cynewulf’s “Crist,” “The -Fates of the Apostles,” “The Dream of the Rood”; -Ælfric’s “Homilies” and his paraphrases of certain -books of Scripture—these early fruits of our literature -are all the offspring of the Bible.</p> - -<p>In the Middle-English period, that anonymous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -masterpiece “Pearl” is full of the spirit of Christian -mysticism, and the two poems called “Cleanness” -and “Patience,” probably written by the same -hand, are free and spirited versions of stories from -the Bible. “The Vision of Piers the Plowman,” -formerly ascribed to William Langland, but now -supposed by some scholars to be the work of four -or five different authors, was the most popular -poem of the latter half of the fourteenth century. -It is a vivid picture of the wrongs and sufferings of -the labouring man, a passionate satire on the corruptions -of the age in church and state, an eloquent -appeal for a return to truth and simplicity. The -feeling and the imagery of Scripture pervade it with -a strange power and charm; in its reverence for -poverty and toil it leans closely and confidently -upon the example of Jesus; and at the end it makes -its ploughman hero appear in some mystic way as -a type, first of the crucified Saviour, and then of the -church which is the body of Christ.</p> - -<p>It was about this time, the end of the fourteenth -century, that John Wyclif and his disciples, feeling -the need of the support of the Bible in their work<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -as reformers, took up and completed the task of -translating it entirely into the English tongue -of the common people. This rude but vigourous -version was revised and improved by John Purvey. -It rested mainly upon the Latin version of St. Jerome. -At the beginning of the sixteenth century -William Tindale made an independent translation -of the New Testament from the original Greek, -a virile and enduring piece of work, marked by -strength and simplicity, and setting a standard for -subsequent English translations. Coverdale’s version -of the Scriptures was published in 1535, and was -announced as made “out of Douche and Latyn”; -that is to say, it was based upon the German of -Luther and the Zurich Bible, and upon the Vulgate -of St. Jerome; but it owed much to Tindale, to -whose manly force it added a certain music of diction -and grace of phrase which may still be noted -in the Psalms as they are rendered in the Anglican -Prayer-Book. Another translation, marked by accurate -scholarship, was made by English Puritans -at Geneva, and still another, characterized by a -richer Latinized style, was made by English Catholics<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -living in exile at Rheims, and was known as -“the Douai Version,” from the fact that it was first -published in its complete form in that city in 1609-1610.</p> - -<p>Meantime, in 1604, a company of scholars had -been appointed by King James I in England to -make a new translation “out of the original tongues, -and with the former translations diligently compared -and revised.” These forty-seven men had -the advantage of all the work of their predecessors, -the benefit of all the discussion over doubtful words -and phrases, and the “unearned increment” of -riches which had come into the English language -since the days of Wyclif. The result of their labours, -published in 1611, was the so-called “Authorized -Version,” a monument of English prose in its prime: -clear, strong, direct, yet full of subtle rhythms and -strange colours; now moving as simply as a shepherd’s -song, in the Twenty-third Psalm; now -marching with majestic harmonies, in the book of -Job; now reflecting the lowliest forms of human -life, in the Gospel stories; and now flashing with -celestial splendours in the visions of the Apocalypse;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -vivid without effort; picturesque without exaggeration; -sinewy without strain; capable alike of the -deepest tenderness and the most sublime majesty; -using a vocabulary of only six thousand words to -build a book which, as Macaulay said, “if everything -else in our language should perish, would alone -suffice to show the whole extent of its beauty and -power.”</p> - -<p>The literary excellence of this version, no doubt, -did much to increase the influence of the Bible in -literature and confirm its place as the central book -in the life of those who speak and write the English -tongue. Consider a few of the ways in which this -influence may be traced.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>First of all, it has had a general effect upon English -writing, helping to preserve it from the opposite -faults of vulgarity and affectation. Coleridge long -ago remarked upon the tendency of a close study -of the Bible to elevate a writer’s style. There is -a certain naturalness, inevitableness, propriety of -form to substance, in the language of Scripture<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -which communicates to its readers a feeling for the -fitness of words; and this in itself is the first requisite -of good writing. Sincerity is the best part -of dignity.</p> - -<p>The English of our Bible is singularly free from -the vice of preciosity: it is not far-sought, overnice, -elaborate. Its plainness is a rebuking contrast to -all forms of euphuism. It does not encourage a -direct imitation of itself; for the comparison between -the original and the copy makes the latter -look pale and dull. Even in the age which produced -the authorized version, its style was distinct -and remarkable. As Hallam has observed, it was -“not the English of Daniel, of Raleigh, or Bacon.” -It was something larger, at once more ancient and -more modern, and therefore well fitted to become -not an invariable model, but an enduring standard. -Its words come to it from all sources; they are not -chosen according to the foolish theory that a word -of Anglo-Saxon origin is always stronger and simpler -than a Latin derivative. Take the beginning of -the Forty-sixth Psalm:</p> - -<p>“God is our refuge and strength, a very present<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though -the earth be removed, and though the mountains -be carried into the midst of the sea; though the -waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the -mountains shake with the swelling thereof.”</p> - -<p>Or take this passage from the Epistle to the -Romans:</p> - -<p>“Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly -love; in honour preferring one another; not -slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the -Lord; rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing -instant in prayer; distributing to the necessity -of saints; given to hospitality.”</p> - -<p>Here is a style that adapts itself by instinct to -its subject, and whether it uses Saxon words like -“strength” and “help” and “love” and “hope,” or -Latin words like “refuge” and “trouble” and “present” -and “fervent” and “patient” and “prayer” -and “hospitality,” weaves them into a garment -worthy of the thought.</p> - -<p>The literary influence of a great, popular book -written in such a style is both inspiring and conservative. -It survives the passing modes of prose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -in each generation, and keeps the present in touch -with the past. It preserves a sense of balance and -proportion in a language whose perils lie in its liberties -and in the indiscriminate use of its growing -wealth. And finally it keeps a medium of communication -open between the learned and the simple; for -the two places where the effect of the Bible upon -the English language may be most clearly felt are -in the natural speech of the plain people and in the -finest passages of great authors.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Following this line of the influence of the Bible -upon language as the medium of literature, we find, -in the next place, that it has contributed to our common -speech a great number of phrases which are -current everywhere. Sometimes these phrases are -used in a merely conventional way. They serve as -counters in a long extemporaneous prayer, or as -padding to a page of dull and pious prose. But at -other times they illuminate the sentence with a new -radiance; they clarify its meaning with a true symbol; -they enhance its value with rich associations;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -they are “sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.”</p> - -<p>Take for example such phrases as these: “a good -old age,” “the wife of thy bosom,” “the apple of -his eye,” “gathered to his fathers,” “a mother in -Israel,” “a land flowing with milk and honey,” “the -windows of heaven,” “the fountains of the great -deep,” “living fountains of waters,” “the valley of -decision,” “cometh up as a flower,” “a garden enclosed,” -“one little ewe lamb,” “thou art the man,” -“a still, small voice,” “as the sparks fly upward,” -“swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,” “miserable comforters,” -“the strife of tongues,” “the tents of Kedar,” -“the cry of the humble,” “the lofty looks -of man,” “the pride of life,” “from strength to -strength,” “as a dream when one awaketh,” “the -wings of the morning,” “stolen waters,” “a dinner -of herbs,” “apples of gold in pictures of silver,” -“better than rubies,” “a lion in the way,” “vanity -of vanities,” “no discharge in that war,” “the little -foxes that spoil the vines,” “terrible as an army -with banners,” “precept upon precept, line upon -line,” “as a drop of a bucket,” “whose merchants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -are princes,” “trodden the wine-press alone,” “the -rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley,” “the highways -and hedges,” “the salt of the earth,” “the -burden and heat of the day,” “the signs of the -times,” “a pearl of great price,” “what God hath -joined together,” “the children of light,” “the powers -that be,” “if the trumpet give an uncertain -sound,” “the fashion of this world,” “decently and -in order,” “a thorn in the flesh,” “labour of love,” -“a cloud of witnesses,” “to entertain angels unawares,” -“faithful unto death,” “a crown of life.” -Consider also those expressions which carry with -them distinctly the memory of some ancient story: -“the fleshpots of Egypt,” “manna in the wilderness,” -“a mess of pottage,” “Joseph’s coat,” “the -driving of Jehu,” “the mantle of Elijah,” “the widow’s -mite,” “the elder brother,” “the kiss of Judas,” -“the house of Martha,” “a friend of publicans and -sinners,” “many mansions,” “bearing the cross.” -Into such phrases as these, which are familiar to us -all, the Bible has poured a wealth of meaning far -beyond the measure of the bare words. They call -up visions and reveal mysteries.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>Direct, but not always accurate, quotations from -Scripture and allusions to Biblical characters and -events are very numerous in English literature. -They are found in all sorts of books. Professor -Albert T. Cook has recently counted sixty-three in -a volume of descriptive sketches of Italy, twelve in -a book on wild animals, and eighteen in a novel by -Thomas Hardy. A special study of the Biblical -references in Tennyson has been made,<a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> and more -than five hundred of them have been found.</p> - -<p>Bishop Charles Wordsworth has written a book -on <cite>Shakespeare’s Knowledge and Use of the Bible</cite>,<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -and shown “how fully and how accurately the -general tenor of the facts recorded in the sacred -narrative was present to his mind,” and “how Scriptural -are the conceptions which Shakespeare had of -the being and attributes of God, of His general and -particular Providence, of His revelation to man, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -our duty toward Him and toward each other, of -human life and of human death, of time and of -eternity.” It is possible that the bishop benevolently -credits the dramatist with a more invariable -and complete orthodoxy than he possessed. But -certainly Shakespeare knew the Bible well, and felt -the dramatic value of allusions and illustrations -which were sure to be instantly understood by the -plain people. It is his Antonio, in <cite>The Merchant -of Venice</cite>, who remarks that “the Devil can cite -Scripture for his purpose,” evidently referring to the -Gospel story of the evil one who tried to tempt -Jesus with a verse from the Psalms.</p> - -<p>The references to the Bible in the poetry of -Robert Browning have been very carefully examined -by Mrs. Machen in an admirable little book.<a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> -It is not too much to say that his work is crowded -with Scriptural quotations, allusions, and imagery. -He follows Antonio’s maxim, and makes his bad -characters, like Bishop Blougram and Sludge the -Medium, cite from Holy Writ to cloak their hypocrisy -or excuse their villainy. In his longest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -poem, <cite>The Ring and the Book</cite>, there are said to be -more than five hundred Biblical references.</p> - -<p>But more remarkable even than the extent to -which this material drawn from the Scriptures has -been used by English writers, is the striking effect -which it produces when it is well used. With what -pathos does Sir Walter Scott, in <cite>The Heart of Midlothian</cite>, -make old Davie Deans bow his head when -he sees his daughter Effie on trial for her life, and -mutter to himself, “Ichabod! my glory is departed!” -How magnificently does Ruskin enrich his <cite>Sesame -and Lilies</cite> with that passage from Isaiah in which -the fallen kings of Hades start from their thrones -to greet the newly fallen with the cry, “Art thou -also become weak as we? Art thou become like -unto us?” How grandly do the images and thoughts -of the last chapters of Deuteronomy roll through -Kipling’s <cite>Recessional</cite>, with its Scriptural refrain, -“Lest we forget!”</p> - -<p>There are some works of literature in English since -the sixteenth century which are altogether Biblical -in subject and colouring. Chief among these in -prose is <cite>The Pilgrim’s Progress</cite> of John Bunyan, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -in verse, the <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <cite>Paradise Regained</cite>, and -<cite>Samson Agonistes</cite> of John Milton. These are already -classics. Some day a place near them will be -given to Browning’s <cite>Saul</cite> and <cite>A Death in the -Desert</cite>; but for that we must wait until their form -has stood the test of time.</p> - -<p>In general it may be observed—and the remark -holds good of the works just mentioned—that a -Scriptural story or poem is most likely to succeed -when it takes its theme, directly or by suggestion, -from the Bible, and carries it into a region of imagination, -a border-realm, where the author is free to -work without paraphrase or comparison with the -sacred writers. It is for this reason that both -<cite>Samson Agonistes</cite> and <cite>Paradise Lost</cite> are superior to -<cite>Paradise Regained</cite>.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>The largest and most important influence of the -Bible in literature lies beyond all these visible effects -upon language and style and imagery and form. It -comes from the strange power of the book to nourish -and inspire, to mould and guide, the inner life of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -man. “<em>It finds me</em>,” said Coleridge; and the word -of the philosopher is one that the plain man can -understand and repeat.</p> - -<p>The hunger for happiness which lies in every -human heart can never be satisfied without righteousness; -and the reason why the Bible reaches down -so deep into the breast of man is because it brings -news of a kingdom which <em>is</em> righteousness and peace -and joy in the Holy Spirit. It brings this news not -in the form of a dogma, a definition, a scientific -statement, but in the form of literature, a living -picture of experience, a perfect ideal embodied in a -Character and a Life. And because it does this, it -has inspiration for those who write in the service of -truth and humanity.</p> - -<p>The Bible has been the favourite book of those -who were troubled and downtrodden, and of those -who bore the great burden of a great task. New -light has broken forth from it to lead the upward -struggle of mankind from age to age. Men have -come back to it because they could not do without it. -Nor will its influence wane, its radiance be darkened, -unless literature ceases to express the noblest of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -human longings, the highest of human hopes, -and mankind forgets all that is now incarnate in -the central figure of the Bible,—the Divine Deliverer.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="POETRY_IN_THE_PSALMS">POETRY IN THE PSALMS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<p>There are three ways in which we may read the -Bible.</p> - -<p>We may come to it as the divinely inspired rule -of faith and conduct. This is the point of view -from which it appears most precious to religion. It -gives us the word of God to teach us what to believe -and how to live.</p> - -<p>We may consider it as a collection of historical -books, written under certain conditions, and reflecting, -in their contents and in their language, the circumstances -in which they were produced. This is -the aspect in which criticism regards the Bible; and -its intellectual interest, as well as its religious value, -is greatly enhanced by a clear vision of the truth -about it from this point of view.</p> - -<p>We may study it also as literature. We may see -in it a noble and impassioned interpretation of nature -and life, uttered in language of beauty and sublimity, -touched with the vivid colours of human personality, -and embodied in forms of enduring literary -art.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> - -<p>None of these three ways of studying the Bible is -hostile to the others. On the contrary, they are -helpful to one another, because each of them gives -us knowledge of a real factor in the marvellous influence -of the Bible in the world.</p> - -<p>The true lover of the Bible has an interest in all -the elements of its life as an immortal book. He -wishes to discern, and rightly to appreciate, the -method of its history, the spirit of its philosophy, -the significance of its fiction, the power of its eloquence, -and the charm of its poetry. He wishes -this all the more because he finds in it something -which is not in any other book: a vision of God, a -hope for man, and an inspiration to righteousness -which seem to him divine. As the worshipper in -the Temple would observe the art and structure of -the carven beams of cedar and the lily-work on the -tops of the pillars the more attentively because they -beautified the house of his God, so the man who has -a religious faith in the Bible will study more eagerly -and carefully the literary forms of the book in which -the Holy Spirit speaks forever.</p> - -<p>It is in this spirit that I wish to consider the poetical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -element in the Psalms. The comfort, help, and -guidance that they bring to our spiritual life will -not be diminished, but increased, by a perception of -their exquisite form and finish. If a king sent a -golden cup full of cheering cordial to a weary man, -he might well admire the two-fold bounty of the -royal gift. The beauty of the vessel would make -the draught more grateful and refreshing. And if -the cup were inexhaustible, if it filled itself anew as -often as it touched the lips, then the very shape and -adornment of it would become significant and precious. -It would be an inestimable possession, a -singing goblet, a treasure of life.</p> - -<p>John Milton, whose faith in religion was as exalted -as his mastery of the art of poetry was perfect, -has expressed in a single sentence the spirit in -which I would approach the poetic study of the -Book of Psalms: “Not in their divine arguments -alone, but in the very critical art of composition, -the Psalms may be easily made to appear over all -kinds of lyric poetry incomparable.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Let us remember at the outset that a considerable -part of the value of the Psalms as poetry will lie beyond -our reach. We cannot precisely measure it, -nor give it full appreciation, simply because we are -dealing with the Psalms only as we have them in -our English Bible. This is a real drawback; and it -is well to understand clearly the two things that we -lose in reading the Psalms in this way.</p> - -<p>First, we lose the beauty and the charm of verse. -This is a serious loss. Poetry and verse are not the -same thing, but they are so intimately related that -it is difficult to divide them. Indeed, according to -certain definitions of poetry, it would seem almost -impossible.</p> - -<p>Yet who will deny that the Psalms as we have -them in the English Bible are really and truly poetical?</p> - -<p>The only way out of this difficulty that I can see -is to distinguish between verse as the formal element -and imaginative emotion as the essential element -in poetry. In the original production of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -poem, it seems to me, it is just to say that the embodiment -in metrical language is a law of art which -must be observed. But in the translation of a poem -(which is a kind of reflection of it in a mirror) the -verse may be lost without altogether losing the -spirit of the poem.</p> - -<p>Take an illustration from another art. A statue -has the symmetry of solid form. You can look at -it from all sides, and from every side you can see the -balance and rhythm of the parts. In a photograph -this solidity of form disappears. You see only a -flat surface. But you still recognize it as the -reflection of a statue.</p> - -<p>The Psalms were undoubtedly written, in the -original Hebrew, according to a system of versification, -and perhaps to some extent with forms of -rhyme.</p> - -<p>The older scholars, like Lowth and Herder, held -that such a system existed, but could not be recovered. -Later scholars, like Ewald, evolved a system -of their own. Modern scholarship, represented by -such authors as Professors Cheyne and Briggs, is reconstructing -and explaining more accurately the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -Hebrew versification. But, for the present at least, -the only thing that is clear is that this system must -remain obscure to us. It cannot be reproduced in -English. The metrical versions of the Psalms are -the least satisfactory. The poet Cowley said of -them, “They are so far from doing justice to David -that methinks they revile him worse than Shimei.”<a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> -We must learn to appreciate the poetry in the -Psalms without the aid of those symmetries of form -and sound in which they first appeared. This is a -serious loss. Poetry without verse is like a bride -without a bridal garment.</p> - -<p>The second thing that we lose in reading the -Psalms in English is something even more important. -It is the heavy tax on the wealth of its meaning, -which all poetry must pay when it is imported -from one country to another, through the medium -of translation.</p> - -<p>The most subtle charm of poetry is its suggestiveness; -and much of this comes from the magical -power which words acquire over memory and imagination, -from their associations. This intimate and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -personal charm must be left behind when a poem -passes from one language to another. The accompaniment, -the harmony of things remembered and -beloved, which the very words of the song once -awakened, is silent now. Nothing remains but the -naked melody of thought. If this is pure and -strong, it will gather new associations; as, indeed, -the Psalms have already done in English, so that -their familiar expressions have become charged with -musical potency. And yet I suppose such phrases -as “a tree planted by the rivers of water,” “a fruitful -vine in the innermost parts of the house,” “the -mountains round about Jerusalem,” can never bring -to us the full sense of beauty, the enlargement of -heart, that they gave to the ancient Hebrews. But, -in spite of this double loss, in the passage from verse -to prose and from Hebrew to English, the poetry in -the Psalms is so real and vital and imperishable that -every reader feels its beauty and power.</p> - -<p>It retains one valuable element of poetic form. -This is that balancing of the parts of a sentence, one -against another, to which Bishop Lowth first gave -the familiar name of “parallelism.”<a name="FNanchor_6" id="FNanchor_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> The effect of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -this simple artifice, learned from Nature herself, is -singularly pleasant and powerful. It is the rise and -fall of the fountain, the ebb and flow of the tide, -the tone and overtone of the chiming bell. The -two-fold utterance seems to bear the thought onward -like the wings of a bird. A German writer -compares it very exquisitely to “the heaving and -sinking of the troubled heart.”</p> - -<p>It is this “parallelism” which gives such a familiar -charm to the language of the Psalms. Unconsciously, -and without recognizing the nature of the -attraction, we grow used to the double cadence, the -sound and the echo, and learn to look for its recurrence -with delight.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent1">O come let us sing unto the Lord;</div> -<div class="verse">Let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation,</div> -<div class="verse">Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving;</div> -<div class="verse">And make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">If we should want a plain English name for this -method of composition we might call it <em>thought-rhyme</em>. -It is easy to find varied illustrations of its -beauty and of its power to emphasize large and -simple ideas.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> - -<p>Take for instance that very perfect psalm with -which the book begins—a poem so complete, so -compact, so delicately wrought that it seems like a -sonnet. The subject is <cite>The Two Paths</cite>.</p> - -<p>The first part describes the way of the good man. -It has three divisions.</p> - -<p>The first verse gives a description of his conduct -by negatives—telling us what he does not do. There -is a triple thought-rhyme here.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor standeth in the way of sinners,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The second verse describes his character positively, -with a double thought-rhyme.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">But his delight is in the law of the Lord;</div> -<div class="verse">And in his law doth he meditate day and night.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The third verse tells us the result of this character -and conduct, in a fourfold thought-rhyme.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water:</div> -<div class="verse">That bringeth forth his fruit in his season:</div> -<div class="verse">His leaf also shall not wither:</div> -<div class="verse">And whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">The second part of the psalm describes the way of -the evil man. In the fourth verse there is a double -thought-rhyme.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The ungodly are not so:</div> -<div class="verse">But are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>In the fifth verse the consequences of this worthless, -fruitless, unrooted life are shown, again with -a double cadence of thought, the first referring to -the judgment of God, the second to the judgment -of men.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment:</div> -<div class="verse">Nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The third part of the psalm is a terse, powerful -couplet, giving the reason for the different ending -of the two paths.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous:</div> -<div class="verse">But the way of the ungodly shall perish.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The thought-rhyme here is one of contrast.</p> - -<p>A poem of very different character from this -brief, serious, impersonal sonnet is found in the -Forty-sixth Psalm, which might be called a National<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -Anthem. Here again the poem is divided into three -parts.</p> - -<p>The first part (verses first to third) expresses a -sense of joyful confidence in the Eternal, amid the -tempests and confusions of earth. The thought-rhymes -are in couplets; and the second phrase, in -each case, emphasizes and enlarges the idea of the -first phrase.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">God is our refuge and strength:</div> -<div class="verse">A very present help in trouble.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The second part (verses fourth to seventh) describes -the peace and security of the city of God, surrounded -by furious enemies, but rejoicing in the Eternal -Presence. The parallel phrases here follow the same -rule as in the first part. The concluding phrase is -the stronger, the more emphatic. The seventh -verse gives the refrain or chorus of the anthem.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The Lord of hosts is with us:</div> -<div class="verse">The God of Jacob is our refuge.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The last part (verses eighth to tenth) describes -in a very vivid and concrete way the deliverance -of the people that have trusted in the Eternal. It -begins with a couplet, like those which have gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -before. Then follow two stanzas of triple thought-rhymes, -in which the thought is stated and intensified -with each repetition.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth:</div> -<div class="verse">He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder:</div> -<div class="verse">He burneth the chariot in the fire.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Be still, and know that I am God:</div> -<div class="verse">I will be exalted among the heathen:</div> -<div class="verse">I will be exalted in the earth.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The anthem ends with a repetition of the refrain.</p> - -<p>A careful study of the Psalms, even in English, will -enable the thoughtful reader to derive new pleasure -from them, by tracing the many modes and manners -in which this poetic form of thought-rhyme -is used to bind the composition together, and to -give balance and harmony to the poem.</p> - -<p>Another element of poetic form can be discerned in -the Psalms, not directly, in the English version, -but by its effects. I mean the curious artifice of -alphabetic arrangement. It was a favourite practice -among Hebrew poets to begin their verses with -the successive letters of the alphabet, or sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -to vary the device by making every verse in a -strophe begin with one letter, and every verse in -the next strophe with the following letter, and so -on to the end. The Twenty-fifth and the Thirty-seventh -Psalms were written by the first of these -rules; the One Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm -follows the second plan.</p> - -<p>Of course the alphabetic artifice disappears entirely -in the English translation. But its effects -remain. The Psalms written in this manner usually -have but a single theme, which is repeated over -and over again, in different words and with new -illustrations. They are kaleidoscopic. The material -does not change, but it is turned this way -and that way, and shows itself in new shapes and -arrangements. These alphabetic psalms are characterized -by poverty of action and richness of expression.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Milton has already reminded us that the Psalms -belong to the second of the three orders into which -the Greeks, with clear discernment, divided all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -poetry: the epic, the lyric, and the dramatic. The -Psalms are rightly called lyrics because they are -chiefly concerned with the immediate and imaginative -expression of real feeling. It is the personal -and emotional note that predominates. They are -inward, confessional, intense; outpourings of the -quickened spirit; self-revelations of the heart. It -is for this reason that we should never separate -them in our thought from the actual human life -out of which they sprung. We must feel the warm -pulse of humanity in them in order to comprehend -their meaning and immortal worth. So far as we -can connect them with the actual experience of -men, this will help us to appreciate their reality -and power. The effort to do this will make plain -to us some other things which it is important to -remember.</p> - -<p>We shall see at once that the book does not come -from a single writer, but from many authors and -ages. It represents the heart of man in communion -with God through a thousand years of history, from -Moses to Nehemiah, perhaps even to the time of -the Maccabean revival. It is, therefore, something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -very much larger and better than an individual -book.</p> - -<p>It is the golden treasury of lyrics gathered from -the life of the Hebrew people, the hymn-book of -the Jews. And this gives to it a singular and precious -quality of brotherhood. The fault, or at least -the danger, of modern lyrical poetry is that it is -too solitary and separate in its tone. It tends -towards exclusiveness, over-refinement, morbid sentiment. -Many Christian hymns suffer from this -defect. But the Psalms breathe a spirit of human -fellowship even when they are most intensely personal. -The poet rejoices or mourns in solitude, it -may be, but he is not alone in spirit. He is one of -the people. He is conscious always of the ties that -bind him to his brother men. Compare the intense -selfishness of the modern hymn:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I can but perish if I go;</div> -<div class="verse indent1">I am resolved to try;</div> -<div class="verse">For if I stay away, I know</div> -<div class="verse indent1">I shall forever die;</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">with the generous penitence of the Fifty-first Psalm:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Then will I teach transgressors thy way;</div> -<div class="verse">And sinners shall be converted unto thee.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> - -<p>It is important to observe that there are several -different kinds of lyrics among the Psalms. Some -of them are simple and natural outpourings of a -single feeling, like <cite>A Shepherd’s Song about His -Shepherd</cite>, the incomparable Twenty-third Psalm.</p> - -<p>This little poem is a perfect melody. It would -be impossible to express a pure, unmixed emotion—the -feeling of joy in the Divine Goodness—more -simply, with a more penetrating lyrical charm. -The “valley of the death-shadow,” the “enemies” -in whose presence the table is spread, are but dimly -suggested in the background. The atmosphere of -the psalm is clear and bright. The singing shepherd -walks in light. The whole world is the House of -the Lord, and life is altogether gladness.</p> - -<p>How different is the tone, the quality, of the One -Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm! This is not a -melody, but a harmony; not a song, but an ode. -The ode has been defined as “a strain of exalted -and enthusiastic lyrical verse, directed to a fixed -purpose and dealing progressively with one dignified -theme.”<a name="FNanchor_7" id="FNanchor_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> This definition precisely fits the One -Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> - -<p>Its theme is <cite>The Eternal Word</cite>. Every verse in -the poem, except one, contains some name or description -of the law, commandments, testimonies, -precepts, statutes, or judgments of Jehovah. Its -enthusiasm for the Divine Righteousness never -fails from beginning to end. Its fixed purpose is -to kindle in other hearts the flame of devotion to -the one Holy Law. It closes with a touch of magnificent -pathos—a confession of personal failure -and an assertion of spiritual loyalty:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">I have gone astray like a lost sheep:</div> -<div class="verse">Seek thy servant:</div> -<div class="verse">For I do not forget thy commandments.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The Fifteenth Psalm I should call a short didactic -lyric. Its title is <cite>The Good Citizen</cite>. It begins with -a question:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle?</div> -<div class="verse">Who shall dwell in thy holy hill?</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This question is answered by the description of a -man whose character corresponds to the law of -God. First there is a positive sketch in three broad -lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He that walketh uprightly,</div> -<div class="verse">And worketh righteousness,</div> -<div class="verse">And speaketh truth in his heart.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">Then comes a negative characterization in a finely -touched triplet:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He that backbiteth not with his tongue,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor doeth evil to his neighbor,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbor.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This is followed by a couplet containing a strong -contrast:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In whose eyes a vile person is contemned:</div> -<div class="verse">But he honoureth them that fear the Lord.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Then the description goes back to the negative -style again and three more touches are added to -the picture:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not,</div> -<div class="verse">He that putteth not out his money to usury,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor taketh reward against the innocent.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The poem closes with a single vigourous line, summing -up the character of the good citizen and answering -the question of the first verse with a new -emphasis of security and permanence:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He that doeth these things shall never be moved.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The Seventy-eighth, One Hundred and Fifth, -and One Hundred and Sixth Psalms are lyrical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -ballads. They tell the story of Israel in Egypt, -and in the Wilderness, and in Canaan, with swift, -stirring phrases, and with splendid flashes of -imagery. Take this passage from the Seventy-eighth -Psalm as an example:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He clave the rocks in the wilderness,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>And gave them drink out of the great depths</em>.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He brought streams also out of the rock,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>And caused waters to run down like rivers</em>.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And they sinned yet more against him,</div> -<div class="verse">Provoking the Most High in the wilderness.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><em>They tempted God in their hearts</em>,</div> -<div class="verse">Asking meat for their lust.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Yea, they spake against God:</div> -<div class="verse">They said, <em>Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?</em></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Behold, he smote the rock that the waters gushed out,</div> -<div class="verse">And the streams overflowed;</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Can he give bread also?</div> -<div class="verse">Can he provide flesh for his people?</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Therefore the Lord heard and was wroth:</div> -<div class="verse"><em>So a fire was kindled against Jacob,</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>And anger also came up against Israel:</em></div> -<div class="verse">Because they believed not in God,</div> -<div class="verse">And trusted not in his salvation:</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Though he had commanded the clouds from above,</div> -<div class="verse">And opened the doors of heaven,</div> -<div class="verse">And had rained down manna upon them to eat,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>And had given them of the corn of heaven,</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>Man did eat angel’s food:</em></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">He sent them meat to the full.</div> -<div class="verse">He caused an east wind to blow in the heaven,</div> -<div class="verse">And by his power he brought in the south wind.</div> -<div class="verse"><em>He rained flesh also upon them as dust,</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>And feathered fowls like as the sand of the sea.</em></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And he let it fall in the midst of their camp,</div> -<div class="verse">Round about their habitations;</div> -<div class="verse">So they did eat and were filled,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>For he gave them their own desire</em>.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">They were not estranged from their lust:</div> -<div class="verse"><em>But while the meat was yet in their mouths,</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>The wrath of God came upon them, and slew the fattest of them</em>,</div> -<div class="verse">And smote down the chosen men of Israel.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The Forty-fifth Psalm is a Marriage Ode: the -Hebrew title calls it a Love Song. It bears all the -marks of having been composed for some royal -wedding-feast in Jerusalem.</p> - -<p>There are many nature lyrics among the Psalms. -The Twenty-ninth is notable for its rugged realism. -It is a Song of Thunder.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars:</div> -<div class="verse">Yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars of Lebanon:</div> -<div class="verse">He maketh them also to skip like a calf:</div> -<div class="verse">Lebanon and Sirion like a young unicorn.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The One Hundred and Fourth, on the contrary, -is full of calm sublimity and meditative grandeur.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">O, Lord, my God, thou art very great:</div> -<div class="verse">Thou art clothed with honour and majesty:</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment;</div> -<div class="verse">Who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The Nineteenth is famous for its splendid comparison -between “the starry heavens and the moral -law.”</p> - -<p>I think that we may find also some dramatic -lyrics among the Psalms—poems composed to express -the feelings of an historic person, like David -or Solomon, in certain well-known and striking experiences -of his life. That a later writer should -thus embody and express the truth dramatically -through the personality of some great hero of the -past, involves no falsehood. It is a mode of utterance -which has been common to the literature of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -all lands and of all ages. Such a method of composition -would certainly be no hindrance to the -spirit of inspiration. The Thirty-first Psalm, for -instance, is ascribed by the title to David. But -there is strong reason, in the phraseology and in -the spirit of the poem, to believe that it was written -by the Prophet Jeremiah.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>It is not to be supposed that our reverence for -the Psalms in their moral and religious aspects will -make us put them all on the same level poetically. -There is a difference among the books of the New -Testament in regard to the purity and dignity of -the Greek in which they are written. There is a -difference among St. Paul’s Epistles in regard to -the clearness and force of their style. There is a -difference even among the chapters of the same -epistle in regard to the beauty of thought and language. -In the First Epistle to the Corinthians, the -thirteenth chapter is poetic, and the fourteenth is -prosaic. Why should there not be a difference in -poetic quality among the Psalms?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is a difference. The honest reader will -recognize it. It will be no harm to him if he should -have his favourites among the poems which have -been gathered from many centuries into this great -collection.</p> - -<p>There are some, like the Twenty-seventh, the -Forty-second, the Forty-sixth, the Fifty-first, the -Sixty-third, the Ninety-first, the Ninety-sixth, the -One Hundred and Third, the One Hundred and -Seventh, the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth, which -rank with the noblest poetic literature of the world. -Others move on a lower level, and show the traces -of effort and constraint. There are also manifest -alterations and interpolations, which are not always -improvements. Dr. Perowne, who is one of the -wisest and most conservative of modern commentators, -says, “Many of the Psalms have not come -down to us in their original form,”<a name="FNanchor_8" id="FNanchor_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> and refers to -the alterations which the Seventieth makes in the -Fortieth, and the Fifty-third in the Fourteenth. -The last two verses of the Fifty-first were evidently -added by a later hand. The whole book, in its present<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -form, shows the marks of its compilation and -use as the Hymn-Book of the Jewish people. Not -only in the titles, but also in the text, we can discern -the work of the compiler, critic, and adapter, -sometimes wise, but occasionally otherwise.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The most essential thing in the appreciation of -the poetry in the Psalms is the recognition of the -three great spiritual qualities which distinguish -them.</p> - -<p>The first of these is the deep and genuine love of -nature. The psalmists delight in the vision of the -world, and their joy quickens their senses to read -both the larger hieroglyphs of glory written in the -stars and the delicate tracings of transient beauty -on leaf and flower; to hear both the mighty roaring -of the sea and the soft sweet laughter of the rustling -corn-fields. But in all these they see the handwriting -and hear the voice of God. It is His presence -that makes the world sublime and beautiful. -The direct, piercing, elevating sense of this presence -simplifies, enlarges, and enables their style, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -makes it different from other nature-poetry. They -never lose themselves, as Theocritus and Wordsworth -and Shelley and Tennyson sometimes do, in -the contemplation and description of natural beauty. -They see it, but they always see beyond it. Compare, -for example, a modern versified translation -with the psalm itself:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The spacious firmament on high,</div> -<div class="verse">With all the blue ethereal sky</div> -<div class="verse">And spangled heavens, a shining frame,</div> -<div class="verse">Their Great Original proclaim.<a name="FNanchor_9" id="FNanchor_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Addison’s descriptive epithets betray a conscious -effort to make a splendid picture. But the psalmist -felt no need of this; a larger impulse lifted him at -once into “the grand style:”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The heavens declare the glory of God;</div> -<div class="verse">And the firmament showeth his handiwork.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The second quality of the poetry in the Psalms is -their passionate sense of the beauty of holiness. -Keats was undoubtedly right in his suggestion that -the poet must always see truth in the form of beauty. -Otherwise he may be a philosopher, or a critic, or a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -moralist, but he is not a true poet. But we must go -on from this standpoint to the Platonic doctrine -that the highest form of beauty is spiritual and -ethical. The poet must also see beauty in the light -of truth. It is the harmony of the soul with the -eternal music of the Good. And the highest poets -are those who, like the psalmists, are most ardently -enamoured of righteousness. This fills their songs -with sweetness and fire incomparable and immortal:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever:</div> -<div class="verse">The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.</div> -<div class="verse">More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold:</div> -<div class="verse">Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The third quality of the poetry of the Psalms is -their intense joy in God. No lover ever poured -out the longings of his heart toward his mistress -more eagerly than the Psalmist voices his desire -and thirst for God. No conqueror ever sang of -victory more exultantly than the Psalmist rejoices -in the Lord, who is his light and his salvation, the -strength of his life and his portion forever.</p> - -<p>After all, the true mission of poetry is to increase<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -joy. It must, indeed, be sensitive to sorrow and -acquainted with grief. But it has wings given to -it in order that it may bear us up into the air of -gladness.</p> - -<p>There is no perfect joy without love. Therefore -love-poetry is the best. But the highest of all love-poetry -is that which celebrates, with the Psalms,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent3">that Love which is and was</div> -<div class="verse">My Father and my Brother and my God.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_GOOD_ENCHANTMENT_OF_CHARLES_DICKENS">THE GOOD ENCHANTMENT OF CHARLES DICKENS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>There are four kinds of novels.</p> - -<p>First, those that are easy to read and hard to -remember: the well-told tales of no consequence, -the cream-puffs of perishable fiction.</p> - -<p>Second, those that are hard to read and hard to -remember: the purpose-novels which are tedious -sermons in disguise, and the love-tales in which -there is no one with whom it is possible to fall in -love.</p> - -<p>Third, those that are hard to read and easy to -remember: the books with a crust of perverse style -or faulty construction through which the reader -must break in order to get at the rich and vital -meaning.</p> - -<p>Fourth, those that are easy to read and easy to -remember: the novels in which stories worth telling -are well-told, and characters worth observing are -vividly painted, and life is interpreted to the imagination<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -in enduring forms of literary art. These -are the best-sellers which do not go out of print—everybody’s -books.</p> - -<p>In this fourth class healthy-minded people and unprejudiced -critics put the novels of Charles Dickens. -For millions of readers they have fulfilled what Dr. -Johnson called the purpose of good books, to teach -us to enjoy life or help us to endure it. They have -awakened laughter and tears. They have enlarged -and enriched existence by revealing the hidden -veins of humour and pathos beneath the surface of -the every-day world, and by giving “the freedom -of the city” to those poor prisoners who had thought -of it only as the dwelling-place of so many hundred -thousand inhabitants and no real persons.</p> - -<p>What a city it was that Dickens opened to us! -London, of course, in outward form and semblance,—the -London of the early Victorian epoch, with its -reeking Seven Dials close to its perfumed Piccadilly, -with its grimy river-front and its musty Inns of -Court and its mildly rural suburbs, with its rollicking -taverns and its deadly solemn residential squares -and its gloomy debtors’ prisons and its gaily insanitary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -markets, with all its consecrated conventions -and unsuspected hilarities,—vast, portentous, -formal, merry, childish, inexplicable, a wilderness -of human homes and haunts, ever thrilling with -sincerest passion, mirth, and pain,—London it was, -as the eye saw it in those days, and as the curious -traveller may still retrace some of its vanishing -landmarks and fading features.</p> - -<p>But it was more than London, after Dickens -touched it. It was an enchanted city, where the -streets seemed to murmur of joy or fear, where the -dark faces of the dens of crime scowled or leered at -you, and the decrepit houses doddered in senility, -and the new mansions stared you down with stolid -pride. Everything spoke or made a sign to you. -From red-curtained windows jollity beckoned. -From prison-doors lean hands stretched toward -you. Under bridges and among slimy piers the -river gurgled, and chuckled, and muttered unholy -secrets. Across trim front-yards little cottages -smiled and almost nodded their good-will. There -were no dead spots, no deaf and dumb regions. All -was alive and significant. Even the real estate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -became personal. One felt that it needed but a -word, a wave of the wand, to bring the buildings -leaping, roistering, creeping, tottering, stalking from -their places.</p> - -<p>It was an enchanted city, and the folk who filled -it and almost, but never quite, crowded it to suffocation, -were so intensely and supernaturally human, -so blackly bad, so brightly good, so touchingly pathetic, -so supremely funny, that they also were -creatures of enchantment and seemed to come from -fairy-land.</p> - -<p>For what is fairy-land, after all? It is not an -invisible region, an impossible place. It is only -the realm of the hitherto unobserved, the not yet -realized, where the things we have seen but never -noticed, and the persons we have met but never -known, are suddenly “translated,” like Bottom the -Weaver, and sent forth upon strange adventures.</p> - -<p>That is what happens to the Dickens people. -Good or bad they surpass themselves when they -get into his books. That rotund Brownie, Mr. Pickwick, -with his amazing troupe; that gentle compound -of Hop-o’-my-Thumb and a Babe in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -Wood, Oliver Twist, surrounded by wicked uncles, -and hungry ogres, and good fairies in bottle-green -coats; that tender and lovely Red Riding-Hood, -Little Nell; that impetuous Hans-in-Luck, Nicholas -Nickleby; that intimate Cinderella, Little Dorrit; -that simple-minded Aladdin, Pip; all these, and -a thousand more like them, go rambling through -Dickensopolis and behaving naturally in a most -extraordinary manner.</p> - -<p>Things that have seldom or never happened, -occur inevitably. The preposterous becomes the -necessary, the wildly improbable is the one thing -that must come to pass. Mr. Dombey is converted, -Mr. Krook is removed by spontaneous combustion, -Mr. Micawber performs amazing feats as an amateur -detective, Sam Weller gets married, the immortally -absurd epitaphs of Young John Chivery -and Mrs. Sapsea are engraved upon monuments -more lasting than brass.</p> - -<p>The fact is, Dickens himself was bewitched by -the spell of his own imagination. His people carried -him away, did what they liked with him. He -wrote of Little Nell: “You can’t imagine how exhausted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -I am to-day with yesterday’s labours. I -went to bed last night utterly dispirited and done -up. All night I have been pursued by the child; -and this morning I am unrefreshed and miserable. -I don’t know what to do with myself.... I think -the close of the story will be great.” Again he says: -“As to the way in which these characters have -opened out [in <cite>Martin Chuzzlewit</cite>], that is to me -one of the most surprising processes of the mind in -this sort of invention. Given what one knows, -what one does not know springs up; and I am <em>as -absolutely certain of its being true, as I am of the -law of gravitation</em>—if such a thing is possible, more -so.”</p> - -<p>Precisely such a thing (as Dickens very well understood) -is not only possible, but unavoidable. -For what certainty have we of the law of gravitation? -Only by hearsay, by the submissive reception -of a process of reasoning conducted for us by Sir -Isaac Newton and other vaguely conceived men of -science. The fall of an apple is an intense reality -(especially if it falls upon your head); but the law -which regulates its speed is for you an intellectual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -abstraction as remote as the idea of a “combination -in restraint of trade,” or the definition of “art for -art’s sake.” Whereas the irrepressible vivacity of -Sam Weller, and the unctuous hypocrisy of Pecksniff, -and the moist humility of Uriah Heep, and -the sublime conviviality of Dick Swiveller, and the -triumphant make-believe of the Marchioness are -facts of experience. They have touched you, and -you cannot doubt them. The question whether -they are actual or imaginary is purely academic.</p> - -<p>Another fairy-land feature of Dickens’s world is -the way in which minor personages of the drama -suddenly take the centre of the stage and hold the -attention of the audience. It is always so in fairy-land.</p> - -<p>In <cite>The Tempest</cite>, what are Prospero and Miranda, -compared with Caliban and Ariel? In <cite>A Midsummer -Night’s Dream</cite>, who thinks as much of Oberon -and Titania, as of Puck, and Bottom the Weaver? -Even in an historical drama like Henry IV, we feel -that Falstaff is the most historic character.</p> - -<p>Dickens’s first lady and first gentleman are often -less memorable than his active supernumeraries.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -A hobgoblin like Quilp, a good old nurse like Peggotty, -a bad old nurse like Sairey Gamp, a volatile -elf like Miss Mowcher, a shrewd elf and a blunder-headed -elf like Susan Nipper and Mr. Toots, a good-natured -disreputable sprite like Charley Bates, a -malicious gnome like Noah Claypole, a wicked ogre -like Wackford Squeers, a pair of fairy-godmothers -like the Cheeryble Brothers, a dandy ouphe like -Mr. Mantalini, and a mischievous, wooden-legged -kobold like Silas Wegg, take stronger hold upon us -than the Harry Maylies and Rose Flemings, the -John Harmons and Bella Wilfers, for whose ultimate -matrimonial felicity the business of the plot is conducted. -Even the more notable heroes often pale -a little by comparison with their attendants. Who -remembers Martin Chuzzlewit as clearly as his servant -Mark Tapley? Is Pip, with his Great Expectations, -half as delightful as his clumsy dry-nurse -Joe Gargery? Has even the great Pickwick a -charm to compare with the unique, immortal Sam -Weller?</p> - -<p>Do not imagine that Dickens was unconscious of -this disarrangement of rôles, or that it was an evidence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -of failure on his part. He knew perfectly -well what he was doing. Great authors always do. -They cannot help it, and they do not care. Homer -makes Agamemnon and Priam the kings of his tale, -and Paris the first walking gentleman and Helen -the leading lady. But Achilles and Ajax and Hector -are the bully boys, and Ulysses is the wise jester, -and Thersites the tragic clown. As for Helen,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The face that launched a thousand ships,</div> -<div class="verse">And burnt the topless towers of Ilium—</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">her reputed pulchritude means less to us than the -splendid womanhood of Andromache, or the wit -and worth of the adorable matron Penelope.</p> - -<p>Now this unconventionality of art, which disregards -ranks and titles, even those of its own making, -and finds the beautiful and the absurd, the -grotesque and the picturesque, the noble and the -base, not according to the programme but according -to the fact, is precisely the essence of good -enchantment.</p> - -<p>Good enchantment goes about discovering the ass -in the lion’s skin and the wolf in sheep’s clothing, -the princess in the goose-girl and the wise man under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -the fool’s cap, the pretender in the purple robe and -the rightful heir in rags, the devil in the belfry and -the Redeemer among the publicans and sinners. It -is the spirit of revelation, the spirit of divine sympathy -and laughter, the spirit of admiration, hope, -and love—or better still, it is simply the spirit of -life.</p> - -<p>When I call this the essence of good enchantment -I do not mean that it is unreal. I mean only that it -is <em>unrealistic</em>, which is just the opposite of unreal. -It is not in bondage to the beggarly elements of form -and ceremony. It is not captive to names and appearances, -though it revels in their delightful absurdity. -It knows that an idol is nothing, and finds -all the more laughter in its pompous pretence of -being something. It can afford to be merry because -it is in earnest; it is happy because it has not forgotten -how to weep; it is content because it is still -unsatisfied; it is humble in the sense of unfathomed -faults and exalted in the consciousness of inexhaustible -power; it calls nothing common or unclean; it -values life for its mystery, its surprisingness, and its -divine reversals of human prejudice,—just like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -Beauty and the Beast and the story of the Ugly -Duckling.</p> - -<p>This, I say, is the essence of good enchantment; -and it is also the essence of true religion. “For God -hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound -the wise, and the weak things of the world -to confound the mighty, and base things of the -world and things which are despised, yea, and -<em>things which are not, to bring to naught things which -are.</em>”</p> - -<p>This is also the essence of real democracy, which -is not a theory of government but a state of mind.</p> - -<p>No one has ever expressed it better than Charles -Dickens did in a speech which he made at Hartford, -Connecticut, seventy years ago. “I have -faith,” said he, “and I wish to diffuse faith in the -existence—yes, of beautiful things, even in those -conditions of society which are so degenerate, so -degraded and forlorn, that at first sight it would -seem as though it could only be described by a -strange and terrible reversal of the words of Scripture—God -said let there be light, and there was -none. I take it that we are born, and that we hold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -our sympathies, hopes, and energies in trust for the -Many and not the Few. That we cannot hold in -too strong a light of disgust and contempt, before -our own view and that of others, all meanness, falsehood, -cruelty, and oppression of every grade and -kind. Above all, that nothing is high because it is -in a high place; and that nothing is low because it -is in a low place. This is the lesson taught us in -the great book of Nature. This is the lesson which -may be read alike in the bright track of the stars, -and in the dusty course of the poorest thing that -drags its tiny length upon the ground.”</p> - -<p>This was the creed of Dickens; and like every -man’s creed, conscious or unconscious, confessed or -concealed, it made him what he was.</p> - -<p>It has been said that he had no deep philosophy, -no calmly reasoned and clearly stated theory of the -universe. Perhaps that is true. Yet I believe he -hardly missed it. He was too much interested in -living to be anxious about a complete theory of -life. Perhaps it would have helped him when trouble -came, when domestic infelicity broke up his home, -if he could have climbed into some philosopher’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -ivory tower. Perhaps not. I have observed that -even the most learned and philosophic mortals, under -these afflictions, sometimes fail to appreciate the -consolations of philosophy to any noticeable extent. -From their ivory towers they cry aloud, being in -pain, even as other men.</p> - -<p>But it was certainly not true (even though his -biographer wrote it, and it has been quoted a thousand -times), that just because Dickens cried aloud, -“there was for him no ‘city of the mind’ against -outward ills, for inner consolation and shelter.” He -was not cast out and left comfortless. Faith, hope, -and charity—these three abode with him. His -human sympathy, his indomitable imagination, his -immense and varied interest in the strange adventures -of men and women, his unfaltering intuition -of the truer light of God that burns</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In this vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,</div> -<div class="verse">Heart, or whatever else——</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">these were the celestial powers and bright serviceable -angels that built and guarded for him a true -“city of refuge,” secure, inviolate, ever open to the -fugitive in the day of his calamity. Thither he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -could flee to find safety. There he could ungird his -heart and indulge</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Love and the thoughts that breathe for humankind;</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">there he could laugh and sing and weep with the -children, the dream-children, which God had given -him; there he could enter into his work-shop and -shut the door and lose himself in joyous labour which -should make the world richer by the gift of good -books. And so he did, even until the end came and -the pen fell from his fingers, he sitting safe in his -city of refuge, learning and unfolding <cite>The Mystery -of Edwin Drood</cite>.</p> - -<p>O enchanted city, great asylum in the mind of -man, where ideals are embodied, and visions take -form and substance to parley with us! Imagination -rears thy towers and Fancy populates thy streets; -yet art thou a city that hath foundations, a dwelling -eternal though unseen. Ever building, changing, -never falling, thy walls are open-gated day and -night. The fountain of youth is in thy gardens, the -treasure of the humble in thy storehouses. Hope -is thy doorkeeper, and Faith thy warden, and Love -thy Lord. In thee the wanderer may take shelter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -and find himself by forgetting himself. In thee -rest and refreshment are waiting for the weary, and -new courage for the despondent, and new strength -for the faint. From thy magic casements we have -looked upon unknown horizons, and we return from -thy gates to our task, our toil, our pilgrimage, with -better and braver hearts, knowing more surely that -the things which are seen were not made of things -which do appear, and that the imperishable jewels -of the universe are in the souls of men. O city of -good enchantment, for my brethren and companions’ -sakes I will now say: Peace be within -thee!</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Of the outward appearance, or, as <cite>Sartor Resartus</cite> -would have called it, the Time-Vesture and -Flesh-Garment of that flaming light-particle which -was cast hither from Heaven in the person of Charles -Dickens, and of his ways and manners while he -hasted jubilantly and stormfully across the astonished -Earth, something must be said here.</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens was born at Portsea, in 1812, -an offspring of what the accurate English call the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -“lower middle class.” Inheriting something from -a father who was decidedly Micawberish, and a -mother who resembled Mrs. Nickleby, Charles was -not likely to be a humdrum child. But the remarkable -thing about him was the intense, aspiring, and -gaily sensible spirit with which he entered into the -business of developing whatever gifts he had received -from his vague and amiable parents.</p> - -<p>The fat streak of comfort in his childish years, -when his proud father used to stand the tiny lad -on a table to sing comic songs for an applauding -audience of relatives, could not spoil him. The -lean streak of misery, when the improvident family -sprawled in poverty, with its head in a debtors’ -prison, while the bright, delicate, hungry boy roamed -the streets, or drudged in a dirty blacking-factory, -could not starve him. The two dry years of school -at Wellington House Academy could not fossilize -him. The years from fifteen to nineteen, when he -was earning his bread as office-boy, lawyers’ clerk, -shorthand reporter, could not commercialize him. -Through it all he burned his way painfully and -joyously.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was not to be detailed as a perpetual comic -songster in upholstered parlors; nor as a prosperous -frock-coated citizen with fatty degeneration of the -mind; nor as a newspaper politician, a power beneath -the footstool. None of these alluring prospects -delayed him. He passed them by, observing -everything as he went, now hurrying, now sauntering, -for all the world like a boy who has been -sent somewhere. Where it was, he found out in -his twenty-fifth year, when the extraordinary results -of his self-education bloomed in the <cite>Pickwick -Papers</cite> and <cite>Oliver Twist.</cite></p> - -<p>Never was a good thing coming out of Nazareth -more promptly welcomed. The simple-minded -critics of that day had not yet discovered the damning -nature of popularity, and they hailed the new -genius in spite of the fact that hundreds of thousands -of people were reading his books. His success -was exhilarating, overwhelming, and at times -intoxicating.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">It was roses, roses all the way.—</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Some of them had thorns, which hurt his thin skin -horribly, but they never made him despair or doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -the goodness of the universe. Being vexed, he let -it off in anger instead of distilling it into pessimism -to poison himself. Life was too everlastingly interesting -for him to be long unhappy. A draught of -his own triumph would restore him, a slice of his -own work would reinvigorate him, and he would go -on with his industrious dreaming.</p> - -<p>No one enjoyed the reading of his books more -than he the making of them, though he sometimes -suffered keenly in the process. That was a proof -of his faith that happiness does not consist in the -absence of suffering, but in the presence of joy. -Dulness, insincerity, stupid humbug—<i lang="fr">voilà l’ennemi!</i> -So he lived and wrote with a high hand and an outstretched -arm. He made men see what he saw, -and hate what he hated, and love what he loved. -This was his great reward,—more than money, -fame, or hosts of friends,—that he saw the children -of his brain enter into the common life of the world.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;" id="illus2"> -<img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="700" height="525" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">CHARLES DICKENS AS CAPTAIN BOBADIL IN “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.”</p> -<p class="caption">Painted by C. R. Leslie.</p> -</div> - -<p>But he was not exempt from the ordinary laws -of nature. The conditions of his youth left their -marks for good and evil on his maturity. The petting -of his babyhood gave him the habit of showing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -off. We often see him as a grown man, standing -on the table and reciting his little piece, or singing -his little song, to please an admiring audience. He -delighted in playing to the galleries.</p> - -<p>His early experience of poverty made him at once -tremendously sympathetic and invincibly optimistic—both -of which virtues belong to the poor more -than to the rich. Dickens understood this and never -forgot it. The chief moralities of his poor people -are mutual helpfulness and unquenchable hopefulness. -From them, also, he caught the tone of material -comfort which characterizes his visions of the -reward of virtue. Having known cold and hunger, -he simply could not resist the desire to make his -favourite characters—if they stayed on earth till the -end of the book—warm and “comfy,” and to give -them plenty to eat and drink. This may not have -been artistic, but it was intensely human.</p> - -<p>The same personal quality may be noted in his -ardour as a reformer. No writer of fiction has ever -done more to better the world than Charles Dickens. -But he did not do it by setting forth programmes -of legislation and theories of government. As a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -matter of fact, he professed an amusing “contempt -for the House of Commons,” having been a Parliamentary -reporter; and of Sir Robert Peel, who -emancipated the Catholics, enfranchised the Jews, -and repealed the Corn Laws, he thought so little -that he caricatured him as Mr. Pecksniff.</p> - -<p>Dickens felt the evils of the social order at the -precise point where the shoe pinched; he did not go -back to the place where the leather was tanned or -the last designed. It was some practical abuse in -poorhouses or police-courts or prisons; it was some -hidden shame in the conduct of schools, or the renting -of tenements; it was some monumental absurdity -in the Circumlocution Office, some pompous -and cruel delay in the course of justice, that made -him hot with indignation. These were the things -that he assailed with Rabelaisian laughter, or over -which he wept with a deeper and more sincere pity -than that of Tristram Shandy. His idea was that -if he could get people to see that a thing was both -ridiculous and cruel, they would want to stop it. -What would come after that, he did not clearly -know, nor had he any particularly valuable suggestions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -to make, except the general proposition -that men should do justly, and love mercy, and -walk humbly with their God.</p> - -<p>He took no stock in the doleful predictions of -the politicians that England was in an awful state -merely because Lord Coodle was going out of office, -and Sir Thomas Doodle would not come in, and -each of these was the only man to save the country. -The trouble seemed to him deeper and more -real. It was a certain fat-witted selfishness, a certain -callous, complacent blindness in the people -who were likely to read his books. He conceived -that his duty as a novelist was done when he had -shown up the absurd and hateful things, and made -people laugh at their ugliness, weep over their inhumanity, -and long to sweep them away.</p> - -<p>In this attitude, I think, Dickens was not only -natural, and true to his bringing-up, but also wise -as a great artist in literature. For I have observed -that brilliant writers, while often profitable as satirists -to expose abuses, are seldom judicious as -legislators to plan reforms.</p> - -<p>Before we leave this subject of the effects of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -Dickens’s early poverty and sudden popularity, we -must consider his alleged lack of refinement. Some -say that he was vulgar, others that he was ungrateful -and inconsiderate of the feelings of his friends -and relations, others that he had little or no taste. -I should rather say, in the words of the old epigram, -that he had a great deal of taste, and that some of -it was very bad.</p> - -<p>Take the matter of his caricaturing real people in -his books. No one could object to his use of the -grotesque insolence of a well-known London magistrate -as the foundation of his portrait of Mr. Fang -in <cite>Oliver Twist.</cite> That was public property. But -the amiable eccentricities of his own father and -mother, the airy irresponsible ways of his good -friend Leigh Hunt, were private property. Yet -even here Dickens could not reasonably be blamed -for observing them, for being amused by them, or -for letting them enrich his general sense of the immense, -incalculable, and fantastic humour of the -world. Taste, which is simply another name for -the gusto of life, has a comic side; and a man who -is keenly sensitive to everything cannot be expected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -to be blind to the funny things that happen among -his family and friends. But when Dickens used -these private delights for the public amusement, -and in such a form that the partial portraits of Mr. -and Mrs. Micawber, Mrs. Nickleby, and Harold -Skimpole were easily identified, all that we can say -is that his taste was still there, but it had gone bad. -What could you expect? Where, in his early years, -was he likely to have learned the old-fashioned -habit of reserve in regard to private affairs, which -you may call either a mark of good manners, or a -sign of silly pride, according to your own education?</p> - -<p>Or take his behavior during his first visit to America -in 1842, and immediately after his return to -England. His reception was enough to turn anybody’s -head. “There never was a king or emperor,” -wrote Dickens to a friend, “so cheered and followed -by crowds, and entertained at splendid balls and -dinners, and waited upon by public bodies of all -kinds.” This was at the beginning. At the end he -was criticized by all, condemned by many, and -abused by some of the newspapers. Why? Chiefly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -because he used the dinners given in his honour as -occasions to convict the Americans of their gross -national sin of literary piracy, and because when he -got home he wrote a book of <cite>American Notes</cite>, containing -some very severe strictures upon the country -which had just entertained him so magnificently.</p> - -<p>Mr. Chesterton defends Dickens for his attack -upon the American practice of book-stealing which -grew out of the absence of an International Copyright -Law. He says that it was only the new, raw -sensibility of the Americans that was hurt by these -speeches. “Dickens was not in the least desirous -of being thought too ‘high-souled’ to want his -wages.... He asked for his money in a valiant -and ringing voice, like a man asking for his honour.” -And this, Mr. Chesterton leaves us to infer, is what -any bold Englishman, as distinguished from a -timidly refined American, would do.</p> - -<p>Precisely. But if the bold Englishman had been -gently-bred would he have accepted an invitation -to dinner in order that he might publicly say to his -host, in a valiant and ringing voice, “You owe me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -a thousand pounds”? Such procedure at the dinner-table -is contrary not only to good manners but -also to good digestion. This is what Mr. Chesterton’s -bold British constitution apparently prevents -him from seeing. What Dickens said about international -copyright was right. But he was -wretchedly wrong in his choice of the time and -place for saying it. The natural irritation which -his bad taste produced was one of the causes which -delayed for fifty years the success of the efforts of -American authors to secure copyright for foreign -authors.</p> - -<p>The same criticism applies to the <cite>American Notes</cite>. -Read them again and you will see that they are not -bad notes. With much that he says about Yankee -boastfulness and superficiality, and the evils of -slavery, and the dangers of yellow journalism, every -sane American will agree to-day. But the occasion -which Dickens took for making these remarks was -not happily chosen. It was as if a man who had -just been entertained at your house should write -to thank you for the pleasure of the visit, and improve -the opportunity to point out the shocking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -defects of your domestic service and the exceedingly -bad tone which pervaded your establishment. Such -a “bread-and-butter letter” might be full of good -morals, but their effect would be diminished by its -bad manners. Of this Dickens was probably quite -unconscious. He acted spontaneously, irrepressibly, -vivaciously, in accordance with his own taste; and -it surprised and irritated him immensely that people -were offended by it.</p> - -<p>It was precisely so in regard to his personal appearance. -When the time suddenly arrived that he -could indulge his taste in dress without fear of financial -consequences, he did so hilariously and to the -fullest extent. Here is a description of him as he -appeared to an American girl at an evening party -in Cincinnati eighty years ago. “He is young and -handsome, has a mellow beautiful eye, fine brow -and abundant hair.... His manner is easy and -negligent, but not elegant. His dress was foppish.... -He had a dark coat with lighter pantaloons; -a black waistcoat embroidered with coloured flowers; -and about his neck, covering his white shirt-front, -was a black neck-cloth also embroidered with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -colours, on which were two large diamond pins connected -by a chain; a gold watch-chain and a large -red rose in his buttonhole completed his toilet.”</p> - -<p>The young lady does not seem to have been delighted -with this costume. But Dickens did not -dress to please her, he dressed to please himself. -His taste was so exuberant that it naturally effervesced -in this kind of raiment. There was certainly -nothing immoral about it. He had paid for -it and he had a right to wear it, for to him it seemed -beautiful. He would have been amazed to know -that any young lady did not like it; and her opinion -would probably have had little effect upon him, for -he wrote of the occasion on which this candid girl -met him, as follows: “In the evening we went to -a party at Judge Walker’s and were introduced to -at least one hundred and fifty first-rate bores, separately -and singly.”</p> - -<p>But what does it all amount to, this lack of discretion -in manners, this want of reserve in speech, -this oriental luxuriance in attire? It simply goes -to show that <em>Dickens himself was a Dickens character</em>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> - -<p>He was vivid, florid, inexhaustible, and untamed. -There was material in the little man for a hundred -of his own immortal caricatures. The self-portrait -that he has drawn in <cite>David Copperfield</cite> is too smooth, -like a retouched photograph. That is why David is -less interesting than half-a-dozen other people in the -book. If Dickens could have seen his own humourous -aspects in the magic mirror of his fancy, it would -have been among the richest of his observations, -and if he could have let his enchantment loose upon -the subject, not even the figures of Dick Swiveller -and Harold Skimpole would have been more memorable -than the burlesque of “Boz” by the hand -of C. D.</p> - -<p>But the humourous, the extravagant, the wildly -picturesque,—would these have given a true and -complete portrait of the man? Does it make any -great difference what kind of clothes he wore, or -how many blunders of taste and tact he made, even -tragic blunders like his inability to refrain from -telling the world all about his domestic unhappiness,—does -all this count for much when we look -back upon the wonders which his imagination<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -wrought in fiction, and upon the generous fruits -which his heart brought forth in life?</p> - -<p>It is easy to endure small weaknesses when you -can feel beneath them the presence of great and -vital power. Faults are forgiven readily in one -who has the genius of loving much. Better many -blunders than the supreme mistake of a life that is</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Charles Dickens never made, nor indeed was -tempted to make, that mistake. He carried with -him the defects of his qualities, the marks of his -early life, the penalties of his bewildering success. -But, look you, <em>he carried them</em>—they did not crush -him nor turn him from his true course. Forward -he marched, cheering and beguiling the way for his -comrades with mirthful stories and tales of pity, -lightening many a burden and consoling many a -dark and lonely hour, until he came at last to the -goal of honour and the haven of happy rest. Those -who knew him best saw him most clearly as Carlyle -did: “The good, the gentle, high-gifted, ever-friendly, -noble Dickens,—every inch of him an Honest -Man.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>As an artist in fiction Dickens was great; but not -because he had a correct theory of the technique of -the novel, not because he always followed good rules -and models in writing, nor because he was one</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Who saw life steadily and saw it whole.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>On the contrary, his vision of life, though vivid, -was almost always partial. He was capable of -doing a great deal of bad work, which he himself -liked. The plots of his novels, on which he toiled -tremendously, are negligible; indeed it is often difficult -to follow and impossible to remember them. -The one of his books that is notably fine in structure -and approximately faultless in technique—<cite>A Tale -of Two Cities</cite>—is so unlike his other novels that it -stands in a class by itself, as an example of what he -could have done if he had chosen to follow that line. -In a way it is his most perfect piece of work. But it -is not his most characteristic piece of work, and -therefore I think it has less value for us than some -of his other books in which his peculiar, distinctive, -unrivalled powers are more fully shown.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> - -<p>After all, art must not only interpret the world -but also reveal the artist. The lasting interest of -his vision, its distinction, its charm, depend, at -least in some real degree, upon the personal touch. -Being himself a part of the things that are seen, he -must “paint the thing <em>as he sees it</em>” if he wishes to -win the approval of “the God of things as they are.”</p> - -<p>Now the artistic value of Dickens’s way of seeing -things lay in its fitness to the purpose which he had -in mind and heart,—a really great purpose, namely, -to enhance the interest of life by good enchantment, -to save people from the plague of dulness and -the curse of indifference by showing them that the -world is full of the stuff for hearty laughter and deep -sympathy. This way of seeing things, with constant -reference to their humourous and sentimental -potency, was essential to the genius of Dickens. -His method of making other people see it was -strongly influenced, if not absolutely determined, by -two facts which seemed to lie outside of his career -as an author: first, his training as a reporter for the -press; second, his favourite avocation as an amateur -actor, stage-manager, and dramatic reader.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<p>The style of Dickens at its best is that of an inspired -reporter. It is rapid, graphic, pictorial, -aiming always at a certain heightening of effect, -making the shadows darker and the lights brighter -for the purpose of intensifying sensation. He did -not get it in the study but in the street. Take his -description in <cite>Martin Chuzzlewit</cite> of Todgers’s Boarding -House with its complicated smells and its mottled -shades of dinginess; or take his picture in -<cite>Little Dorrit</cite> of Marseilles burning in the August -sunlight with its broad, white, universal stare. -Here is the art of journalism,—the trick of intensification -by omission,—carried to the limit. He -aims distinctly at a certain effect, and he makes -sure of getting it.</p> - -<p>He takes long walks in the heart of London, -attends police courts, goes behind the scenes of -theatres, rides in omnibuses, visits prisons and workhouses. -You think he is seeking realism. Quite -wrong. He is seeking a sense of reality which shall -make realism look cheap. He is not trying to put -up canned goods which shall seem more or less like -fresh vegetables. He is trying to extract the essential<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -flavour of places and people so that you can -taste it in a drop.</p> - -<p>We find in his style an accumulation of details all -bearing on a certain point; nothing that serves his -purpose is overlooked; everything that is likely to -distract the attention or obscure his aim is disregarded. -The head-lines are in the text. When -the brute, Bill Sykes, says to Nancy: “Get up,” -you know what is coming. When Mrs. Todgers -gives a party to Mr. Pecksniff you know what is -coming. But the point is that when it comes, -tragedy or comedy, it is as pure and unadulterated -as the most brilliant of reporters could make it.</p> - -<p>Naturally, Dickens puts more emphasis upon the -contrast between his characters than upon the contrast -within them. The internal inconsistencies -and struggles, the slow processes of growth and -change which are the delight of the psychological -novelist do not especially interest him. He sees -things black or white, not gray. The objects that -attract him most, and on which he lavishes his art, -do not belong to the average, but to the extraordinary. -Dickens is not a commonplace merchant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -He is a dealer in oddities and rarities, in fact the -keeper of an “Old Curiosity Shop,” and he knows -how to set forth his goods with incomparable skill.</p> - -<p>His drawing of character is sharp rather than -deep. He makes the figure stand out, always recognizable, -but not always thoroughly understood. -Many of his people are simply admirable incarnations -of their particular trades or professions: Mould -the undertaker, old Weller the coachman, Tulkinghorn -the lawyer, Elijah Program the political demagogue, -Blimber the school-master, Stiggins the religious -ranter, Betsey Prig the day-nurse, Cap’n -Cuttle the retired skipper. They are all as easy to -identify as the wooden image in front of a tobacconist’s -shop. Others are embodiments of a single passion -or quality: Pecksniff of unctuous hypocrisy, -Micawber of joyous improvidence, Mr. Toots of -dumb sentimentalism, Little Dorrit of the motherly -instinct in a girl, Joe Gargery of the motherly instinct -in a man, Mark Tapley of resolute and strenuous -optimism. If these persons do anything out of -harmony with their head-lines, Dickens does not tell -of it. He does not care for the incongruities, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -modifications, the fine shadings which soften and -complicate the philosophic and reflective view of life. -He wants to write his “story” sharply, picturesquely, -with “snap” and plenty of local colour; and -he does it, in his happiest hours, with all the <em>verve</em> -and skill of a star reporter for the <cite>Morning Journal</cite> -of the Enchanted City.</p> - -<p>In this graphic and emphatic quality the art of -Dickens in fiction resembles the art of Hogarth in -painting. But Dickens, like Hogarth, was much -more than a reporter. He was a dramatist, and -therefore he was also, by necessity, a moralist.</p> - -<p>I do not mean that Dickens had a dramatic genius -in the Greek sense that he habitually dealt with -the eternal conflict between human passion and inscrutable -destiny. I mean only this: that his lifelong -love for the theatre often led him, consciously -or unconsciously, to construct the <em>scenario</em> of a -story with a view to dramatic effect, and to work -up the details of a crisis precisely as if he saw it in -his mind’s eye on the stage.</p> - -<p>Notice how the <i lang="la">dramatis personæ</i> are clearly -marked as comic, or tragic, or sentimental. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -moment they come upon the scene you can tell -whether they are meant to appeal to your risibilities -or to your sensibilities. You are in no danger of -laughing at the heroine, or weeping over the funny -man. Dickens knows too much to leave his audience -in perplexity. He even gives to some of his personages -set phrases, like the musical <i lang="fr">motifs</i> of the -various characters in the operas of Wagner, by -which you may easily identify them. Mr. Micawber -is forever “waiting for something to turn up.” Mr. -Toots always reminds us that “it’s of no consequence.” -Sairey Gamp never appears without her -imaginary friend Mrs. Harris. Mrs. General has -“prunes and prism” perpetually on her lips.</p> - -<p>Observe, also, how carefully the scene is set, and -how wonderfully the preparation is made for a dramatic -climax in the story. If it is a comic climax, -like the trial of Mr. Pickwick for breach of promise, -nothing is forgotten, from the hysterics of the obese -Mrs. Bardell to the feigned indignation of Sergeant -Buzfuz over the incriminating phrase “chops and -tomato sauce!”</p> - -<p>If it is a tragic climax, like the death of Bill Sykes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -a score of dark premonitions lead up to it, the -dingiest slum of London is chosen for it, the grimy -streets are filled with a furious crowd to witness it, -and just as the murderer is about to escape, the -ghostly eyes of his victim glare upon him, and he -plunges from the roof, tangled in his rope, to be -hanged by the hand of the Eternal Judge as surely -as if he stood upon the gallows.</p> - -<p>Or suppose the climax is not one of shame and -terror, but of pure pity and tenderness, like the -death of Little Nell. Then the quiet room is prepared -for it, and the white bed is decked with winter -berries and green leaves that the child loved -because they loved the light; and gentle friends are -there to read and talk to her, and she sleeps herself -away in loving dreams, and the poor old grandfather, -whom she has guided by the hand and comforted, -kneels at her bedside, wondering why his -dear Nell lies so still, and the very words which tell -us of her peace and his grief, move rhythmically -and plaintively, like soft music with a dying fall.</p> - -<p>Close the book. The curtain descends. The -drama is finished. The master has had his way with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -us; he has made us laugh; he has made us cry. -We have been at the play.</p> - -<p>But was it not as real to us while it lasted as many -of the scenes in which we actors daily take our parts? -And did it not mellow our spirits with mirth, and -soften our hearts with tears? And now that it is -over are we not likely to be a little better, a little -kinder, a little happier for what we have laughed -at or wept over?</p> - -<p>Ah, master of the good enchantment, you have -given us hours of ease and joy, and we thank you -for them. But there is a greater gift than that. -You have made us more willing to go cheerfully -and companionably along the strange, crowded, -winding way of human life, because you have deepened -our faith that there is something of the divine -on earth, and something of the human in heaven.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THACKERAY_AND_REAL_MEN">THACKERAY AND REAL MEN</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>In that fragrant bunch of <cite>Theodore Roosevelt’s -Letters to His Children</cite> which has just brightened -and sweetened our too sadly strenuous times there -are some passages on novel-reading which are full -of spirited good sense. He says that he can read -<cite>Pendennis</cite>, and <cite>The Newcomes</cite>, and <cite>Vanity Fair</cite> -over and over again; he agrees with his boy in preferring -Thackeray to Dickens, and then he gives -the reason—or at least <em>a</em> reason—for this preference:</p> - -<p>“Of course one fundamental difference ... is -that Thackeray was a gentleman and Dickens was -not.”</p> - -<p>The damnatory clause in this sentence seems to -me too absolute, though Roosevelt softens it by -adding, “but a man might do some mighty good -work without being in any sense a gentleman.” -That is certainly true, and beyond a doubt Dickens -did it—a wonderful plenty of it. It is also true -that in several perfectly good senses he was a brave -and kind gentleman, despite his faults in manners -and dress.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>But it is the laudatory clause in Roosevelt’s judgment -that interests me. Thackeray’s work is pervaded -with his personality to an unusual degree. -It is a saturated solution of the man. We can taste -him in every page. And it is because we like the -taste, because we find something strong and true, -bracing and stimulant in it, that we love to read -him. ’Tis like being with a gentleman in any enterprise -or adventure; it gives us pleasure and does us -unconscious good.</p> - -<p>Well, then, what do we mean by “a gentleman?” -Tennyson calls it</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent1">The grand old name of gentleman</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Defamed by every charlatan,</div> -<div class="verse">And soil’d with all ignoble use.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In the big New Oxford Dictionary there is more -than a pageful of definitions of the word, and almost -every English essayist has tried a shot at it. -One thing is sure, its old hereditary use as a title -of rank or property is going out, or already gone. -“John Jones, Gent.,” is a vanishing form of address. -More and more the word is coming to connote -something in character and conduct. Inheritance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -may enter into it, and the sense of honour has -a great part in it, and its outward and visible sign -is an unassuming fitness of behaviour in the various -circumstances of life. But its indispensable essence -is reality; its native speech, sincerity; and its controlling -spirit, good-will.</p> - -<p>Let us content ourselves with a description instead -of a definition. A gentleman is a real man -who deals honestly, bravely, frankly, and considerately -with all sorts and conditions of other real -men.</p> - -<p>This is Thackeray’s very mark and quality. We -can feel it all through his life and works. Everything -real in the world he recognized and accepted, -even though he might not always like it. But the -unreal people and things—the pretenders, the hypocrites, -the shams, and the frauds (whether pious or -impious)—he detested and scoffed away. Reality -was his quest and his passion. He followed it with -unfailing interest, penetration, and good temper. -He found it, at least in humankind, always mixed -and complicated, never altogether good nor altogether -bad, no hero without a fault, and no villain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -without a germ of virtue. Life is really made that -way. The true realist is not the materialist, the -five-sense naturalist, but the man who takes into -account the human soul and God as ultimate realities.</p> - -<p>Thackeray’s personal life had nothing that was -remarkable and much that was admirable. It was -simply the background of his genius. He was a -child of the upper-middle class in England—if you -know just what that means. He went to the Charterhouse -School in London (which he afterward -immortalized as Greyfriars in <cite>The Newcomes</cite>), and -illustrated his passion for reality by getting his nose -broken in a fight, which gave his face a permanent -Socratic cast. At Cambridge University he seems -to have written much and studied little, but that -little to good purpose. He inherited a modest fortune, -which he spent, not in riotous living, but in -travel, art study in Paris, and in the most risky of -all extravagances, the starting of new periodicals. -When this failed and his money was gone, he lived -in London as a hack-writer.</p> - -<p>His young wife was taken from him by that saddest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -of all bereavements—the loss of her mind. It -became necessary to place her in a private sanitarium, -where she outlived her husband by thirty -years. To her, and to the two little daughters whom -she left him, Thackeray was faithful and devoted. -He never complained, never flinched into an easy -way of escape from his burden. He bent his back -to it, and, in spite of natural indolence, he worked -hard and was cheerful.</p> - -<p>He made a host of friends and kept them, as -Stevenson puts it, “without capitulation.” Of -course, this grim condition implies some frictions -and some dislikes, and from these Thackeray was -not exempt. The satire which was his first mode -in writing was too direct and pungent to be relished -by those who had any streak of self-humbug in -their make-up. But, so far as I know, he had only -one serious literary quarrel—that unhappy dispute -with Mr. Edmund Yates, in which Dickens, with -the best intentions in the world, became, unfortunately, -somewhat involved. Thackeray might -perhaps have been more generous and forgiving—he -could have afforded that luxury. But he could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -have been more honest and frank, more real, than -he was. Being very angry, and for a just cause, -he said so in plain words. Presently the tempest -passed away. When Thackeray died in 1863, Dickens -wrote:</p> - -<p>“No one can be surer than I of the greatness -and goodness of his heart.”</p> - -<p>The first period of his life as a man of letters was -given almost entirely to satirical and fragmentary -writing, under various <i lang="fr">noms de guerre</i>. Hence, he -remained for a long time in comparative poverty -and obscurity, from which he stepped into fame and -prosperity with the publication of his first large -novel, <cite>Vanity Fair</cite>, in 1847-48. It was like turning -the corner of Grub Street and coming into Glory -Avenue.</p> - -<p>Henceforth the way was open, though not easy. -The succession of his big, welcome novels was slow, -steady, unbroken. Each one brought him thousands -of new readers, and the old ones were <i lang="la">semper -fideles</i>, even when they professed a preference for -the earlier over the later volumes. His lecture tours -in Great Britain and the United States were eminently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -successful—more so, I think, than those of -Charles Dickens. They may have brought in less -money, but more of what old William Caxton, the -prince of printers, called “good fame and renommee.” -The last of his completed books, and -one of his most delightful, was <cite>Roundabout Papers</cite>—a -volume of essays that has no superior in English -for a light, firm, friendly touch upon the realities -of life. His last story begun was <cite>Denis Duval</cite>, and -on this he was working when he laid down his pen -on Christmas Eve, 1863, and fell asleep for the last -time.</p> - -<p>It was Edmund Yates who wrote of him then:</p> - -<p>“Thackeray was dead; and the purest English -prose writer of the nineteenth century and the novelist -with a greater knowledge of the human heart, -as it really is, than any other—with the exception -perhaps of Shakespeare and Balzac—was suddenly -struck down in the midst of us.”</p> - -<p><em>The human heart as it really is</em>—there’s the point! -That is what Thackeray sought to know, to understand, -to reveal, and—no! not to explain, nor to -judge and sentence—for that, as he well knew, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -far beyond him or any of us—but his desire was to -<em>show</em> the real heart of man, in its various complexities -and perplexities, working its way through the -divers realities and unrealities in which we are all -entangled.</p> - -<p>The acute French critic, Edmond Scherer, distinguished -and divided between George Eliot as “a -novelist of character,” and Thackeray as “a novelist -of manners.” The epithet will pass only if we -take the word in the sense of William of Wykeham’s -motto, “Manners makyth man.”</p> - -<p>For, as surely as there is something in the outward -demeanour which unveils and discloses the -person within, even so surely is there something in -behaviour, the habitual mode of speech and conduct, -which moulds the man using it. A false behaviour -weaves a texture of lies into the warp of his nature. -A true behaviour weakens the hold of his own self-delusions, -and so helps him to know what he really -is—which is good for him and for others.</p> - -<p>It was in this sense that Thackeray was interested -in manners, and depicted them in his books. Go -with him to a ball, and you arrive at the hour of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -unmasking; to a club, and you are aware of the -thoughts under the conversation; to a play, and you -pass behind the footlights and the paint; to a death-bed, -and—well, do you remember the death of Helen -in <cite>Pendennis</cite>? and of the Colonel in <cite>The Newcomes</cite>? -Foolish critics speak of these last two passages as -“scenes.” Scenes! By Heaven! no, they are realities. -We can feel those pure souls passing.</p> - -<p>Let us follow this clew of the passion for reality -through the three phases of Thackeray’s work.</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>At first he is the indefatigable satirist, rejoicing -in the assault. Youth is almost always inclined -that way—far more swift and sweeping in judgment, -more severe in condemnation, than maturity -or age. Thackeray writes much that is merely -amusing, full of high spirits and pure fun, in his -first period. But his main business is to expose -false pretensions, false methods, false principles in -literature and life; to show up the fakers, to ridicule -the humbugs, to convict the crooks of every rank -and degree.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> - -<p>Here, for example, is a popular fashion of books -with criminals and burglars for heroes and heroines, -portrayed in the glamour of romance. Very well, -our satirist, assuming the name of “Ikey Solomons, -Esq.,” will take a real criminal, a murderess, and -show us the manner of life she leads with her associates. -So we have <cite>Catherine</cite>. Here is another -fashion of weaving a fiction about a <i lang="fr">chevalier d’industrie</i>, -a bold, adventurous, conscienceless fellow -who pursues his own pleasure with a swagger, and -makes a brave show hide a mean and selfish heart. -Very well, a fellow of this kidney shall tell his own -story and show himself in his habit as he lives, and -as he dies in prison. So we have <cite>The Memoirs of -Barry Lyndon, Esq.</cite> Here are innumerable fashions -of folly and falsehood current not only in high society, -but also in the region of respectable mediocrity, -and in the “world below-stairs.” Very well, -our satirist, under the name of “Jeames Yellowplush,” -or “M. Angelo Titmarsh,” or “Fitz-Boodle,” -will show them up for us. So we have various -bundles of short stories, and skits, and sketches of -travel, some of them bubbling over with fun, some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -of them, like <cite>Dennis Haggarty’s Wife</cite>, touched with -quiet pathos.</p> - -<p>The culmination of this satiric period is <cite>The Book -of Snobs</cite>, which appeared serially in the London -<cite>Punch</cite>, 1845-46. In order to understand the quality -and meaning of Thackeray’s satire—an element -which stayed with him all through his writing, -though it was later subdued to its proper place—we -must take the necessary pains to know just what -he meant by a “snob.”</p> - -<p>A snob is an unreal person who tries to pass himself -off for a real person; a pretender who meanly -admires and imitates mean things; an ape of gentility. -He is a specific variety of the great genus -“Sham.” Carlyle, the other notable English satirist -of the nineteenth century, attacked the whole genus -with heavy artillery. Thackeray, with his light -cavalry of ridicule, assailed the species.</p> - -<p>All snobs are shams, but not all shams are snobs. -The specific qualities of the snob are developed only -in countries where there are social classes and distinctions, -but no insuperable barriers between them. -Thus in native India with its immutable caste, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -in Central Africa with its general barbarism, I fancy -it must be difficult to discover snobbism. (Yet I -have seen traces of it even among dogs and cats.) -But in a country like England or the United States -of America, where society is arranged in different -stories, with staircases between, snobbism is frequent -and flourishing.</p> - -<p><em>The snob is the man who tries to sneak up-stairs. -He is the surreptitious climber, the person who is -ashamed to pass for what he is.</em></p> - -<p>Has he been at an expensive college? He goes -home and snubs his old friends with allusions to -the distinguished society he has been keeping. Is -he entertaining fashionable strangers? He gives -them elaborate and costly fare at the most aurivorous -hotel, but at home his wife and daughters may -starve. He talks about books that he has never -read, and pretends to like music that sends him to -sleep. At his worst, he says his prayers on the -street-corners and reviles his neighbour for sins -which he himself cherishes in secret.</p> - -<p>That is the snob: the particular species of sham -whom Thackeray pursues and satirizes through all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -his disguises and metamorphoses. He does it unsparingly, -yet never—or at least hardly ever—savagely. -There is always a strain of good humour -in it, and often a touch of fellow-feeling for the man -himself, camouflaged under his affectations. It may -not be worth while—this kind of work. All satire -is perishable. It has no more of the immortal in -it than the unreality which it aims to destroy. But -some shams die hard. And while they live and -propagate, the arrows which hit them fairly are not -out of date.</p> - -<p>Stevenson makes a curious misjudgment of this -part of Thackeray’s work, when he says in his essay -on “Some Gentlemen in Fiction”:</p> - -<p>“Personally [Thackeray] scarce appeals to us as -the ideal gentleman; if there were nothing else, -perpetual nosing after snobbery at least suggests -the snob.”</p> - -<p>Most true, beloved R. L. S., but did you forget -that this is precisely what Thackeray himself says? -He tells us not to be too quick or absolute in our -judgments; to acknowledge that we have some -faults and failings of our own; to remember that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -other people have sometimes hinted at a vein, a -trace, a vestige of snobbery in ourselves. Search -for truth and speak it; but, above all, no arrogance—<i lang="fr">faut -pas monter sur ses grands chevaux</i>. Have -you ever read the end of the lecture on “Charity -and Humour”?</p> - -<p>“The author ... has been described by <cite>The -London Times</cite> newspaper as a writer of considerable -parts, but a dreary misanthrope, who sees no good -anywhere, who sees the sky above him green, I -think, instead of blue, and only miserable sinners -around him. <em>So we are, as is every writer and reader -I have heard of; so was every being who ever trod this -earth, save One.</em> I cannot help telling the truth as -I view it, and describing what I see. To describe -it otherwise than it seems to me would be falsehood -in that calling in which it has pleased Heaven to -place me; treason to that conscience which says -that men are weak; that truth must be told; that -faults must be owned; that pardon must be prayed -for; and that Love reigns supreme over all.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>With <cite>Vanity Fair</cite> begins what some one has called -the <em>quadrilateral</em> on which Thackeray’s larger fame -rests. The three other pillars are, <cite>Henry Esmond</cite>, -<cite>Pendennis</cite>, and <cite>The Newcomes</cite>. Which is the greatest -of these four novels? On this question there is -dispute among critics, and difference of opinion, -even among avowed Thackerayans, who confess that -they “like everything he wrote.” Why try to settle -the question? Why not let the interesting, illuminating -<i lang="fr">causerie</i> run on? In these furious days -when the hysteria of world-problems vexes us, it -is good to have some subjects on which we can dispute -without ranting or raving.</p> - -<p>For my part, I find <cite>Vanity Fair</cite> the strongest, -<cite>Pendennis</cite> the most intimate, <cite>The Newcomes</cite> the -richest and in parts the most lovable, and <cite>Henry -Esmond</cite> the most admirable and satisfying, among -Thackeray’s novels. But they all have this in common: -they represent a reaction from certain false -fashions in fiction which prevailed at that time. -From the spurious romanticism of G. P. R. James<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -and Harrison Ainsworth, from the philosophic affectation -of Bulwer, from the gilding and rococo-work -of the super-snob Disraeli—all of them popular -writers of their day—Thackeray turned away, -not now as in his earlier period to satirize and ridicule -and parody them, but to create something in -a different <i lang="fr">genre</i>, closer to the facts of life, more -true to the reality of human nature.</p> - -<p>We may read in the preface to <cite>Pendennis</cite> just -what he had in mind and purpose:</p> - -<p>“Many ladies have remonstrated and subscribers -left me, because, in the course of the story, I described -a young man resisting and affected by temptation. -My object was to say, that he had the passions -to feel, and the manliness and generosity to -overcome them. You will not hear—it is best to -know it—what moves in the real world, what passes -in society, in the clubs, colleges, mess-rooms—what -is the life and talk of your sons. A little more frankness -than is customary has been attempted in this -story; with no bad desire on the author’s part, it is -hoped, and with no ill consequence to any reader. -If truth is not always pleasant, at any rate truth is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -best, from whatever chair—from those whence -graver writers or thinkers argue, as from that at -which the story-teller sits as he concludes his labour, -and bids his kind reader farewell.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus3"> -<img src="images/illus3.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>Reproduced from the Kensington Edition of Thackeray’s Works.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>It is amusing, in this age of art undressed, to -read this modest defense of frankness in fiction. -Its meaning is very different from the interpretation -of it which is given by disciples of the “show-everything-without-a-fig-leaf” -school.</p> - -<p>Thackeray did not confuse reality with indecency. -He did not think it needful to make his hero cut his -toe-nails or take a bath in public in order to show -him as a real man. The ordinary and common -physical details of life may be taken for granted; -to obtrude them is to exaggerate their importance. -It is with the frailties and passions, the faults and -virtues, the defeats and victories of his men and -women that Thackeray deals. He describes Pendennis -tempted without making the description a -new temptation. He brings us acquainted with -Becky Sharp, <i lang="fr">enchanteresse</i>, without adding to her -enchantment. We feel that she is capable of anything; -but we do not know all that she actually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -did,—indeed Thackeray himself frankly confessed -that even he did not know, nor much care.</p> - -<p>The excellence of his character-drawing is that -his men and women are not mere pegs to hang a -doctrine or a theory on. They have a life of their -own, independent of, and yet closely touching his. -This is what he says of them in his essay “<cite>De Finibus</cite>”:</p> - -<p>“They have been boarding and lodging with me -for twenty months.... I know the people utterly,—I -know the sound of their voices.”</p> - -<p>Fault has been found with him (and that by such -high authority as Mr. Howells) for coming into his -own pages so often with personal comment or, “a -word to the reader.” It is said that this disturbs -the narrative, breaks the illusion, makes the novel -less convincing as a work of art. Frankly, it does -not strike me that way. On the contrary, it adds -to the verisimilitude. These men and women are -so real to him that he cannot help talking to us -about them as we go along together. Is it not just -so in actual life, when you go with a friend to watch -the passing show? Do you think that what Thackeray<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -says to you about Colonel Newcome, or Captain -Costigan, or Helen Pendennis, or Laura, or -Ethel, or George Warrington, makes them fade -away?</p> - -<p>Yes, I know the paragraphs at the beginning and -end of <cite>Vanity Fair</cite> about the showman and the -puppets and the box. But don’t you see what the -parable means? It is only what Shakespeare said -long ago:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">All the world’s a stage,</div> -<div class="verse">And all the men and women merely players.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Nor would Thackeray have let this metaphor pass -without adding to it Pope’s fine line:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Act well your part, there all the honour lies.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Of course, there is another type of fiction in which -running personal comment by the author would be -out of place. It is illustrated in Dickens by <cite>A Tale -of Two Cities</cite>, and in Thackeray by <cite>Henry Esmond</cite>. -The latter seems to me the most perfect example -of a historical novel in all literature. More than -that,—it is, so far as I know, the best portrayal of -the character of a gentleman.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> - -<p>The book presents itself as a memoir of Henry -Esmond, Esq., a colonel in the service of her Majesty, -Queen Anne, written by himself. Here, then, -we have an autobiographical novel, the most difficult -and perilous of all modes of fiction. If the -supposed author puts himself in the foreground, he -becomes egotistical and insufferable; if he puts -himself in the background, he becomes insignificant, -a mere Chinese “property-man” in the drama. -This dilemma Thackeray avoids by letting Esmond -tell his own story in the third person—that is to -say, with a certain detachment of view, such as a -sensible person would feel in looking back on his -own life.</p> - -<p>Rarely is this historic method of narration broken. -I recall one instance, in the last chapter, where -Beatrix, after that tremendous scene in the house -of Castlewood with the Prince, reveals her true -nature and quits the room in a rage. The supposed -author writes:</p> - -<p>“Her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; -his heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he -wondered that he could ever have loved her....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed -at him and quitted the chamber. <em>I have never seen -her from that day.</em>”</p> - -<p>Thackeray made this slip on purpose. He wanted -us to feel the reality of the man who is trying to -tell his own story in the third person.</p> - -<p>This, after all, is the real value of the book. It -is not only a wonderful picture of the Age of Queen -Anne, its ways and customs, its manner of speech -and life, its principal personages—the red-faced -queen, and peremptory Marlborough, and smooth -Atterbury, and rakish Mohun, and urbane Addison, -and soldier-scholar Richard Steele—appearing in the -background of the political plot. It is also, and -far more significantly, a story of the honour of -a gentleman—namely, Henry Esmond—carried -through a life of difficulty, and crowned with the -love of a true woman, after a false one had failed -him.</p> - -<p>Some readers profess themselves disappointed -with the dénouement of the love-story. They find -it unnatural and disconcerting that the hero should -win the mother and not the daughter as the guerdon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -of his devotion. Not I. Read the story more -closely.</p> - -<p>When it opens, in the house of Castlewood, Esmond -is a grave, lonely boy of twelve; Lady Castlewood, -fair and golden-haired, is in the first bloom of -gracious beauty, twenty years old; Beatrix is a -dark little minx of four years. Naturally, Henry -falls in love with the mother rather than with the -daughter, grows up as her champion and knight, -defends her against the rakishness of Lord Mohun, -resolves for her sake to give up his claim to the title -and the estate. Then comes the episode of his infatuation -by the wonderful physical beauty of Beatrix, -the vixen. That madness ends with the self-betrayal -of her letter of assignation with the Prince, -and her subsequent conduct. Esmond returns to -his first love, his young love, his true love, Lady -Castlewood. Of its fruition let us read his own -estimate:</p> - -<p>“That happiness which hath subsequently -crowned it, cannot be written in words; it is of its -nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, -though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -save to Heaven and the One Ear alone—to one fond -being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife ever -man was blessed with.”</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>I have left myself scant space to speak of Thackeray’s -third phase in writing—his work as a moralist. -But perhaps this is well, for, as he himself said, -(and as I have always tried to practise), the preacher -must be brief if he wishes to be heard. Five words -that go home are worth more than a thousand that -wander about the subject.</p> - -<p>Thackeray’s direct moralizings are to be found -chiefly in his lectures on “The Four Georges,” “The -English Humourists,” and in the “Roundabout -Papers.” He was like Lowell: as a scholastic critic -he was far from infallible, but as a vital interpreter -he seldom missed the mark.</p> - -<p>After all, the essential thing in life for us as real -men is to have a knowledge of facts to correct our -follies, an ideal to guide our efforts, and a gospel -to sustain our hopes.</p> - -<p>That was Thackeray’s message as moralist. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -is expressed in the last paragraph of his essay “<cite>Nil -Nisi Bonum</cite>,” written just after the death of Macaulay -and Washington Irving:</p> - -<p>“If any young man of letters reads this little -sermon—and to him, indeed, it is addressed—I -would say to him, ‘Bear Scott’s words in your mind, -and <em>be good, my dear</em>.’ Here are two literary men -gone to their account, and, <i lang="la">laus Deo</i>, as far as we -know, it is fair, and open, and clean. Here is no -need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations -of vices which would have been virtues but for unavoidable, -etc. Here are two examples of men most -differently gifted—each pursuing his calling; each -speaking his truth as God bade him; each honest -in his life; just and irreproachable in his dealings; -dear to his friends; honoured by his country; beloved -at his fireside. It has been the fortunate lot -of both to give incalculable happiness and delight -to the world, which thanks them in return with an -immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may not -be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with -such merit, or rewarded with such fame. But the -rewards of these men are rewards paid to <em>our service</em>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -We may not win the bâton or epaulettes; but God -give us strength to guard the honour of the flag!”</p> - -<p>With this supplication for myself and for others, -I leave this essay on Thackeray, the greatest of -English novelists, to the consideration of real men.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="GEORGE_ELIOT_AND_REAL_WOMEN">GEORGE ELIOT AND REAL WOMEN</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> - -<p>George Eliot was a woman who wrote full-grown -novels for men.</p> - -<p>Other women have done and are doing notable -work in prose fiction—Jane Austen, George Sand, -Charlotte Brontë, Mrs. Stowe, Margaret Deland, -Edith Wharton, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Mrs. -Humphry Ward—the list might easily be extended, -but it would delay us from the purpose of this -chapter. Let me rather make a general salute to -all the sisterhood who have risen above the indignity -of being called “authoresses,” and, without -pursuing perilous comparisons, go directly to the -subject in hand.</p> - -<p>What was it that enabled George Eliot to enter -the field of the English novel at a time when Dickens -and Thackeray were at the height of their -fame, and win a place in the same class with them?</p> - -<p>It was certainly not the hide-and-seek of the sex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -of the new writer under a pseudonym. You remember, -opinions were divided on this question. Carlyle -and Thackeray thought that the author of -<cite>Scenes of Clerical Life</cite> was a man. Dickens was -sure that it was a woman. But a mystification of -this kind has no interest apart from the primary -value of the works of the unidentified writer in -question. Nor does it last long as an advertisement, -unless the following books excel the first; -and, in that case, the secret is sure to be soon discovered.</p> - -<p>George Eliot’s success and distinction as a novelist -were due to three things: first, the preliminary -and rather obvious advantage of having genius; -second, a method of thinking and writing which is -commonly (though perhaps arrogantly) called masculine; -third, a quickness of insight into certain -things, a warmth of sympathy for suffering, and an -instinct of sacrifice which we still regard (we hope -rightly) as feminine. A man for logic, a woman for -feeling, a genius for creative power—that was a -great alliance. But the womanhood kept the priority -without which it would not only have died out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -but also have endangered, in dying, the other qualities. -Dickens was right when he said of certain -touches in the work of this pseudonymous writer: -“If they originated with no woman, I believe that -no man ever before had the art of making himself -mentally so like a woman since the world began.”</p> - -<p>George Eliot’s profile resembled Savonarola’s. -He was one of her heroes. But she was not his -brother. She was his sister in the spirit.</p> - -<p>Her essential femininity was the reason why the -drawing of her women surpassed the drawing of her -men. It was more intimate, more revealing, more -convincing. She knew women better. She painted -them of many types and classes—from the peasant -maid to the well-born lady, from the selfish white -cat to the generous white swan-sister; from the narrow-minded -Rosamund to the deep-hearted, broad-minded -Romola; all types, I think, but one—the -lewdly carnal Circe. In all her books, with perhaps a -single exception, it is a woman who stands out most -clearly from the carefully studied and often complex -background as the figure of interest. And even -in that one it is the slight form of Eppie, the golden-hearted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -girl who was sent to save old Silas Marner -from melancholy madness, that shines brightest in -the picture.</p> - -<p>The finest of her women—finest not in the sense -of being faultless, but of having in them most of -that wonderful sacrificial quality which Goethe called -<i lang="de">das ewig Weibliche</i>—were those upon whose spiritual -portraits George Eliot spent her most loving care -and her most graphic skill.</p> - -<p>She shows them almost always in the revealing -light of love. But she does not dwell meticulously -on the symptoms or the course of the merely physical -attraction. She knows that it is there; she confesses -that it is potent. But it seems to her, (as indeed -it really is,) far more uniform and less interesting -than the meaning of love in the <em>soul</em> of a -woman as daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife. Were -it not for that inward significance there would be -little to differentiate the physical act from the mating -of the lower animals—an affair so common and -casual that it merits less attention than some writers -give it. But in the inner life of thought and emotion, -in a woman’s intellectual and moral nature,—there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -love has its mystery and its power, there it -brings deepest joy or sharpest sorrow, there it -strengthens or maims.</p> - -<p>It is because George Eliot knows this and reveals -it with extraordinary clearness that her books have -an especial value. Other qualities they have, of -course, and very high qualities. But this is their -proper and peculiar excellence, and the source, if I -mistake not, of their strongest appeal to sanely -thinking men.</p> - -<p><cite>The Man Who Understood Woman</cite> is the title of -a recent clever trivial story. But of course such a -man is a myth, an impostor, or a self-deluder. He -makes a preposterous claim.</p> - -<p>Thackeray and Dickens, for example, made no -such pretension. Some of their women are admirably -drawn; they are very lovable, or very despicable, -as the case may be; but they are not completely -convincing. Thackeray comes nearer than Dickens, -and George Meredith, I think, much nearer than -either of the others. But in George Eliot we feel -that we are listening to one who does understand. -Her women, in their different types, reveal something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -of that thinking, willing, feeling other-half of -humanity with whom man makes the journey of life. -They do not cover all the possibilities of variation -in the feminine, for these are infinite, but they are -real women, and so they have an interest for real -men.</p> - -<p class="tb">Let us take it for granted that we know enough -of the details of George Eliot’s life to enable us to -understand and appreciate certain things in her -novels. Such biographical knowledge is illuminating -in the study of the works of any writer. The -author of a book is not an algebraic quantity nor a -strange monster, but a human being with certain -features and a certain life-history.</p> - -<p>But, after all, the promotion of literary analysis -is not the object of these chapters. Plain reading, -and the pleasure of it, is what I have in mind. For -that cause I love most of George Eliot’s novels, and -am ready to maintain that they are worthy to be -loved. And so, even if my “taken for granted” a -few lines above should not be altogether accurate -in these days of ignorant contempt of all that is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -“Victorian,” I may still go ahead to speak of her -books as they are in themselves: strong, fine, rewarding -pieces of English fiction: that is what they -would remain, no matter who had written them.</p> - -<p>It must be admitted at once that they are not -adapted to readers who like to be spared the trouble -of thinking while they read. They do not belong to -the class of massage-fiction, Turkish-bath novels. -They require a certain amount of intellectual exercise; -and for this they return, it seems to me, an -adequate recompense in the pleasurable sense of -quickened mental activity and vigour.</p> - -<p>But this admission must not be taken to imply -that they are obscure, intricate, enigmatical, “tough -reading,” like the later books of George Meredith -and Henry James, in which a minimum of meaning -is hidden in a maximum of obfuscated verbiage, and -the reader is invited to a tedious game of hunt-the-slipper. -On the contrary, George Eliot at her best -is a very clear writer—decidedly not shallow, nor -superficial, nor hasty,—like the running comment -which is supposed to illuminate the scenes in a -moving-picture show,—but intentionally lucid and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -perspicuous. Having a story to tell, she takes pains -to tell it so that you can follow it, not only in its -outward, but also in its inward movement. Having -certain characters to depict (and almost always -mixed characters of good and evil mingled and conflicting -as in real life), she is careful to draw them so -that you shall feel their reality and take an interest -in their strifes and adventures.</p> - -<p>They are distinctly persons, capable of making -their own choice between the worse and the better -reason, and thereafter influenced by the consequences -of that choice, which, if repeated, becomes -a habit of moral victory or defeat. They are not -puppets in, the hands of an inscrutable Fate, like -most of the figures in the books of the modern Russian -novelists and their imitators. What do I care -for the ever-so realistically painted marionettes in -the fiction of Messrs. Gawky, Popoff, Dropoff, and -Slumpoff? What interest have I in the minute articulations -of the dingy automatons of Mijnheer -Couperus, or the dismal, despicable figures who are -pulled through the pages of Mr. Samuel Butler’s -<cite>The Way of All Flesh</cite>? A claim on compassion they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -might have if they were alive. But being, by the -avowal of their creators, nothing more than imaginary -bundles of sensation, helpless playthings of -irresistible hereditary impulse and entangling destiny, -their story and their fate leave me cold. -What does it matter what becomes of them? They -can neither be saved nor damned. They can only -be drifted. There is no more human interest in -them than there is in the predestined saints and -foredoomed sinners of a certain type of Calvinistic -theology.</p> - -<p>But this is not George Eliot’s view of life. It is -not to her “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound -and fury signifying nothing.” Within the fixed -circle of its stern natural and moral laws there is a -hidden field of conflict where the soul is free to discern -and choose its own cause, and to fight for it or -betray it. However small that field may be, while -it exists life has a meaning, and personalities are -real, and the results of their striving or surrendering, -though rarely seen complete or final, are worth following -and thinking about. Thus George Eliot’s -people—at least the majority of them—have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -human touch which justifies narrative and comment. -We follow the fortunes of Dinah Morris and -of Maggie Tulliver, of Romola, and of Dorothea -Brooke—yes, and of Hetty Sorrel and Rosamund -Vincy—precisely because we feel that they are real -women and that the turning of their ways will reveal -the secret of their hearts.</p> - -<p>It is a mistake to think (as a recent admirable -essay of Professor W. L. Cross seems to imply) that -the books of George Eliot are characteristically -novels of argument or propaganda. Once only, or -perhaps twice, she yielded to that temptation and -spoiled her story. But for the rest she kept clear -of the snare of <i lang="de">Tendenz</i>.</p> - -<p>Purpose-novels, like advertisements, belong in -the temporary department. As certain goods and -wares go out of date, and the often eloquent announcements -that commended them suddenly disappear; -even so the “burning questions” of the -hour and age burn out, and the solutions of them -presented in the form of fiction fall down with the -other ashes. They have served their purpose, well -or ill, and their transient importance is ended.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -What endures, if anything, is the human story -vividly told, the human characters graphically depicted. -These have a permanent value. These belong -to literature. Here I would place <cite>Adam Bede</cite> -and <cite>Silas Marner</cite> and <cite>The Mill on the Floss</cite> and -<cite>Middlemarch</cite>, because they deal with problems -which never grow old; but not <cite>Robert Elsmere</cite>, because -it deals chiefly with a defunct controversy in -Biblical criticism.</p> - -<p>George Eliot was thirty-eight years old when -she made the amazing discovery that she was by -nature, not what she had thought herself, a philosophical -essayist and a translator of arid German -treatises against revealed religion, but something -very different—a novelist of human souls, and especially -of the souls of women. It was the noteworthy -success of her three long short stories, <cite>Amos -Barton</cite>, <cite>Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story</cite>, and <cite>Janet’s Repentance</cite>, -printed in <cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite> in 1857, that -revealed her to herself and to the world.</p> - -<p>“Depend upon it, [she says to her imaginary -reader in the first of these stories,] you would gain -unspeakably if you would learn with me to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -something of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy -and the comedy, lying in the experience of the -human soul that looks out through dull gray eyes -and speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones.”</p> - -<p>It was the interior drama of human life that attracted -her interest and moved her heart with pity -and fear, laughter and love. She found it for the -most part in what we should call mediocre surroundings -and on rather a humble and obscure stage. -But what she found was not mediocre. It was the -same discovery that Wordsworth made:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>By this I do not mean to say that a close study of -the humanness of human nature, a searching contemplation -of character, an acute and penetrating -psychological analysis is all that there is in her -novels. This is her predominant interest, beyond a -doubt. She belongs to the school of Hawthorne, -Henry James, Thomas Hardy—realists or romancers -of the interior life. But she has other interests; -and there are other things to reward us in -the reading of her books.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is, first of all, an admirable skill in the setting -of her stories. No other novelist has described -English midland landscape, towns, and hamlets, -better than she. No other writer has given the rich, -history-saturated scenery of Florence as well.</p> - -<p>She is careful also not to exclude from her stage -that messenger of relief and contrast whom George -Meredith calls “the comic spirit.” Shakespeare’s -clowns, wonderful as some of them are, seem at -times like supernumeraries. They come in to make -a “diversion.” But George Eliot’s rustic wits and -conscious or unconscious humourists belong to the -story. Mrs. Poyser and Bartle Massey, Mrs. Glegg -and Mrs. Tulliver and Bob Jakin, could not be -spared.</p> - -<p>And then, her stories are really stories. They -have action. They move; though sometimes, it -must be confessed, they move slowly. Not only do -the characters develop, one way or the other, but -the plot also develops. Sometimes it is very simple, -as in <cite>Silas Marner</cite>; sometimes it is extremely complicated, -as in <cite>Middlemarch</cite>, where three love-stories -are braided together. One thing it never is—theatrical.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -Yet at times it moves into an intense -scene, like the trial of Hetty Sorrel or the -death of Tito Melema, in which the very essence of -tragedy is concentrated.</p> - -<p>From the success of <cite>Scenes of Clerical Life</cite> George -Eliot went on steadily with her work in fiction, -never turning aside, never pausing even, except -when her health compelled, or when she needed -time to fill her mind and heart with a new subject. -She did not write rapidly, nor are her books easy to -read in a hurry.</p> - -<p>It was an extraordinary series: <cite>Adam Bede</cite> in -1859, <cite>The Mill on the Floss</cite> in 1860, <cite>Silas Marner</cite> in -1861, <cite>Romola</cite> in 1863, <cite>Felix Holt, the Radical</cite> in 1866, -<cite>Middlemarch</cite> in 1871, <cite>Daniel Deronda</cite> in 1876; no -padding, no “seconds,” each book apparently more -successful, certainly more famous, than its predecessor. -How could one woman produce so much -closely wrought, finely finished work? Of what -sturdy mental race were the serious readers who -welcomed it and found delight in it?</p> - -<p>Mr. Oscar Browning of Cambridge said that -<cite>Daniel Deronda</cite> was the climax, “the sun and glory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -of George Eliot’s art.” From that academic judgment -I venture to dissent. It is a great book, no -doubt, the work of a powerful intellect. But to -me it was at the first reading, and is still, a tiresome -book. Tediousness, which is a totally different -thing from seriousness, is the unpardonable -defect in a novel. It may be my own fault, but -Deronda seems to me something of a prig. Now a -man may be a prig without sin, but he ought not -to take up too much room. Deronda takes up too -much room. And Gwendolen Harleth, who dressed -by preference in sea-green, seems to me to have a -soul of the same colour—a psychological mermaid. -She is unconvincing. I cannot love her. The vivid -little Jewess, Mirah, is the only character with -charm in the book.</p> - -<p><cite>Middlemarch</cite> is noteworthy for its extraordinary -richness of human observation and the unexcelled -truthfulness of some of its portraits. Mr. Isaac -Casaubon is the living image of the gray-minded -scholar and gentleman,—as delicately drawn as one -of Miss Cecelia Beaux’ portraits of aged, learned, -wrinkled men. Rosamund Vincy is the typical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -“daughter of the horse-leech” in respectable clothes -and surroundings. Dorothea Brooke is one of -George Eliot’s finest sacrificial heroines:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“A perfect woman, nobly plann’d.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The book, as a whole, seems to me to have the -defect of superabundance. There is too much of it. -It is like one of the late William Frith’s large canvases, -“The Derby Day,” or “The Railway Station.” -It is constructed with skill, and full of rich -material, but it does not compose. You cannot see -the people for the crowd. Yet there is hardly a -corner of the story in which you will not find something -worth while.</p> - -<p><cite>Felix Holt, the Radical</cite> is marred, at least for me, -by a fault of another kind. It is a novel of problem, -of purpose. I do not care for problem-novels, unless -the problem is alive, and even then I do not care -very much for political economy in that form. It -is too easy for the author to prove any proposition -by attaching it to a noble character, or to disprove -any theory by giving it an unworthy advocate. -English radicalism of 1832 has quite passed away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -or gone into the Coalition Cabinet. All that saves -<cite>Felix Holt</cite> now (as it seems to me, who read novels -primarily for pleasure) is the lovely figure of Esther -Lyon, and her old father, a preacher who really was -good.</p> - -<p>Following the path still backward, we come to -something altogether different. <cite>Romola</cite> is a historical -romance on the grand scale. In the central -background is the heroic figure of Savonarola, -saintly but not impeccable; in the middle distance, -a crowd of Renaissance people immersed in the rich -and bloody turmoil of that age; in the foreground, -the sharp contrast of two epic personalities—Tito -Melema, the incarnation of smooth, easy-going selfishness -which never refuses a pleasure nor accepts -a duty; and Romola, the splendid embodiment of -pure love in self-surrendering womanhood. The -shameful end of Tito, swept away by the flooded -river Arno and finally choked to death by the father -whom he had disowned and wronged, has in it the -sombre tone of Fate. But the end of the book is -not defeat; it is triumph. Romola, victor through -selfless courage and patience, saves and protects<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -the deserted mistress and children of her faithless -husband. In the epilogue we see her like <i lang="fr">Notre Dame -de Secours</i>, throned in mercy and crowned with -compassion.</p> - -<p>Listen to her as she talks to Tito’s son in the -loggia looking over Florence to the heights beyond -Fiesole.</p> - -<p>“‘What is it, Lillo?’ said Romola, pulling his -hair back from his brow. Lillo was a handsome lad, -but his features were turning out to be more massive -and less regular than his father’s. The blood -of the Tuscan peasant was in his veins.</p> - -<p>“‘Mamma Romola, what am I to be?’ he said, -well contented that there was a prospect of talking -till it would be too late to con <i lang="it">Spirto gentil</i> any -longer.</p> - -<p>“‘What should you like to be, Lillo? You might -be a scholar. My father was a scholar, you know, -and taught me a great deal. That is the reason why -I can teach you.’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ said Lillo, rather hesitatingly. ‘But he -is old and blind in the picture. Did he get a great -deal of glory?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Not much, Lillo. The world was not always -very kind to him, and he saw meaner men than -himself put into higher places, because they could -flatter and say what was false. And then his dear -son thought it right to leave him and become a -monk; and after that, my father, being blind and -lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have -made his learning of greater use to men, so that he -might still have lived in his works after he was in -his grave.’</p> - -<p>“‘I should not like that sort of life,’ said Lillo. -‘I should like to be something that would make me -a great man, and very happy besides—something -that would not hinder me from having a good deal -of pleasure.’</p> - -<p>“‘That is not easy, my Lillo. It is only a poor -sort of happiness that could ever come by caring -very much about our own narrow pleasures. We -can only have the highest happiness, such as goes -along with being a great man, by having wide -thoughts, and feeling for the rest of the world as -well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often -brings so much pain with it, that we can only tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -it from pain by its being what we would choose -before everything else, because our souls see it is -good. There are so many things wrong and difficult -in the world, that no man can be great—he can -hardly keep himself from wickedness—unless he -gives up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, -and gets strength to endure what is hard and painful. -My father had the greatness that belongs to -integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather -than falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo—you -know why I keep to-morrow sacred: <em>he</em> had the -greatness which belongs to a life spent in struggling -against powerful wrong, and in trying to raise men -to the highest deeds they are capable of. And so, -my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and seek to know -the best things God has put within reach of men, -you must learn to fix your mind on that end, and -not on what will happen to you because of it. And -remember, if you were to choose something lower, -and make it the rule of your life to seek your own -pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, -calamity might come just the same; and it would be -calamity falling on a base mind, which is the one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may -well make a man say, “It would have been better -for me if I had never been born.” I will tell you -something, Lillo.’</p> - -<p>“Romola paused for a moment. She had taken -Lillo’s cheeks between her hands, and his young -eyes were meeting hers.</p> - -<p>“‘There was a man to whom I was very near, so -that I could see a great deal of his life, who made -almost every one fond of him, for he was young, -and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all -were gentle and kind. I believe, when I first knew -him, he never thought of anything cruel or base. -But because he tried to slip away from everything -that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so -much as his own safety, he came at last to commit -some of the basest deeds—such as make men infamous. -He denied his father, and left him to -misery; he betrayed every trust that was reposed -in him, that he might keep himself safe and get -rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him.’</p> - -<p>“Again Romola paused. Her voice was unsteady, -and Lillo was looking up at her with awed wonder.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Another time, my Lillo—I will tell you another -time. See, there are our old Piero di Cosimo -and Nello coming up the Borgo Pinti, bringing us -their flowers. Let us go and wave our hands to -them, that they may know we see them.’”</p> - -<p>Hardly one of George Eliot’s stories has a conventional -“happy ending.” Yet they leave us not depressed, -but strengthened to endure and invigorated -to endeavour. In this they differ absolutely -from the pessimistic novels of the present hour, -which not only leave a bad taste in the mouth, but -also a sense of futility in the heart.</p> - -<p>Let me turn now to her first two novels, which -still seem to me her best. Bear in mind, I am not -formulating academic theories, nor pronouncing <i lang="la">ex -cathedrâ</i> judgments, but simply recording for the -consideration of other readers certain personal observations -and reactions.</p> - -<p><cite>Adam Bede</cite> is a novel of rustic tragedy in which -some of the characters are drawn directly from -memory. Adam is a partial portrait of George -Eliot’s father, and Dinah Morris a sketch of her -aunt, a Methodist woman preacher. There is -plenty of comic relief in the story, admirably done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -Take the tongue duel between Bartle Massey, the -sharp-spoken, kind-hearted bachelor school-master, -and Mrs. Poyser, the humorous, pungent, motherly -wife of the old farmer.</p> - -<p>“‘What!’ said Bartle, with an air of disgust. -‘Was there a woman concerned? Then I give you -up, Adam.’</p> - -<p>“‘But it’s a woman you’n spoke well on, Bartle,’ -said Mr. Poyser. ‘Come, now, you canna draw -back; you said once as women wouldna ha’ been a -bad invention if they’d all been like Dinah.’</p> - -<p>“‘I meant her voice, man—I meant her voice, -that was all,’ said Bartle. ‘I can bear to hear her -speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As -for other things, I dare say she’s like the rest o’ the -women—thinks two and two ’ull come to make five, -if she cries and bothers enough about it.’</p> - -<p>“‘Ay, ay!’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘one ’ud think, an’ -hear some folks talk, as the men war ’cute enough -to count the corns in a bag o’ wheat wi’ only smelling -at it. They can see through a barn door, <em>they</em> -can. Perhaps that’s the reason they can see so -little o’ this side on’t.’</p> - -<p>“‘Ah!’ said Bartle, sneeringly, ‘the women are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -quick enough—they’re quick enough. They know -the rights of a story before they hear it, and can tell -a man what his thoughts are before he knows ’em -himself.’</p> - -<p>“‘Like enough,’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘for the men -are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun ’em, an’ -they can only catch ’em by the tail. I can count a -stocking-top while a man’s getting’s tongue ready; -an’ when he outs wi’ his speech at last, there’s little -broth to be made on’t. It’s your dead chicks take -the longest hatchin’. Howiver, I’m not denyin’ the -women are foolish: God Almighty made ’em to -match the men.’</p> - -<p>“‘Match!’ said Bartle; ‘ay, as vinegar matches -one’s teeth. If a man says a word, his wife’ll -match it with a contradiction; if he’s a mind for -hot meat, his wife’ll match it with cold bacon; if he -laughs, she’ll match him with whimpering. She’s -such a match as the horsefly is to th’ horse: she’s -got the right venom to sting him with—the right -venom to sting him with.’</p> - -<p>“‘What dost say to that?’ said Mr. Poyser, -throwing himself back and looking merrily at his -wife.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Say!’ answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous -fire kindling in her eye; ‘why, <em>I say as some folks’ -tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin’, not to -tell you the time o’ the day, but because there’s summat -wrong i’ their own inside</em>.’ ...”</p> - -<p>The plot, as in Scott’s <cite>Heart of Midlothian</cite>, turns -on a case of seduction and child murder, and the -contrast between Effie and Jeannie Deans has its -parallel in the stronger contrast between Hetty -Sorrel and Dinah Morris. Hetty looked as if she -were “made of roses”; but she was, in Mrs. Poyser’s -phrase, “no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone -inside it.” Dinah’s human beauty of face and voice -was the true reflection of her inward life which</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent2">“cast a beam on the outward shape,</div> -<div class="verse">The unpolluted temple of the mind,</div> -<div class="verse">And turned it by degrees to the soul’s essence.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The crisis of the book comes in the prison, where -Dinah wrestles for the soul of Hetty—a scene as -passionate and moving as any in fiction. Dinah -triumphs, not by her own might, but by the sheer -power and beauty of the Christian faith and love -which she embodies.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> - -<p>In George Eliot’s novels you will find some passages -of stinging and well-merited satire on the -semi-pagan, conventional religion of middle-class -orthodoxy in England of the nineteenth century—“proud -respectability in a gig of unfashionable -build; worldliness without side-dishes”—read the -chapter on “A Variation of Protestantism Unknown -to Bossuet,” in <cite>The Mill on the Floss</cite>. But -you will not find a single page or paragraph that -would draw or drive the reader away from real -Christianity. On the contrary, she has expressed -the very secret of its appeal to the human heart -through the words and conduct of some of her best -characters. They do not argue; they utter and show -the meaning of religion. On me the effect of her -books is a deepened sense of the inevitable need -of Christ and his gospel to sustain and nourish the -high morality of courage and compassion, patience, -and hope, which she so faithfully teaches.</p> - -<p>The truth is, George Eliot lived in the afterglow -of Christian faith. Rare souls are capable of doing -that. But mankind at large needs the sunrise.</p> - -<p><cite>The Mill on the Floss</cite> is partly an autobiographic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -romance. Maggie Tulliver’s character resembles -George Eliot in her youth. The contrast between -the practical and the ideal, the conflict between -love and duty in the heart of a girl, belong to those -<i lang="de">problematische Naturen</i>, as Goethe called them, -which may taste keen joys but cannot escape sharp -sorrows. The centre of the story lies in Maggie’s -strong devotion to her father and to her brother -Tom—a person not altogether unlike the “elder -brother” in the parable—in strife with her love for -Philip, the son of the family enemy. Tom ruthlessly -commands his sister to choose between breaking -with him and giving up her lover. Maggie, -after a bitter struggle, chooses her brother. Would -a real woman do that? Yes, I have known some -very real women who have done it, in one case with -a tragic result.</p> - -<p>The original title of this book (and the right one) -was <cite>Sister Maggie</cite>. Yet we can see why George -Eliot chose the other name. The little river Floss, -so tranquil in its regular tidal flow, yet capable of -such fierce and sudden outbreaks, runs through the -book from beginning to end. It is a mysterious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -type of the ineluctable power of Nature in man’s -mortal drama.</p> - -<p>In the last chapter, when the flood comes, and -the erring sister who loved her brother so tenderly, -rescues him who loved her so cruelly from the ruined -mill, the frail skiff which carries them clasped heart -to heart, reconciled in that revealing moment, goes -down in the senseless irresistible rush of waters.</p> - -<p>It is not a “bad ending.” The sister’s love triumphs. -Such a close was inevitable for such a -story. But it is not a conclusion. It cries out for -immortality.</p> - -<p class="tb">On the art of George Eliot judgments have differed. -Mr. Oscar Browning, a respectable authority, -thinks highly of it. Mr. W. C. Brownell, a far -better critic, indeed one of the very best, thinks less -favourably of it, says that it is too intellectual; -that the development and conduct of her characters -are too logical and consistent; that the element -of surprize, which is always present in life, is -lacking in her people. “Our attention,” he writes, -“is so concentrated on what they think that we -hardly know how they feel, or whether ... they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -feel at all.” This criticism does not seem to me altogether -just. Certainly there is no lack of surprize -in Maggie Tulliver’s temporary infatuation with the -handsome, light-minded Stephen Guest, or in -Dorothea Brooke’s marriage to that heady young -butterfly, Will Ladislaw. These things certainly -were not arrived at by logical consistency. Nor can -one lay his hand on his heart and say that there is -no feeling in the chapter where the fugitive Romola -comes as Madonna to the mountain village, stricken -by pestilence, or in the passage where Dinah Morris -strives for Hetty’s soul in prison.</p> - -<p>George Eliot herself tells us the purpose of her -art—it is <em>verity</em>.</p> - -<p>“It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness -that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which -lofty-minded people despise.... All honour and -reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us -cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and -children—in our gardens and in our homes. But -let us love that other beauty, too, which lies in no -secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human -sympathy.”</p> - -<p>It is Rembrandt, then, rather than Titian, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -is her chosen painter. But she does not often attain -his marvellous <i lang="it">chiaroscuro</i>.</p> - -<p>Her style is clear and almost always firm in -drawing, though deficient in colour. It is full of -meaning, almost over-scrupulous in defining precisely -what she wishes to express. Here and there -it flashes into a wise saying, a sparkling epigram. -At other times, especially in her later books, it -spreads out and becomes too diffuse, too slow, like -Sir Walter Scott’s. But it never repels by vulgar -smartness, nor perplexes by vagueness and artificial -obscurity. It serves her purpose well—to -convey the results of her scrutiny of the inner life -and her loving observation of the outer life in its -humblest forms. In these respects it is admirable -and satisfying. And it is her own—she does not -imitate, nor write according to a theory.</p> - -<p>Her general view of human nature is not essentially -different from that expressed in a passage -which I quoted from Thackeray in the previous -chapter. We are none of us “irreproachable characters.” -We are “mixed human beings.” Therefore -she wishes to tell her stories “in such a way as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -to call forth tolerant judgment, pity, and sympathy.”</p> - -<p class="tb">As I began so let me end this chapter—with a -word on women. For myself, I think it wise and -prudent to maintain with Plutarch that <em>virtue</em> in -man and woman is one and the same. Yet there is -a difference between the feminine and the masculine -virtues. This opinion Plutarch sets forth and illustrates -in his brief histories, and George Eliot in her -novels. But of the virtues of women she gives -more and finer examples.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_POET_OF_IMMORTAL_YOUTH">THE POET OF IMMORTAL YOUTH</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> - -<p>One of the things that surprized and bewildered -old Colonel Newcome when he gathered his boy’s -friends around the mahogany tree in the dull, respectable -dining-room at 12 Fitzroy Square, was to -hear George Warrington declare, between huge -puffs of tobacco smoke, “that young Keats was a -genius to be estimated in future days with young -Raphael.” At this Charles Honeyman sagely -nodded his ambrosial head, while Clive Newcome -assented with sparkling eyes. But to the Colonel, -sitting kindly grave and silent at the head of the -table, and recalling (somewhat dimly) the bewigged -and powdered poetry of the age of Queen Anne, -such a critical sentiment seemed radical and revolutionary, -almost ungentlemanly.</p> - -<p>How astonished he would have been sixty years -later if he had taken up Mr. Sidney Colvin’s <cite>Life of -Keats</cite>, in the “English Men of Letters Series,” and -read in the concluding chapter the deliberate and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -remarkable judgment that “by power, as well as -by temperament and aim, he was the most Shakespearean -spirit that has lived since Shakespeare”!</p> - -<p>In truth, from the beginning the poetry of Keats -has been visited too much by thunder-storms of -praise. It was the indiscriminate enthusiasm of his -friends that drew out the equally indiscriminate -ridicule of his enemies. It was the premature salutation -offered to him as a supreme master of the -most difficult of all arts that gave point and sting -to the criticism of evident defects in his work. <cite>The -Examiner</cite> hailed him, before his first volume had -been printed, as one who was destined to revive -the early vigour of English poetry. <cite>Blackwood’s -Magazine</cite> retorted by quoting his feeblest lines and -calling him “Johnny Keats.” The suspicion of -log-rolling led to its usual result in a volley of stone-throwing.</p> - -<p>Happily, the ultimate fame and influence of a -true poet are not determined by the partizan conflicts -which are waged about his name. He may -suffer some personal loss by having to breathe, at -times, a perturbed atmosphere of mingled flattery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -and abuse instead of the still air of delightful studies. -He may be robbed of some days of a life already -far too short, by the pestilent noise and -confusion arising from that scramble for notoriety -which is often unduly honoured with the name of -“literary activity.” And there are some men whose -days of real inspiration are so few, and whose poetic -gift is so slender, that this loss proves fatal to them. -They are completely carried away and absorbed by -the speculations and strifes of the market-place. -They spend their time in the intrigues of rival poetic -enterprises, and learn to regard current quotations -in the trade journals as the only standard of value. -Minor poets at the outset, they are tempted to risk -their little all on the stock exchange of literature, -and, losing their last title to the noun, retire to bankruptcy -on the adjective.</p> - -<p>But Keats did not belong to this frail and foolish -race. His lot was cast in a world of petty conflict -and ungenerous rivalry, but he was not of that -world. It hurt him a little, but it did not ruin him. -His spiritual capital was too large, and he regarded -it as too sacred to be imperilled by vain speculations.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -He had in Chaucer and Spenser, Shakespeare and -Chapman, Milton and Petrarch, older and wiser -friends than Leigh Hunt. For him</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent13">“The blue</div> -<div class="verse">Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew</div> -<div class="verse">Of summer nights collected still to make</div> -<div class="verse">The morning precious: beauty was awake!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He perceived, by that light which comes only to -high-souled and noble-hearted poets,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“The great end</div> -<div class="verse">Of poesy, that it should be a friend</div> -<div class="verse">To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of man.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">To that end he gave the best that he had to give, -freely, generously, joyously pouring himself into -the ministry of his art. He did not dream for a -moment that the gift was perfect. Flattery could -not blind him to the limitations and defects of his -early work. He was his own best and clearest critic. -But he knew that so far as it went his poetic inspiration -was true. He had faithfully followed the -light of a pure and elevating joy in the opulent, -manifold beauty of nature and in the eloquent significance -of old-world legends, and he believed that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -it had already led him to a place among the poets -whose verse would bring delight, in far-off years, -to the sons and daughters of mankind. He believed -also that if he kept alive his faith in the truth of -beauty and the beauty of truth it would lead him -on yet further, into a nobler life and closer to those -immortal bards whose</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“Souls still speak</div> -<div class="verse">To mortals of their little week;</div> -<div class="verse">Of their sorrows and delights;</div> -<div class="verse">Of their passions and their spites;</div> -<div class="verse">Of their glory and their shame;</div> -<div class="verse">What doth strengthen and what maim.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>He expressed this faith very clearly in the early -and uneven poem called “Sleep and Poetry,” in -a passage which begins</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Oh, for ten years, that I may overwhelm</div> -<div class="verse">Myself in poesy! so I may do the deed</div> -<div class="verse">That my own soul has to itself decreed.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And then, ere four years had followed that brave -wish, his voice fell silent under a wasting agony of -pain and love, and the daisies were growing upon -his Roman grave.</p> - -<p>The pathos of his frustrated hope, his early death,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -has sometimes blinded men a little, it seems to me, -to the real significance of his work and the true -quality of his influence in poetry. He has been -lamented in the golden verse of Shelley’s “Adonaïs,” -and in the prose of a hundred writers who have -shared Shelley’s error without partaking of his -genius, as the loveliest innocent ever martyred by -the cruelty of hostile critics. But, in fact, the vituperations -of Gifford and his crew were no more -responsible for the death of Keats, than the stings -of insects are for the death of a man who has -perished of hunger on the coast of Labrador. They -added to his sufferings, no doubt, but they did not -take away his life. Keats had far too much virtue -in the old Roman sense—far too much courage, to -be killed by a criticism. He died of consumption, -as he clearly and sadly knew that he was fated to -do when he first saw the drop of arterial blood upon -his pillow.</p> - -<p>Nor is it just, although it may seem generous, to -estimate his fame chiefly by the anticipation of -what he might have accomplished if he had lived -longer; to praise him for his promise at the expense<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -of his performance; and to rest his claim to a place -among the English poets upon an uncertain prophecy -of rivalry with Shakespeare. I find a far sounder -note in Lowell’s manly essay, when he says: “No -doubt there is something tropical and of strange -overgrowth in his sudden maturity, but it <em>was</em> maturity -nevertheless.” I hear the accent of a wiser -and saner criticism in the sonnet of one of our American -poets:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Touch not with dark regret his perfect fame,</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Sighing, ‘Had he but lived he had done so’;</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Or, ‘Were his heart not eaten out with woe</div> -<div class="verse">John Keats had won a prouder, mightier name!’</div> -<div class="verse">Take him for what he was and did—nor blame</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Souls such as his escape no mortal blow—</div> -<div class="verse">No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“Take him for what he was and did”—that -should be the key-note of our thought of Keats as -a poet. The exquisite harmony of his actual work -with his actual character; the truth of what he -wrote to what his young heart saw and felt and -enjoyed; the simplicity of his very exuberance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -ornament, and the naturalness of his artifice; the -sincerity of his love of beauty and the beauty of his -sincerity—these are the qualities which give an individual -and lasting charm to his poetry, and make -his gift to the world complete in itself and very -precious, although,—or perhaps we should even say -because,—it was unfinished.</p> - -<p>Youth itself is imperfect: it is impulsive, visionary, -and unrestrained; full of tremulous delight -in its sensations, but not yet thoroughly -awake to the deeper meanings of the world; avid -of novelty and mystery, but not yet fully capable -of hearing or interpreting the still, small voice of -divine significance which breathes from the simple -and familiar elements of life.</p> - -<p>Yet youth has its own completeness as a season -of man’s existence. It is justified and indispensable. -Alfred de Musset’s</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“We old men born yesterday”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">are simply monstrous. The poetry which expresses -and represents youth, the poetry of sensation and -sentiment, has its own place in the literature of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -world. This is the order to which the poetry of -Keats belongs.</p> - -<p>He is not a feminine poet, as Mr. Coventry Patmore -calls him, any more than Theocritus or -Tennyson is feminine; for the quality of extreme -sensitiveness to outward beauty is not a mark of -femininity. It is found in men more often and more -clearly than in women. But it is always most keen -and joyous and overmastering in the morning of -the soul.</p> - -<p>Keats is not a virile poet, like Dante or Shakespeare -or Milton; that he would have become one -if he had lived is a happy and loving guess. He is -certainly not a member of the senile school of poetry, -which celebrates the impotent and morbid passions -of decay, with a <i lang="fr">café chantant</i> for its temple, and -the smoke of cigarettes for incense, and cups of -absinthe for its libations, and for its goddess not -the immortal Venus rising from the sea, but the -weary, painted, and decrepit Venus sinking into the -gutter.</p> - -<p>He is in the highest and best sense of the word -a juvenile poet—“mature,” as Lowell says, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -mature, as genius always is, within the boundaries -and in the spirit of his own season of life. The very -sadness of his lovely odes, “To a Nightingale,” -“On a Grecian Urn,” “To Autumn,” “To Psyche,” -is the pleasant melancholy of the springtime of the -heart. “The Eve of St. Agnes,” pure and passionate, -surprizing us by its fine excess of colour and -melody, sensuous in every line, yet free from the -slightest taint of sensuality, is unforgettable and -unsurpassable as the dream of first love. The poetry -of Keats, small in bulk and slight in body as it seems -at first sight to be, endures, and will endure, in English -literature, because it is the embodiment of <em>the -spirit of immortal youth</em>.</p> - -<p>Here, I think, we touch its secret as an influence -upon other poets. For that it has been an influence,—in -the older sense of the word, which carries with -it a reference to the guiding and controlling force -supposed to flow from the stars to the earth,—is beyond -all doubt. The <cite>History of English Literature</cite>, -with which Taine amused us some fifty years ago, -nowhere displays its narrowness of vision more egregiously -than in its failure to take account of Gray,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -Collins, and Keats as fashioners of English poetry. -It does not mention Gray and Collins at all; the -name of Keats occurs only once, with a reference -to “sickly or overflowing imagination,” but to Byron -nearly fifty pages are devoted. The American critic, -Stedman, showed a far broader and more intelligent -understanding of the subject when he said that -“Wordsworth begot the mind, and Keats the body, -of the idyllic Victorian School.”</p> - -<p>We can trace the influence of Keats not merely -in the conscious or unconscious imitations of his -manner, like those which are so evident in the early -poems of Tennyson and Procter, in Hood’s <cite>Plea -of the Midsummer Fairies</cite> and <cite>Lycus the Centaur</cite>, -in Rossetti’s <cite>Ballads and Sonnets</cite>, and William -Morris’s <cite>Earthly Paradise</cite>, but also in the youthful -spirit of delight in the retelling of old tales of -mythology and chivalry; in the quickened sense -of pleasure in the luxuriance and abundance of -natural beauty; in the freedom of overflowing -cadences transmuting ancient forms of verse into -new and more flexible measures; in the large liberty -of imaginative diction, making all nature sympathize<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -with the joy and sorrow of man,—in brief, -in many of the finest marks of a renascence, a renewed youth, -which characterize the poetry of the -early Victorian era.</p> - -<p>I do not mean to say that Keats alone, or chiefly, -was responsible for this renascence. He never set -up to lead a movement or to found a school. His -genius is not to be compared to that of a commanding -artist like Giotto or Leonardo or Michelangelo, -but rather to that of a painter like Botticelli, whose -personal and expressive charm makes itself felt in -the work of many painters, who learned secrets of -grace and beauty from him, though they were not -his professed disciples or followers.</p> - -<p>Take for example Matthew Arnold. He called -himself, and no doubt rightly, a Wordsworthian. -But it was not from Wordsworth that he caught -the strange and searching melody of “The Forsaken -Merman,” or learned to embroider the laments for -“Thyrsis” and “The Scholar-Gypsy” with such -opulence of varied bloom as makes death itself seem -lovely. It was from John Keats. Or read the description -of the tapestry on the castle walls in “Tristram<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -and Iseult.” How perfectly that repeats the -spirit of Keats’s descriptions in “The Eve of St. -Agnes”! It is the poetry of the picturesque.</p> - -<p>Indeed, we shall fail to do justice to the influence -of Keats unless we recognize also that it has produced -direct and distinct effects in the art of painting. -The English pre-Raphaelites owed much to his -inspiration. Holman Hunt found two of his earliest -subjects for pictures in “The Eve of St. Agnes” -and “The Pot of Basil.” Millais painted “Lorenzo -and Isabella,” and Rossetti “La Belle Dame sans -Merci.” There is an evident sympathy between -the art of these painters, which insisted that every -detail in a picture is precious and should be painted -with truthful care for its beauty, and the poetry of -Keats, which is filled, and even overfilled, with -minute and loving touches of exquisite elaboration.</p> - -<p>But it must be remembered that in poetry, as -well as in painting, the spirit of picturesqueness has -its dangers. The details may be multiplied until -the original design is lost. The harmony and -lucidity of a poem may be destroyed by innumerable -digressions and descriptions. In some of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -poems—in “Endymion” and in “Lamia”—Keats -fell very deep into this fault, and no one knew it -better than himself. But when he was at his best -he had the power of adding a hundred delicate details -to his central vision, and making every touch -heighten and enhance the general effect. How -wonderful in its unity is the “Ode on a Grecian -Urn”! How completely magical are the opening -lines of “Hyperion”:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Deep in the shady sadness of a vale</div> -<div class="verse">Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,</div> -<div class="verse">Far from the fiery Noon, and eve’s one star,</div> -<div class="verse">Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,</div> -<div class="verse">Still as the silence round about his lair;</div> -<div class="verse">Forest on forest hung about his head</div> -<div class="verse">Like cloud on cloud.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">How large and splendid is the imagery of the sonnet -“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”! -And who that has any sense of poetry does not recognize -the voice of a young master in the two superb -lines of the last poem that Keats wrote?—the sonnet -in which he speaks of the bright star</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent3">“watching, with eternal lids apart,</div> -<div class="verse">Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -<div class="verse">The moving waters at their priestlike task</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The poets of America have not been slow to recognize -the charm and power of Keats. Holmes and -Longfellow and Lowell paid homage to him in their -verse. Lanier inscribed to his memory a poem -called “Clover.” Gilder wrote two sonnets which -celebrate his “perfect fame.” Robert Underwood -Johnson has a lovely lyric on “The Name Writ in -Water.”</p> - -<p>But I find an even deeper and larger tribute to -his influence in the features of resemblance to his -manner and spirit which flash out here and there, -unexpectedly and unconsciously, in the poetry of -our New World. Emerson was so unlike Keats in -his intellectual constitution as to make all contact -between them appear improbable, if not impossible. -Yet no one can read Emerson’s “May-Day,” and -Keats’ exquisitely truthful and imaginative lines -on “Fancy,” one after the other, without feeling -that the two poems are very near of kin. Lowell’s -“Legend of Brittany” has caught, not only the -measure, but also the tone and the diction of “Isabella.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -The famous introduction to “The Vision -of Sir Launfal,” with its often quoted line,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“What is so rare as a day in June?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">finds a parallel in the opening verses of “Sleep and -Poetry”—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“What is more gentle than a wind in summer?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Lowell’s “Endymion,” which he calls “a mystical -comment on Titian’s ‘Sacred and Profane Love,’” -is full of echoes from Keats, like this:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“My day began not till the twilight fell</div> -<div class="verse">And lo! in ether from heaven’s sweetest well</div> -<div class="verse">The new moon swam, divinely isolate</div> -<div class="verse">In maiden silence, she that makes my fate</div> -<div class="verse">Haply not knowing it, or only so</div> -<div class="verse">As I the secrets of my sheep may know.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In Lanier’s rich and melodious “Hymns of the -Marshes” there are innumerable touches in the style -of Keats; for example, his apostrophe to the</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Reverend marsh, low-couched along the sea,</div> -<div class="verse">Old chemist, wrapped in alchemy,</div> -<div class="verse">Distilling silence,——”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">or his praise of the</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire,</div> -<div class="verse">Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">One of the finest pieces of elegiac verse that have -yet been produced in America, George E. Woodberry’s -poem called “The North Shore Watch,” has -many passages that recall the young poet who wrote</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Indeed, we hear the very spirit of Endymion speaking -in Woodberry’s lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Beauty abides, nor suffers mortal change,</div> -<div class="verse">Eternal refuge of the orphaned mind.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Father John B. Tabb, who had the exquisite art of -the Greek epigram at his command, in one of his -delicately finished little poems, imagined Sappho -listening to the “Ode to a Nightingale”:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Methinks when first the nightingale</div> -<div class="verse">Was mated to thy deathless song,</div> -<div class="verse">That Sappho with emotion pale</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Amid the Olympian throng,</div> -<div class="verse">Again, as in the Lesbian grove,</div> -<div class="verse">Stood listening with lips apart,</div> -<div class="verse">To hear in thy melodious love</div> -<div class="verse indent1">The pantings of her heart.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p>Yes; the memory and influence of Keats endure, -and will endure, because his poetry expresses something -in the heart that will not die so long as there -are young men and maidens to see and feel the -beauty of the world and the thrill of love. His poetry -is complete, it is true, it is justified, because it -is the fitting utterance of one of those periods of -mental life which Keats himself has called “the -human seasons.”</p> - -<p>But its completeness and its truth depend upon -its relation, in itself and in the poet’s mind, to the -larger world of poetry, the fuller life, the rounded -year of man. Nor was this forward look, this anticipation -of something better and greater yet to come, -lacking in the youth of Keats. It flashes out, again -and again, from his letters, those outpourings of his -heart and mind, so full of boyish exuberance and -manly vigour, so rich in revelations of what this marvellous, -beautiful, sensitive, courageous little creature -really was,—a great soul in the body of a lad. -It shows itself clearly and calmly in the remarkable -preface in which he criticizes his own “Endymion,” -calling it “a feverish attempt, rather than a deed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -accomplished.” “It is just,” he writes, “that this -youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, -if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I -may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit -to live.” The same fine hope of a sane and manly -youth is expressed in his early verses entitled “Sleep -and Poetry.” He has been speaking of the first -joys of his fancy, in the realm of Flora and old Pan: -the merry games and dances with white-handed -nymphs: the ardent pursuit of love, and the satisfied -repose in the bosom of a leafy world. Then his -imagination goes on to something better.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“And can I ever bid these joys farewell?</div> -<div class="verse">Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,</div> -<div class="verse">Where I may find the agonies, the strife</div> -<div class="verse">Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,</div> -<div class="verse">O’ersailing the blue cragginess, a car</div> -<div class="verse">And steeds with streamy manes—the charioteer</div> -<div class="verse">Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:</div> -<div class="verse">And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly</div> -<div class="verse">Along a huge cloud’s ridge: and now with sprightly</div> -<div class="verse">Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,</div> -<div class="verse">Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes.</div> -<div class="verse indent10">... And there soon appear</div> -<div class="verse">Shapes of delight, of mystery and fear,</div> -<div class="verse">Passing along before a dusky space</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase</div> -<div class="verse">Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep.</div> -<div class="verse">Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:</div> -<div class="verse">Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;</div> -<div class="verse">Some with their faces muffled to the ear</div> -<div class="verse">Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,</div> -<div class="verse">Go glad and smilingly across the gloom;</div> -<div class="verse">Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;</div> -<div class="verse">Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways</div> -<div class="verse">Flit onward—now a lovely wreath of girls</div> -<div class="verse">Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;</div> -<div class="verse">And now broad wings. Most awfully intent</div> -<div class="verse">The driver of those steeds is forward bent,</div> -<div class="verse">And seems to listen: O that I might know</div> -<div class="verse">All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The visions all are fled—the car is fled</div> -<div class="verse">Into the light of heaven, and in their stead</div> -<div class="verse">A sense of real things comes doubly strong,</div> -<div class="verse">And, like a muddy stream, would bear along</div> -<div class="verse">My soul to nothingness: but I will strive</div> -<div class="verse">Against all doubtings, and will keep alive</div> -<div class="verse">The thought of that same chariot, and the strange</div> -<div class="verse">Journey it went.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>How young-hearted is this vision, how full of -thronging fancies and half-apprehended mystic -meanings! Yet how unmistakably it has the long, -high, forward look toward manhood, without which -youth itself is not rounded and complete!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> - -<p>After all, that look, that brave expectation, is vital -in our picture of Keats. It is one of the reasons -why we love him. It is one of the things which -make his slender volume of poetry so companionable, -even as an ardent, dreamy man is doubly a good -comrade when we feel in him the hope of a strong -man. We cannot truly understand the wonderful -performance of Keats without considering his promise; -we cannot appreciate what he did without remembering -that it was only part of what he hoped -to do.</p> - -<p>He was not one of those who believe that the -ultimate aim of poetry is sensuous loveliness, and -that there is no higher law above the law of “art -for art’s sake.” The poets of arrested development, -the artificers of mere melody and form, who say -that art must always play and never teach, the -musicians who are content to remain forever</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The idle singers of an empty day,”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">are not his true followers.</p> - -<p>He held that “beauty is truth.” But he held -also another article that has been too often left out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -in the repetition of his poetic creed: he held “truth, -beauty,” and he hoped one day to give a clear, full -utterance to that higher, holier vision. Perhaps he -has, but not to mortal ears.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_RECOVERY_OF_JOY">THE RECOVERY OF JOY<br /> -<span class="smaller">WORDSWORTH’S POETRY</span></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p>When this essay was written, a good many years -ago, there was no available biography of Wordsworth -except the two-volume <cite>Memoir</cite> by Bishop -Christopher Wordsworth, the poet’s nephew. It is -a solid work of family piety, admiring and admirable; -but it must be admitted that it is dull. It -is full of matters of no particular consequence, and -it leaves out events in the poet’s life and traits in -his character which are not only interesting in -themselves but also of real importance to a vital -understanding of his work.</p> - -<p>Even while reading the <cite>Memoir</cite>, I felt sure that -he was not always the tranquil, patient, wise, serenely -happy sage that he appeared in his later -years,—sure that a joy in peace as deep and strong -as his was, could only have been won through sharp -conflict,—sure that the smooth portrait drawn by -the reverent hand of the bishop did not fully and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -frankly depict the real man who wrote the deep -and moving poetry of Wordsworth.</p> - -<p>It was about this time that the valuable studies -of Wordsworth’s early life which had been made -by Professor Emile Legouis, (then of the University -of Lyons, now of the Sorbonne,) were published in -English. This volume threw a new light upon the -poet’s nature, revealing its intense, romantic strain, -and making clear at least some of the causes which -led to the shipwreck of his first hopes and to the -period of profound gloom which followed his return -from residence in France in December 1792.</p> - -<p>Shortly after reading Professor Legouis’ book, I -met by chance a gentleman in Baltimore and was -convinced by what he told me, (in a conversation -which I do not feel at liberty to repeat in detail,) -that Wordsworth had a grand “affair of the heart” -while he lived in France, with a young French lady -of excellent family and character. But they were -parted. A daughter was born, (whom he legitimated -according to French law,) and descendants -of that daughter were living.</p> - -<p>There was therefore solid ground for my feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -that the poet was not a man who had been always -and easily decorous. He had passed through a time -of storm and stress. He had lost not only his political -dreams and his hopes of a career, but also his -first love and his joy. The knowledge of this gave -his poetry a new meaning for me, brought it nearer, -made it seem more deeply human. It was under -the influence of this feeling that this essay was -written in a farmhouse in Tyringham Valley, where -I was staying in the winter of 1897, with Richard -Watson Gilder and his wife.</p> - -<p>Since then Professor George McLean Harper has -completed and published, (1916,) his classic book -on <cite>William Wordsworth, His Life, Works, and Influence</cite>. -This is undoubtedly the very best biography -of the poet, and it contains much new material, -particularly with reference to his life and connections -in France. But there is nothing in it to shake, -and on the contrary there is much to confirm, the -opinion which was first put forth in this essay: -namely, that the central theme, the great significance, -of Wordsworth’s poetry is <em>the recovery of joy</em>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>William Wordsworth was born in 1770 in the -town of Cockermouth in Cumberland; educated -in the village school of Hawkshead among the mountains, -and at St. John’s College, Cambridge. A -dreamy, moody youth; always ambitious, but not -always industrious; passionate in disposition, with -high spirits, simple tastes, and independent virtues; -he did not win, and seems not to have desired, -university honours. His principal property when he -came of age consisted of two manuscript poems,—<cite>An -Evening Walk</cite> and <cite>Descriptive Sketches</cite>,—composed -in the manner of Cowper’s <cite>Task</cite>. With these -in his pocket he wandered over to France; partly -to study the language; partly to indulge his inborn -love of travel by a second journey on the Continent; -and partly to look on at the vivid scenes of the -French Revolution. But the vast dæmonic movement -of which he proposed to be a spectator caught -his mind in its current and swept him out of his -former self.</p> - -<p>Wordsworth was not originally a revolutionist,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -like Coleridge and Southey. He was not even a -native radical, except as all simplicity and austerity -of character tend towards radicalism. When he -passed through Paris, in November of 1791, and -picked up a bit of stone from the ruins of the Bastile -as a souvenir, it was only a sign of youthful -sentimentality. But when he came back to Paris -in October of 1792, after a winter at Orleans and a -summer at Blois, in close intercourse with that -ardent and noble republican, Michael Beaupuy, -he had been converted into an eager partisan of the -Republic. He even dreamed of throwing himself -into the conflict, reflecting on “the power of one -pure and energetic will to accomplish great things.”</p> - -<p>His conversion was not, it seems to me, primarily -a matter of intellectual conviction. It was an affair -of emotional sympathy. His knowledge of the -political and social theories of the Revolution was -but superficial. He was never a doctrinaire. The -influence of Rousseau and Condorcet did not penetrate -far beneath the skin of his mind. It was the -primal joy of the Revolutionary movement that -fascinated him,—the confused glimmering of new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -hopes and aspirations for mankind. He was like -a man who has journeyed, half asleep, from the -frost-bound dulness of a wintry clime, and finds -himself, fully awake, in a new country, where the -time for the singing of birds has come, and the multitudinous -blossoming of spring bursts forth. He -is possessed by the spirit of joy, and reason follows -where feeling leads the way. Wordsworth himself -has confessed, half unconsciously, the secret of his -conversion in his lines on <cite>The French Revolution -as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its Commencement</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!</div> -<div class="verse">For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood</div> -<div class="verse">Upon our side, we who were strong in love!</div> -<div class="verse">Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,</div> -<div class="verse">But to be young was very heaven!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>There was another “bliss,” keener even than the -dreams of political enthusiasm, that thrilled him in -this momentous year,—the rapture of romantic -love. Into this he threw himself with ardour and -tasted all its joy. We do not know exactly what it -was that broke the vision and dashed the cup of -gladness from his lips. Perhaps it was some difficulty -with the girl’s family, who were royalists.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> -Perhaps it was simply the poet’s poverty. Whatever -the cause was, love’s young dream was shattered, -and there was nothing left but the painful -memory of an error, to be atoned for in later years -as best he could.</p> - -<p>His political hopes and ideals were darkened by -the actual horrors which filled Paris during the fall -of 1792. His impulse to become a revolutionist -was shaken, if not altogether broken. Returning to -England at the end of the same year, he tried to -sustain his sinking spirits by setting in order the -reasons and grounds of his new-born enthusiasm, -already waning. His letter to Bishop Watson, written -in 1793, is the fullest statement of republican -sympathies that he ever made. In it he even seems -to justify the execution of Louis XVI, and makes -light of “the idle cry of modish lamentation which -has resounded from the court to the cottage” over -the royal martyr’s fate. He defends the right of -the people to overthrow all who oppress them, to -choose their own rulers, to direct their own destiny -by universal suffrage, and to sweep all obstacles -out of their way. The reasoning is so absolute, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -relentless, the scorn for all who oppose it is so lofty, -that already we begin to suspect a wavering conviction -intrenching itself for safety.</p> - -<p>The course of events in France was ill fitted to -nourish the joy of a pure-minded enthusiast. The -tumultuous terrors of the Revolution trod its ideals -in the dust. Its light was obscured in its own sulphurous -smoke. Robespierre ran his bloody course -to the end; and when his head fell under the guillotine, -Wordsworth could not but exult. War was -declared between France and England, and his -heart was divided; but the deeper and stronger -ties were those that bound him to his own country. -He was English in his very flesh and bones. The -framework of his mind was of Cumberland. So -he stood rooted in his native allegiance, while the -leaves and blossoms of joy fell from him, like a tree -stripped bare by the first great gale of autumn.</p> - -<p>The years from 1793 to 1795 were the period of -his deepest poverty, spiritual and material. His -youthful poems, published in 1793, met with no -more success than they deserved. His plans for -entering into active life were feeble and futile. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -mind was darkened and confused, his faith shaken -to the foundation, and his feelings clouded with -despair. In this crisis of disaster two gifts of fortune -came to him. His sister Dorothy took her -place at his side, to lead him back by her wise, tender, -cheerful love from the far country of despair. -His friend Raisley Calvert bequeathed to him a -legacy of nine hundred pounds; a small inheritance, -but enough to protect him from the wolf of poverty, -while he devoted his life to the muse. From the -autumn of 1795, when he and his sister set up housekeeping -together in a farmhouse at Racedown, until -his death in 1850 in the cottage at Rydal Mount, -where he had lived for thirty-seven years with his -wife and children, there was never any doubt about -the disposition of his life. It was wholly dedicated -to poetry.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>But what kind of poetry? What was to be its -motive power? What its animating spirit? Here -the experience of life acting upon his natural character -became the deciding factor.</p> - -<p>Wordsworth was born a lover of joy, not sensual,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -but spiritual. The first thing that happened to -him, when he went out into the world, was that he -went bankrupt of joy. The enthusiasm of his youth -was dashed, the high hope of his spirit was quenched. -At the touch of reality his dreams dissolved. It -seemed as though he were altogether beaten, a -broken man. But with the gentle courage of his -sister to sustain him, his indomitable spirit rose -again, to renew the adventure of life. He did not -evade the issue, by turning aside to seek for fame -or wealth. His problem from first to last was the -problem of joy,—inward, sincere, imperishable -joy. How to recover it after life’s disappointments, -how to deepen it amid life’s illusions, how to secure -it through life’s trials, how to spread it among life’s -confusions,—this was the problem that he faced. -This was the wealth that he desired to possess, and -to increase, and to diffuse,—the wealth</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Of joy in widest commonalty spread.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>None of the poets has been as clear as Wordsworth -in the avowal that the immediate end of poetry -is pleasure. “We have no sympathy,” said he, -“but what is propagated by pleasure, ... wherever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -we sympathise with pain, it will be found that the -sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle -combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, -that is no general principles drawn from the -contemplation of particular facts, but what has -been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure -alone.” And again: “The end of Poetry is to -produce excitement, in co-existence with an over-balance -of pleasure.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus4"> -<img src="images/illus4.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.</p> -<p class="caption">Painted by W. Boxall.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>After an engraving by J. Bromley.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>But it may be clearly read in his poetry that -what he means by “pleasure” is really an inward, -spiritual joy. It is such a joy, in its various -forms, that charms him most as he sees it in the -world. His gallery of human portraits contains -many figures, but every one of them is presented -in the light of joy,—the rising light of dawn, or the -waning light of sunset. <cite>Lucy Gray</cite> and the little -maid in <cite>We are Seven</cite> are childish shapes of joy. -The <cite>Highland Girl</cite> is an embodiment of virginal -gladness, and the poet cries</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace</div> -<div class="verse">Hath led me to this lovely place.</div> -<div class="verse"><em>Joy have I had</em>; and going hence</div> -<div class="verse">I bear away my recompence.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> - -<p>Wordsworth regards joy as an actual potency of -vision:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“With an eye made quiet by the power</div> -<div class="verse">Of harmony, and <em>the deep power of joy</em>,</div> -<div class="verse">We see into the heart of things.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Joy is indeed the master-word of his poetry. The -dancing daffodils enrich his heart with joy.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“They flash upon that inward eye</div> -<div class="verse">Which is the bliss of solitude;</div> -<div class="verse">And then my heart with pleasure fills,</div> -<div class="verse">And dances with the daffodils.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The kitten playing with the fallen leaves charms -him with pure merriment. The skylark’s song -lifts him up into the clouds.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“There is madness about thee, and <em>joy divine</em></div> -<div class="verse">In that song of thine.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He turns from the nightingale, that creature of a -“fiery heart,” to the Stock-dove:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“He sang of love, with quiet blending,</div> -<div class="verse">Slow to begin and never ending;</div> -<div class="verse">Of serious faith, <em>and inward glee</em>;</div> -<div class="verse">That was the song—the song for me.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He thinks of love which grows to use</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“<em>Joy as her holiest language.</em>”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">He speaks of life’s disenchantments and wearinesses -as</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“<em>All that is at enmity with joy.</em>”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">When autumn closes around him, and the season -makes him conscious that his leaf is sere and yellow -on the bough, he exclaims</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“<em>Yet will I temperately rejoice</em>;</div> -<div class="verse">Wide is the range and free the choice</div> -<div class="verse">Of undiscordant themes;</div> -<div class="verse">Which haply kindred souls may prize</div> -<div class="verse">Not less than vernal ecstacies,</div> -<div class="verse">And passion’s feverish dreams.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><em>Temperate rejoicing</em>,—that is the clearest note of -Wordsworth’s poetry. Not an unrestrained gladness, -for he can never escape from that deep, strange -experience of his youth. Often, in thought, he</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Must hear Humanity in fields and groves</div> -<div class="verse">Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang</div> -<div class="verse">Brooding above the fierce confederate storm</div> -<div class="verse">Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore</div> -<div class="verse">Within the walls of cities.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But even while he hears these sounds he will not be -“downcast or forlorn.” He will find a deeper music<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -to conquer these clashing discords. He will learn, -and teach, a hidden joy, strong to survive amid -the sorrows of a world like this. He will not look -for it in some far-off unrealized Utopia,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“But in the very world which is the world</div> -<div class="verse">Of all of us,—<em>the place where in the end</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>We find our happiness, or not at all</em>!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">To this quest of joy, to this proclamation of joy, he -dedicates his life.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent15">“By words</div> -<div class="verse">Which speak of nothing more than what we are</div> -<div class="verse">Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep</div> -<div class="verse">Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain</div> -<div class="verse"><em>To noble raptures</em>.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And herein he becomes a prophet to his age,—a -prophet of the secret of joy, simple, universal, enduring,—the -open secret.</p> - -<p>The burden of Wordsworth’s prophecy of joy, -as found in his poetry, is threefold. First, he declares -with exultation that he has seen in Nature -the evidence of a living spirit in vital correspondence -with the spirit of man. Second, he expresses the -deepest, tenderest feeling of the inestimable value -of the humblest human life,—a feeling which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -through all its steadiness is yet strangely illumined -by sudden gushes of penetration and pathos. Third, -he proclaims a lofty ideal of the liberty and greatness -of man, consisting in obedience to law and -fidelity to duty.</p> - -<p>I am careful in choosing words to describe the -manner of this threefold prophesying, because I am -anxious to distinguish it from didacticism. Not -that Wordsworth is never didactic; for he is very -often entirely and dreadfully so. But at such -times he is not at his best; and it is in these long -uninspired intervals that we must bear, as Walter -Pater has said, “With patience the presence of an -alien element in Wordsworth’s work, which never -coalesced with what is really delightful in it, nor -underwent his peculiar power.” Wordsworth’s -genius as a poet did not always illuminate his industry -as a writer. In the intervals he prosed terribly. -There is a good deal of what Lowell calls -“Dr. Wattsiness,” in some of his poems.</p> - -<p>But the character of his best poems was strangely -inspirational. They came to him like gifts, and he -read them aloud as if wondering at their beauty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -Through the protracted description of an excursion, -or the careful explanation of a state of mind, he -slowly plods on foot; but when he comes to the -mount of vision, he mounts up with wings as an -eagle. In the analysis of a character, in the narration -of a simple story, he often drones, and sometimes -stammers; but when the flash of insight arrives, -he sings. This is the difference between the -pedagogue and the prophet: the pedagogue repeats -a lesson learned by rote, the prophet chants a truth -revealed by vision.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Let me speak first of Wordsworth as a poet of -Nature. The peculiar and precious quality of his -best work is that it is done with his eye on the object -and his imagination beyond it.</p> - -<p>Nothing could be more accurate, more true to -the facts than Wordsworth’s observation of the -external world. There was an underlying steadiness, -a fundamental placidity, a kind of patient, -heroic obstinacy in his character, which blended -with his delicate, almost tremulous sensibility, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -make him rarely fitted for this work. He could -look and listen long. When the magical moment -of disclosure arrived, he was there and ready.</p> - -<p>Some of his senses were not particularly acute. -Odours seem not to have affected him. There are -few phrases descriptive of the fragrance of nature -in his poetry, and so far as I can remember none -of them are vivid. He could never have written -Tennyson’s line about</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The smell of violets hidden in the green.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Nor was he especially sensitive to colour. Most -of his descriptions in this region are vague and -luminous, rather than precise and brilliant. Colour-words -are comparatively rare in his poems. Yellow, -I think, was his favourite, if we may judge by the -flowers that he mentioned most frequently. Yet -more than any colour he loved clearness, transparency, -the diaphanous current of a pure stream, -the light of sunset</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent13">“that imbues</div> -<div class="verse">Whate’er it strikes with gem-like hues.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But in two things his power of observation was -unsurpassed, I think we may almost say, unrivalled:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -in sound, and in movement. For these he had what -he describes in his sailor-brother,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent13">“a watchful heart</div> -<div class="verse">Still couchant, an inevitable ear,</div> -<div class="verse">And an eye practiced like a blind man’s touch.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>In one of his juvenile poems, a sonnet describing -the stillness of the world at twilight, he says:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel;</div> -<div class="verse">The kine are couched upon the dewy grass,</div> -<div class="verse">The horse alone seen dimly as I pass,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>Is cropping audibly his evening meal</em>.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">At nightfall, while he is listening to the hooting of -the owls and mocking them, there comes an interval -of silence, and then</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“a gentle shock of mild surprise</div> -<div class="verse"><em>Has carried far into his heart the voice</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>Of mountain torrents</em>.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">At midnight, on the summit of Snowdon, from a -rift in the cloud-ocean at his feet, he hears</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent3">“the roar of waters, torrents, streams</div> -<div class="verse">Innumerable, roaring with one voice.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Under the shadows of the great yew-trees of Borrowdalek -he loves</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“To lie and listen to the mountain flood</div> -<div class="verse"><em>Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves</em>.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">What could be more perfect than the little lyric -which begins</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Yes, it was the mountain echo</div> -<div class="verse">Solitary, clear, profound,</div> -<div class="verse">Answering to the shouting cuckoo</div> -<div class="verse">Giving to her sound for sound.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">How poignant is the touch with which he describes -the notes of the fiery-hearted Nightingale, singing -in the dusk:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“they pierce and pierce;</div> -<div class="verse">Tumultuous harmony and fierce!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But at sunrise other choristers make different melodies:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The birds are singing in the distant woods;</div> -<div class="verse">Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;</div> -<div class="verse">The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;</div> -<div class="verse">And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Wandering into a lovely glen among the hills, he -hears all the voices of nature blending together:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The Stream, so ardent in its course before,</div> -<div class="verse">Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all</div> -<div class="verse">Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice</div> -<div class="verse">Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,</div> -<div class="verse">The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,</div> -<div class="verse">Which while I listened, seemed like the wild growth</div> -<div class="verse"><em>Or like some natural produce of the air</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>That could not cease to be</em>.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Wordsworth, more than any other English poet, -interprets and glorifies the mystery of sound. He -is the poet who sits oftenest by the Ear-Gate listening -to the whispers and murmurs of the invisible -guests who throng that portal into “the city of -Man-Soul.” Indeed the whole spiritual meaning -of nature seems to come to him in the form of sound.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent15">“Wonder not</div> -<div class="verse">If high the transport, great the joy I felt,</div> -<div class="verse">Communing in this sort through earth and heaven</div> -<div class="verse">With every form of creature, as it looked</div> -<div class="verse">Towards the Uncreated with a countenance</div> -<div class="verse">Of adoration, with an eye of love.</div> -<div class="verse">One song they sang, and it was audible,</div> -<div class="verse">Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,</div> -<div class="verse">O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,</div> -<div class="verse">Forgot her functions and slept undisturbed.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>No less wonderful is his sense of the delicate motions -of nature, the visible transition of form and -outline. How exquisite is the description of a high-poising -summer-cloud,</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“That heareth not the loud winds when they call;</div> -<div class="verse">And moveth all together, if it move at all.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He sees the hazy ridges of the mountains like a -golden ladder,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Climbing suffused with sunny air</div> -<div class="verse">To stop—no record hath told where!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He sees the gentle mists</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Curling with unconfirmed intent</div> -<div class="verse">On that green mountain’s side.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He watches the swan swimming on Lake Lucarno,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Behold!—as with a gushing impulse heaves</div> -<div class="verse">That downy prow, and softly cleaves</div> -<div class="verse">The mirror of the crystal flood,</div> -<div class="verse">Vanish inverted hill and shadowy wood.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He catches sight of the fluttering green linnet among -the hazel-trees:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“My dazzled sight he oft deceives,</div> -<div class="verse">A Brother of the dancing leaves.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He looks on the meadows sleeping in the spring -sunshine:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The cattle are grazing,</div> -<div class="verse">Their heads never raising,</div> -<div class="verse">There are forty feeding like one!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">He beholds the far-off torrent pouring down Ben -Cruachan:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;</div> -<div class="verse">Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,</div> -<div class="verse">Frozen by distance.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Now in such an observation of Nature as this, -so keen, so patient, so loving, so delicate, there is -an immediate comfort for the troubled mind, a -direct refuge and repose for the heart. To see and -hear such things is peace and joy. It is a consolation -and an education. Wordsworth himself has -said this very distinctly.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“One impulse from a vernal wood</div> -<div class="verse">May teach you more of man</div> -<div class="verse">Of moral evil and of good</div> -<div class="verse">Than all the sages can.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But the most perfect expression of his faith in the -educating power of Nature is given in one of the -little group of lyrics which are bound together by -the name of Lucy,—love-songs so pure and simple -that they seem almost mysterious in their ethereal -passion.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Three years she grew in sun and shower,</div> -<div class="verse">Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -<div class="verse indent2">On earth was never sown;</div> -<div class="verse">This Child I to myself will take;</div> -<div class="verse">She shall be mine, and I will make</div> -<div class="verse indent2">A Lady of my own.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">Myself will to my darling be</div> -<div class="verse">Both law and impulse; and with me</div> -<div class="verse indent2">The Girl, in rock and plain,</div> -<div class="verse">In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,</div> -<div class="verse">Shall feel an overseeing power</div> -<div class="verse indent2">To kindle or restrain.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse center">...</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">The stars of midnight shall be dear</div> -<div class="verse">To her; and she shall lean her ear</div> -<div class="verse indent2">In many a secret place</div> -<div class="verse">Where rivulets dance their wayward round,</div> -<div class="verse"><em>And beauty born of murmuring sound</em></div> -<div class="verse indent2"><em>Shall pass into her face</em>.’”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The personification of Nature in this poem is at -the farthest removed from the traditional poetic -fiction which peopled the world with Dryads and -Nymphs and Oreads. Nor has it any touch of the -“pathetic fallacy” which imposes the thoughts and -feelings of man upon natural objects. It presents -unconsciously, very simply, and yet prophetically, -Wordsworth’s vision of Nature,—a vision whose -distinctive marks are vitality and unity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - -<p>It is his faith that “every flower enjoys the air -it breathes.” It is also his faith that underlying -and animating all this joy there is the life of one -mighty Spirit. This faith rises to its most magnificent -expression in the famous <cite>Lines composed a -few miles above Tintern Abbey</cite>:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent10">“And I have felt</div> -<div class="verse">A presence that disturbs me with the joy</div> -<div class="verse">Of elevated thought; a sense sublime</div> -<div class="verse">Of something far more deeply interfused,</div> -<div class="verse">Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,</div> -<div class="verse">And the round ocean and the living air,</div> -<div class="verse">And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:</div> -<div class="verse">A motion and a spirit, that impels</div> -<div class="verse">All thinking things, all objects of all thought,</div> -<div class="verse">And rolls through all things.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The union of this animating Spirit of Nature, with -the beholding, contemplating, rejoicing spirit of -man is like a pure and noble marriage, in which man -attains peace and the spousal consummation of his -being. This is the first remedy which Wordsworth -finds for the malady of despair, the first and simplest -burden of his prophecy of joy. And he utters -it with confidence,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Knowing that Nature never did betray</div> -<div class="verse">The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Through all the years of this our life, to lead</div> -<div class="verse">From joy to joy: for she can so inform</div> -<div class="verse">The mind that is within us, so impress</div> -<div class="verse">With quietness and beauty, and so feed</div> -<div class="verse">With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,</div> -<div class="verse">Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all</div> -<div class="verse">The dreary intercourse of daily life,</div> -<div class="verse">Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb</div> -<div class="verse">Our cheerful faith that all which we behold</div> -<div class="verse">Is full of blessings.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Side by side with this revelation of Nature, and -interwoven with it so closely as to be inseparable, -Wordsworth was receiving a revelation of humanity, -no less marvellous, no less significant for his recovery -of joy. Indeed he himself seems to have -thought it the more important of the two, for he -speaks of the mind of man as</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“My haunt and the main region of my song”;</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And again he says that he will set out, like an adventurer,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“And through the human heart explore the way;</div> -<div class="verse">And look and listen—gathering whence I may,</div> -<div class="verse">Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> - -<p>The discovery of humble life, of peasant character, -of lowly, trivial scenes and incidents, as a -field for poetry, was not original with Wordsworth. -But he was the first English poet to explore this field -thoroughly, sympathetically, with steady and deepening -joy. Burns had been there before him; but -the song of Burns though clear and passionate, was -fitful. Cowper had been there before him; but Cowper -was like a visitor from the polite world, never an -inhabitant, never quite able to pierce gently, powerfully -down to the realities of lowly life and abide -in them. Crabbe had been there before him; but -Crabbe was something of a pessimist; he felt the -rough shell of the nut, but did not taste the sweet -kernel.</p> - -<p>Wordsworth, if I may draw a comparison from -another art, was the Millet of English poetry. In -his verse we find the same quality of perfect comprehension, -of tender pathos, of absolute truth interfused -with delicate beauty that makes Millet’s -<cite>Angelus</cite>, and <cite>The Gleaners</cite> and <cite>The Sower</cite> and <cite>The -Sheepfold</cite>, immortal visions of the lowly life. Place -beside these pictures, if you will, Wordsworth’s -<cite>Solitary Reaper</cite>, <cite>The Old Cumberland Beggar</cite>, <cite>Margaret</cite><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -waiting in her ruined cottage for the husband -who would never return, <cite>Michael</cite>, the old shepherd -who stood, many and many a day, beside the unfinished -sheepfold which he had begun to build -with his lost boy,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“And never lifted up a single stone,”—</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">place these beside Millet’s pictures, and the poems -will bear the comparison.</p> - -<p>Coleridge called Wordsworth “a miner of the -human heart.” But there is a striking peculiarity -in his mining: he searched the most familiar places, -by the most simple methods, to bring out the rarest -and least suspected treasures. His discovery was -that there is an element of poetry, like some metal -of great value, diffused through the common clay -of every-day life.</p> - -<p>It is true that he did not always succeed in separating -the precious metal from the surrounding -dross. There were certain limitations in his mind -which prevented him from distinguishing that which -was familiar and precious, from that which was -merely familiar.</p> - -<p>One of these limitations was his lack of a sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -of humour. At a dinner-party he announced that -he was never witty but once in his life. When asked -to narrate the instance, after some hesitation he -said: “Well, I will tell you. I was standing some -time ago at the entrance of my cottage at Rydal -Mount. A man accosted me with the question, -‘Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?’ Whereupon -I said, ‘Why, my good friend, I didn’t know -till this moment that you had a wife!’” The humour -of this story is unintentional and lies otherwhere -than Wordsworth thought. The fact that -he was capable of telling it as a merry jest accounts -for the presence of many queer things in his poetry. -For example; the lines in <cite>Simon Lee</cite>,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Few months of life has he in store</div> -<div class="verse indent1">As he to you will tell,</div> -<div class="verse">For still the more he works, the more</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Do his weak ankles swell:”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">the stanza in <cite>Peter Bell</cite>, which Shelley was accused -of having maliciously invented, but which was actually -printed in the first edition of the poem,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Is it a party in a parlour</div> -<div class="verse">Cramming just as they on earth were crammed,</div> -<div class="verse">Some sipping punch—some sipping tea</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -<div class="verse">But, as you by their faces see,</div> -<div class="verse">All silent and all—damned?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">the couplet in the original version of <cite>The Blind -Highland Boy</cite> which describes him as embarking -on his voyage in</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“A household tub, like one of those</div> -<div class="verse">Which women use to wash their clothes.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">It is quite certain, I think, that Wordsworth’s insensibility -to the humourous side of things made -him incapable of perceiving one considerable source -of comfort and solace in lowly life. Plain and poor -people get a great deal of consolation, in their hard -journey, out of the rude but keen fun that they -take by the way. The sense of humour is a means -of grace.</p> - -<p>I doubt whether Wordsworth’s peasant-poetry -has ever been widely popular among peasants themselves. -There was an old farmer in the Lake Country -who had often seen the poet and talked with -him, and who remembered him well. Canon Rawnsley -has made an interesting record of some of the -old man’s reminiscences. When he was asked -whether he had ever read any of Wordsworth’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> -poetry, or seen any of his books about in the farmhouses, -he answered:</p> - -<p>“Ay, ay, time or two. But ya’re weel aware -there’s potry and potry. There’s potry wi’ a li’le -bit pleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can laugh -at or the childer understand, and some as takes a -deal of mastery to make out what’s said, and a deal -of Wordsworth’s was this sort, ye kna. You could -tell fra the man’s faace his potry would niver have -no laugh in it.”</p> - -<p>But when we have admitted these limitations, it -remains true that no other English poet has penetrated -so deeply into the springs of poetry which -rise by every cottage door, or sung so nobly of the -treasures which are hidden in the humblest human -heart, as Wordsworth has. This is his merit, his -incomparable merit, that he has done so much, amid -the hard conditions, the broken dreams, and the -cruel necessities of life, to remind us how rich we -are in being simply human.</p> - -<p>Like Clifford, in the <cite>Song at the Feast of Brougham -Castle</cite>,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<p class="noindent">and thenceforth his chosen task was to explore the -beauty and to show the power of that common love.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“There is a comfort in the strength of love;</div> -<div class="verse">’Twill make a thing endurable, which else</div> -<div class="verse">Would overset the brain or break the heart.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He found the best portion of a good man’s life in</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“His little, nameless, unremembered acts</div> -<div class="verse">Of kindness and of love.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In <cite>The Old Cumberland Beggar</cite> he declared</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent10">“’Tis Nature’s law</div> -<div class="verse">That none, the meanest of created things,</div> -<div class="verse">Of forms created the most vile and brute,</div> -<div class="verse">The dullest or most noxious, should exist</div> -<div class="verse">Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,</div> -<div class="verse">A life and soul, to every mode of being</div> -<div class="verse">Inseparably linked.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And then he went on to trace, not always with full -poetic inspiration, but still with many touches of -beautiful insight, the good that the old beggar did -and received in the world, by wakening among the -peasants to whose doors he came from year to year, -the memory of past deeds of charity, by giving them -a sense of kinship with the world of want and sorrow, -and by bestowing on them in their poverty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -the opportunity of showing mercy to one whose -needs were even greater than their own; for,—the -poet adds—with one of those penetrating flashes -which are the surest mark of his genius,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Man is dear to man; the poorest poor</div> -<div class="verse">Long for some moments in a weary life</div> -<div class="verse">When they can know and feel that they have been,</div> -<div class="verse">Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out</div> -<div class="verse">Of some small blessings; have been kind to such</div> -<div class="verse">As needed kindness, for this single cause</div> -<div class="verse">That we have all of us one human heart.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Nor did Wordsworth forget, in his estimate of the -value of the simplest life, those pleasures which are -shared by all men.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;</div> -<div class="verse">And hermits are contented with their cells;</div> -<div class="verse">And students with their pensive citadels;</div> -<div class="verse">Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,</div> -<div class="verse">Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom</div> -<div class="verse">High as the highest Peak of Furniss-fells,</div> -<div class="verse">Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells;</div> -<div class="verse">In truth the prison, unto which we doom</div> -<div class="verse">Ourselves, no prison is.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He sees a Miller dancing with two girls on the platform -of a boat moored in the river Thames, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -breaks out into a song on the “stray pleasures” -that are spread through the earth to be claimed by -whoever shall find them. A little crowd of poor -people gather around a wandering musician in a -city street, and the poet cries,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;</div> -<div class="verse">Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream;</div> -<div class="verse">They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He describes Coleridge and himself as lying together -on the greensward in the orchard by the cottage at -Grasmere, and says</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“If but a bird, to keep them company,</div> -<div class="verse">Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,</div> -<div class="verse">As pleased as if the same had been a maiden Queen.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">It was of such simple and unchartered blessings -that he loved to sing. He did not think that the -vain or the worldly would care to listen to his voice. -Indeed he said in a memorable passage of gentle scorn -that he did not expect his poetry to be fashionable. -“It is an awful truth,” wrote he to Lady Beaumont, -“that there neither is nor can be any genuine enjoyment -of poetry among nineteen out of twenty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -of those persons who either live or wish to live in -the broad light of the world,—among those who -either are, or are striving to make themselves, people -of consideration in society. This is a truth, and an -awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of -poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without -love of human nature and reverence for God.” He -did not expect that his poetry would be popular in -that world where men and women devote themselves -to the business of pleasure, and where they care -only for the things that minister to vanity or selfishness,—and -it never was.</p> - -<p>But there was another world where he expected -to be welcome and of service. He wished his poetry -to cheer the solitary, to uplift the downcast, to bid -the despairing hope again, to teach the impoverished -how much treasure was left to them. In short, he -intended by the quiet ministry of his art to be one -of those</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Poets who keep the world in heart,”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">—and so he was.</p> - -<p>It is impossible to exaggerate the value of such -a service. Measured by any true and vital standard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -Wordsworth’s contribution to the welfare of mankind -was greater, more enduring than that of the -amazing Corsican, Bonaparte, who was born but a -few months before him and blazed his way to glory. -Wordsworth’s service was to life at its fountain-head. -His remedy for the despair and paralysis of -the soul was not the prescription of a definite philosophy -as an antidote. It was a hygienic method, -a simple, healthful, loving life in fellowship with -man and nature, by which the native tranquillity -and vigour of the soul would be restored. The tendency -of his poetry is to enhance our interest in -humanity, to promote the cultivation of the small -but useful virtues, to brighten our joy in common -things, and to deepen our trust in a wise, kind, over-ruling -God. Wordsworth gives us not so much a -new scheme of life as a new sense of its interior and -inalienable wealth. His calm, noble, lofty poetry -is needed to-day to counteract the belittling and -distracting influence of great cities; to save us from -that most modern form of insanity, publicomania, -which sacrifices all the sanctities of life to the craze -for advertising; and to make a little quiet space in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -the heart, where those who are still capable of -thought, in this age of clattering machinery, shall -be able to hear themselves think.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>But there is one still deeper element in Wordsworth’s -poetry. He tells us very clearly that the -true liberty and grandeur of <em>mankind</em> are to be found -along the line of obedience to law and fidelity to -duty. This is the truth which was revealed to him, -slowly and serenely, as a consolation for the loss of -his brief revolutionary dream. He learned to rejoice -in it more and more deeply, and to proclaim -it more and more clearly, as his manhood settled -into firmness and strength.</p> - -<p>Fixing his attention at first upon the humblest -examples of the power of the human heart to resist -unfriendly circumstances, as in <cite>Resolution and -Independence</cite>, and to endure sufferings and trials, -as in <cite>Margaret</cite> and <cite>Michael</cite>, he grew into a new -conception of the right nobility. He saw that it -was not necessary to make a great overturning of -society before the individual man could begin to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -fulfil his destiny. “What then remains?” he -cries—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent15">“To seek</div> -<div class="verse">Those helps for his occasion ever near</div> -<div class="verse">Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed</div> -<div class="verse">On the first motion of a holy thought;</div> -<div class="verse">Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer—</div> -<div class="verse">A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart,</div> -<div class="verse">Issuing however feebly, nowhere flows</div> -<div class="verse">Without access of unexpected strength.</div> -<div class="verse">But, above all, the victory is sure</div> -<div class="verse">For him, who seeking faith by virtue, strives</div> -<div class="verse">To yield entire submission to the law</div> -<div class="verse">Of conscience—conscience reverenced and obeyed,</div> -<div class="verse">As God’s most intimate presence in the soul,</div> -<div class="verse">And his most perfect image in the world.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">If we would hear this message breathed in tones of -lyric sweetness, as to the notes of a silver harp, we -may turn to Wordsworth’s poems on the Skylark,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;</div> -<div class="verse">True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">If we would hear it proclaimed with grandeur, as -by a solemn organ; or with martial ardour, as by -a ringing trumpet, we may read the <cite>Ode to Duty</cite> or -<cite>The Character of the Happy Warrior</cite>, two of the -noblest and most weighty poems that Wordsworth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -ever wrote. There is a certain distinction and elevation -about his moral feelings which makes them -in themselves poetic. In his poetry beauty is goodness -and goodness is beauty.</p> - -<p>But I think it is in the Sonnets that this element -of Wordsworth’s poetry finds the broadest and most -perfect expression. For here he sweeps upward -from the thought of the freedom and greatness of -the individual man to the vision of nations and -races emancipated and ennobled by loyalty to the -right. How pregnant and powerful are his phrases! -“Plain living and high thinking.” “The homely -beauty of the good old cause.” “A few strong instincts -and a few plain rules.” “Man’s unconquerable -mind.” “By the soul only, the Nations shall -be great and free.” The whole series of <cite>Sonnets -addressed to Liberty</cite>, published in 1807, is full of -poetic and prophetic fire. But none among them -burns with a clearer light, none is more characteristic -of him at his best, than that which is entitled -<cite>London, 1802</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour;</div> -<div class="verse">England hath need of thee; she is a fen</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,</div> -<div class="verse">Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,</div> -<div class="verse">Have forfeited their ancient English dower</div> -<div class="verse">Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;</div> -<div class="verse">Oh! raise us up; return to us again;</div> -<div class="verse">And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.</div> -<div class="verse">Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;</div> -<div class="verse">Thou had’st a voice whose sound was like the sea:</div> -<div class="verse">Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,</div> -<div class="verse">So didst thou travel on life’s common way</div> -<div class="verse">In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart</div> -<div class="verse">The lowliest duties on herself did lay.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>This sonnet embraces within its “scanty plot of -ground” the roots of Wordsworth’s strength. Here -is his view of nature in the kinship between the -lonely star and the solitary soul. Here is his recognition -of life’s common way as the path of honour, -and of the lowliest duties as the highest. Here is -his message that manners and virtue must go before -freedom and power. And here is the deep spring -and motive of all his work, in the thought that <em>joy</em>, -<em>inward happiness</em>, is the dower that has been lost -and must be regained.</p> - -<p>Here then I conclude this chapter on Wordsworth. -There are other things that might well be said about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -him, indeed that would need to be said if this were -intended for a complete estimate of his influence. -I should wish to speak of the deep effect which -his poetry has had upon the style of other poets, -breaking the bondage of “poetic diction” and leading -the way to a simpler and more natural utterance. -I should need to touch upon his alleged -betrayal of his early revolutionary principles in -politics, and to show, (if a paradox may be pardoned), -that he never had them and that he always kept -them. He never forsook liberty; he only changed -his conception of it. He saw that the reconstruction -of society must be preceded by reconstruction -of the individual. Browning’s stirring lyric, <cite>The -Lost Leader</cite>,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Just for a handful of silver he left us,</div> -<div class="verse indent3">Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,”—</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">may have been written with Wordsworth in mind, -but it was a singularly infelicitous suggestion of a -remarkably good poem.</p> - -<p>All of these additions would be necessary if this -estimate were intended to be complete. But it is -not, and so let it stand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>If we were to choose a motto for Wordsworth’s -poetry it might be this: “Rejoice, and again I say -unto you, rejoice.” And if we looked farther for a -watchword, we might take it from that other great -poet, Isaiah, standing between the fierce radicals -and sullen conservatives of Israel, and saying,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“In quietness and confidence shall be your strength,</div> -<div class="verse">In rest and in returning ye shall be saved.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_GLORY_OF_THE_IMPERFECT">“THE GLORY OF THE IMPERFECT”<br /> -<span class="smaller">ROBERT BROWNING’S POETRY</span></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is a striking contrast between the poetry -of Browning and the poetry of Wordsworth; and -this comes naturally from the difference between -the two men in genius, temperament and life. I -want to trace carefully and perhaps more clearly -some of the lines of that difference. I do not propose -to ask which of them ranks higher as poet. -That seems to me a futile question. The contrast -in kind interests me more than the comparison of -degree. And this contrast, I think, can best be -felt and understood through a closer knowledge of -the central theme of each of the two poets.</p> - -<p>Wordsworth is a poet of recovered joy. He brings -consolation and refreshment to the heart,—consolation -which is passive strength, refreshment -which is peaceful energy. His poetry is addressed -not to crowds, but to men standing alone, and feeling -their loneliness most deeply when the crowd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> -presses most tumultuously about them. He speaks -to us one by one, distracted by the very excess of -life, separated from humanity by the multitude of -men, dazzled by the shifting variety of hues into -which the eternal light is broken by the prism of -the world,—one by one he accosts us, and leads us -gently back, if we will follow him, into a more tranquil -region and a serener air. There we find the -repose of “a heart at leisure from itself.” There -we feel the unity of man and nature, and of both -in God. There we catch sight of those eternal stars -of truth whose shining, though sometimes hidden, -is never dimmed by the cloud-confusions of morality. -Such is the mission of Wordsworth to the -age. Matthew Arnold has described it with profound -beauty.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“He found us when the age had bound</div> -<div class="verse">Our souls in its benumbing round,</div> -<div class="verse">He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.</div> -<div class="verse">He laid us as we lay at birth</div> -<div class="verse">On the cool flowery lap of earth,</div> -<div class="verse">Smiles broke from us and we had ease,</div> -<div class="verse">The hills were round us, and the breeze</div> -<div class="verse">Went o’er the sun-lit fields again:</div> -<div class="verse">Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Our youth returned; for there was shed</div> -<div class="verse">On spirits that had long been dead,</div> -<div class="verse">Spirits dried up and closely furled,</div> -<div class="verse">The freshness of the early world.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But precious as such a service is and ever must -be, it does not fill the whole need of man’s heart. -There are times and moods in which it seems pale -and ineffectual. The very contrast between its -serenity, its assurance, its disembodied passion, its -radiant asceticism, and the mixed lights, the broken -music, the fluctuating faith, the confused conflict -of actual life, seems like a discouragement. It calls -us to go into a retreat, that we may find ourselves -and renew our power to live. But there are natures -which do not easily adapt themselves to a retreat,—natures -which crave stimulus more than consolation, -and look for a solution of life’s problem that can be -worked out while they are in motion. They do not -wish, perhaps they are not able, to withdraw themselves -from active life even for the sake of seeing -it more clearly.</p> - -<p>Wordsworth’s world seems to them too bare, too -still, too monotonous. The rugged and unpopulous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -mountains, the lonely lakes, the secluded vales, do -not attract them as much as the fertile plain with -its luxuriant vegetation, the whirling city, the -crowded highways of trade and pleasure. Simplicity -is strange to them; complexity is their native -element. They want music, but they want it -to go with them in the march, the parade, the festal -procession. The poet for them must be in the world, -though he need not be altogether of it. He must -speak of the rich and varied life of man as one who -knows its artificial as well as its natural elements,—palaces -as well as cottages, courts as well as sheep-folds. -Art and politics and literature and science -and churchmanship and society,—all must be familiar -to him, material to his art, significant to his -interpretation. His message must be modern and -militant. He must not disregard doubt and rebellion -and discord, but take them into his poetry and transform -them. He must front</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The cloud of mortal destiny,”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and make the most of the light that breaks through -it. Such a poet is Robert Browning; and his poetry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> -is the direct answer to at least one side of the modern -<i lang="de">Zeitgeist</i>, restless, curious, self-conscious, energetic, -the active, questioning spirit.</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Browning’s poetic work-time covered a period of -about fifty-six years, (1833-1889,) and during this -time he published over thirty volumes of verse, -containing more than two hundred and thirty poems, -the longest, <cite>The Ring and the Book</cite>, extending to -nearly twenty-one thousand lines. It was an immense -output, greater I think, in mass, than that of -almost any other English poet except Shakespeare. -The mere fact of such productiveness is worth noting, -because it is a proof of the activity of the poet’s -mind, and also because it may throw some light -upon certain peculiarities in the quality of his work.</p> - -<p>Browning not only wrote much himself, he was -also the cause of much writing in others. Commentaries, -guide-books, handbooks, and expositions -have grown up around his poetry so fast that the -vines almost hide the trellis. The Browning Literature -now demands not merely a shelf, but a whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -case to itself in the library. It has come to such a -pass that one must choose between reading the -books that Browning wrote and the books that -other people have written about Browning. Life -is too short for both.</p> - -<p>A reason, if not a justification, for this growth -of a locksmith literature about his work is undoubtedly -to be found in what Mr. Augustine Birrell -calls “The Alleged Obscurity of Mr. Browning’s -Poetry.” The adjective in this happy title indicates -one of the points in the voluminous discussion. -Does the difficulty in understanding Browning lie -in him, or in his readers? Is it an accidental defect -of his style, or a valuable element of his art, -or an inherent profundity of his subject that makes -him hard to read? Or does the trouble reside altogether -in the imagination of certain readers, or perhaps -in their lack of it? This question was debated -so seriously as to become at times almost personal -and threaten the unity of households if not the peace -of nations. Browning himself was accustomed to -tell the story of a young man who could not read -his poetry, falling deeply in love with a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -woman who would hardly read anything else. She -made it a condition of her favour that her lover -should learn to love her poet, and therefore set the -marriage day at a point beyond the time when the -bridegroom could present himself before her with -convincing evidence that he had perused the works -of Browning down to the last line. Such was the -strength of love that the condition was triumphantly -fulfilled. The poet used to tell with humourous -satisfaction that he assisted in person at the wedding -of these two lovers whose happiness he had -unconsciously delayed and accomplished.</p> - -<p>But an incident like this does not contribute much -to the settlement of the controversy which it illustrates. -Love is a notorious miracle-worker. The -question of Browning’s obscurity is still debatable; -and whatever may be said on one side or the other, -one fact must be recognized: it is not yet quite clear -whether his poetry is clear or not.</p> - -<p>To this fact I would trace the rise and flourishing -of Browning Societies in considerable abundance, -during the late Victorian Era, especially near Boston. -The enterprise of reading and understanding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> -Browning presented itself as an affair too large and -difficult for the intellectual capital of any private -person. Corporations were formed, stock companies -of intelligence were promoted, for the purpose of -working the field of his poetry. The task which -daunted the solitary individual was courageously -undertaken by phalanxes and cheerfully pursued in -fellowship. Thus the obscurity, alleged or actual, of -the poet’s writing, having been at first a hindrance, -afterward became an advertisement to his fame. -The charm of the enigma, the fascination of solving -riddles, the pleasure of understanding something -which other people at least professed to be unable to -understand, entered distinctly into the growth of his -popularity. A Browning cult, a Browning propaganda, -came into being and toiled tremendously.</p> - -<p>One result of the work of these clubs and societies -is already evident: they have done much to remove -the cause which called them into being. It is generally -recognized that a considerable part of Browning’s -poetry is not really so difficult after all. It -can be read and enjoyed by any one whose mind -is in working order. Those innocent and stupid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> -Victorians were wrong about it. We alert and sagacious -George-the-Fifthians need some tougher -poetry to try our mettle. So I suppose the Browning -Societies, having fulfilled their function, will -gradually fade away,—or perhaps transfer their -attention to some of those later writers who have -put obscurity on a scientific basis and raised impenetrability -to a fine art. Meantime I question -whether all the claims which were made on behalf -of Browning in the period of propaganda will be -allowed at their face value. For example, that <cite>The -Ring and the Book</cite> is “the greatest work of creative -imagination that has appeared since the time of -Shakespeare,”<a name="FNanchor_10" id="FNanchor_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> and that <cite>A Grammarian’s Funeral</cite> -is “the most powerful ode in English, the mightiest -tribute ever paid to a man,”<a name="FNanchor_11" id="FNanchor_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> and that Browning’s -“style as it stands is God-made, not Browning-made,”<a name="FNanchor_12" id="FNanchor_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> -appear even now like drafts on glory which -must be discounted before they are paid. Nor does -it seem probable that the general proposition which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -was sometimes advanced by extreme Browningites, -(and others,) to the effect that all great poetry <em>ought</em> -to be hard to read, and that a poem which is easy -cannot be great, will stand the test of time. Milton’s -<cite>Comus</cite>, Gray’s <cite>Elegy</cite>, Wordsworth’s <cite>Ode on -the Intimations of Immortality</cite>, Shelley’s <cite>Skylark</cite>, -Keats’ <cite>Grecian Urn</cite>, and Tennyson’s <cite>Guinevere</cite> cannot -be reduced to the rank of minor verse by such -a formula.</p> - -<p>And yet it must be said that the very extravagance -of the claims which were made for Browning, -the audacity of enthusiasm which he inspired in his -expositors, is a proof of the reality and the potency -of his influence. Men are not kindled where there -is no fire. Men do not keep on guessing riddles -unless the answers have some interest and value. -A stock company cannot create a prophet out of -straw. Browning must have had something important -to say to the age, and he must have succeeded -in saying it in a way which was suitable, -in spite of its defects, to convey his message, else -we may be sure his age never would have listened -to him, even by select companies, nor discussed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> -him, even in a partisan temper, nor felt his influence, -even at second-hand.</p> - -<p>What was it, then, that he had to say, and how -did he say it? What was the theme of his poetry, -what the method by which he found it, what the -manner in which he treated it, and what the central -element of his disposition by which the development -of his genius was impelled and guided? These -are the questions,—questions of fact rather than of -theory,—that particularly interest me in regard to -Browning. And I hope it may be possible to consider -them from a somewhat fresh point of view, -and without entering into disturbing and unprofitable -comparisons of rank with Shakespeare and the -other poets.</p> - -<p>But there is no reason why the answers to these -questions should be concealed until the end of the -chapter. It may be better to state them now, in -order that we may be able to test them as we go on, -and judge whether they are justified and how far -they need to be qualified. There is a particular -reason for taking this course, in the fact that -Browning changed very little in the process of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -growth. There were alterations in his style, but -there was no real alteration in the man, nor in his -poetry. His first theme was his last theme. -His early manner of treatment was his latest -manner of treatment. What he said at the beginning -he said again at the end. With the greatest -possible variety of titles he had but one main -topic; with the widest imaginable range of subjects, -he used chiefly one method and reached but -one conclusion; with a nature of almost unlimited -breadth he was always under control of one central -impulse and loyal to one central quality. -Let me try, then, to condense the general impression -into a paragraph and take up the particulars -afterwards, point by point.</p> - -<p>The clew to Browning’s mind, it seems to me, is -vivid and inexhaustible curiosity, dominated by a -strangely steady optimism. His topic is not the -soul, in the abstract, but souls in the concrete. -His chosen method is that of spiritual drama, and -for the most part, monodrama. His manner is the -intense, subtle, passionate style of psychological -realism. His message, uttered through the lips of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -a hundred imaginary characters, but always with -his own accent,—his message is “the Glory of the -Imperfect.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus5"> -<img src="images/illus5.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">ROBERT BROWNING.</p> -<p class="caption">Painted by G. F. Watts.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.</i></p> -</div> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>The best criticisms of the poets have usually come -from other poets, and often in the form of verse. -Landor wrote of Browning,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“Since Chaucer was alive and hale</div> -<div class="verse">No man hath walked along our roads with step</div> -<div class="verse">So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue</div> -<div class="verse">So varied in discourse.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This is a thumb-nail sketch of Browning’s personality,—not -complete, but very lifelike. And when -we add to it Landor’s prose saying that “his is the -surest foot since Chaucer’s, that has waked the -echoes from <em>the difficult places</em> of poetry and of life” -we have a sufficiently plain clew to the unfolding -of Browning’s genius. Unwearying activity, intense -curiosity, variety of expression, and a predominant -interest in the difficult places of poetry and of life,—these -were the striking characteristics of his mind. -In his heart a native optimism, an unconquerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -hopefulness, was the ruling factor. But of that I -shall not speak until later, when we come to consider -his message. For the present we are looking -simply for the mainspring of his immense intellectual -energy.</p> - -<p>When I say that the clew to Browning’s mind is -to be found in his curiosity, I do not mean inquisitiveness, -but a very much larger and nobler quality, -for which we have no good word in English,—something -which corresponds with the German <i lang="de">Wissbegier</i>, -as distinguished from <i lang="de">Neugier</i>: an ardent -desire to know things as they are, to penetrate as -many as possible of the secrets of actual life. This, -it seems to me, is the key to Browning’s intellectual -disposition. He puts it into words in his first poem -<cite>Pauline</cite>, where he makes the nameless hero speak -of his life as linked to</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent1">“a principle of restlessness</div> -<div class="verse">Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all—</div> -<div class="verse">This is myself; and I should thus have been</div> -<div class="verse">Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><cite>Paracelsus</cite> is only an expansion of this theme in -the biography of a soul. In <cite>Fra Lippo Lippi</cite> the -painter says:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“God made it all!</div> -<div class="verse">For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,</div> -<div class="verse">For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s line,</div> -<div class="verse">The mountain round it and the sky above,</div> -<div class="verse">Much more the figures of man, woman, child,</div> -<div class="verse">These are the frame to? What’s it all about?</div> -<div class="verse">To be passed over, despised? Or dwelt upon,</div> -<div class="verse">Wondered at? oh, this last of course!—you say.</div> -<div class="verse">But why not do as well as say, paint these</div> -<div class="verse">Just as they are, careless what comes of it?</div> -<div class="verse">God’s works—paint any one and count it crime</div> -<div class="verse">To let a truth slip.</div> -<div class="verse indent6">... This world’s no blot for us,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor blank; it means intensely and means good:</div> -<div class="verse">To find its meaning is my meat and drink.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">No poet was ever more interested in life than -Browning, and whatever else may be said of his -poetry it must be admitted that it is very interesting. -He touches all sides of human activity and -peers into the secret places of knowledge. He enters -into the life of musicians in <cite>Abt Vogler</cite>, <cite>Master -Hugues of Saxe-Gotha</cite>, <cite>A Toccata of Galuppi’s</cite>, and -<cite>Charles Avison</cite>; into the life of painters in <cite>Andrea -del Sarto</cite>, <cite>Pictor Ignotus</cite>, <cite>Fra Lippo Lippi</cite>, <cite>Old Pictures -in Florence</cite>, <cite>Gerard de Lairesse</cite>, <cite>Pacchiarotto -and How He Worked in Distemper</cite>, and <cite>Francis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> -Furini</cite>; into the life of scholars in <cite>A Grammarian’s -Funeral</cite> and <cite>Fust and his Friends</cite>; into the -life of politicians in <cite>Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau</cite> -and <cite>George Bubb Dodington</cite>; into the life of ecclesiastics -in the <cite>Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister</cite>, <cite>Bishop -Blougram’s Apology</cite>, <cite>The Bishop orders his Tomb -at Saint Praxed’s Church</cite>, and <cite>The Ring and the Book</cite>; -and he makes excursions into all kinds of byways -and crooked corners of life in such poems as -<cite>Mr. Sludge, the Medium</cite>, <cite>Porphyria’s Lover</cite>, <cite>Mesmerism</cite>, -<cite>Johannes Agricola in Meditation</cite>, <cite>Pietro of -Abano</cite>, <cite>Ned Bratts</cite>, <cite>Jochanan Hakkadosh</cite>, and so -forth.</p> - -<p>Merely to read a list of such titles is to have evidence -of Browning’s insatiable curiosity. It is evident -also that he has a fondness for out-of-the-way -places. He wants to know, even more than he wants -to enjoy. If Wordsworth is the poet of the common -life, Browning is the poet of the uncommon life. -Extraordinary situations and eccentric characters -attract him. Even when he is looking at some familiar -scene, at some commonplace character, his -effort is to discover something that shall prove that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> -it is not familiar, not commonplace,—a singular -detail, a striking feature, a mark of individuality. -This gives him more pleasure than any distant -vision of an abstraction or a general law.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“All that I know</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Of a certain star</div> -<div class="verse">Is, it can throw</div> -<div class="verse indent1">(Like the angled spar)</div> -<div class="verse">Now a dart of red,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Now a dart of blue;</div> -<div class="verse">Till my friends have said</div> -<div class="verse">They would fain see, too,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">My star that dartles the red and the blue!</div> -<div class="verse">Then it stops like a bird; like a flower hangs furled;</div> -<div class="verse indent1">They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.</div> -<div class="verse">What matter to me if their star is a world?</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Mine has opened its soul to me, therefore I love it.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>One consequence of this penetrating, personal -quality of mind is that Browning’s pages teem with -portraits of men and women, which are like sculptures -and paintings of the Renaissance. They are -more individual than they are typical. There is a -peculiarity about each one of them which almost -makes us forget to ask whether they have any general -relation and value. The presentations are so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -sharp and vivid that their representative quality is -lost.</p> - -<p>If Wordsworth is the Millet of poetry, Browning -is the Holbein or the Denner. He never misses the -mole, the wrinkle, the twist of the eyebrow, which -makes the face stand out alone, the sudden touch of -self-revelation which individualizes the character. -Thus we find in Browning’s poetry few types of -humanity, but plenty of men.</p> - -<p>Yet he seldom, if ever, allows us to forget the -background of society. His figures are far more -individual than Wordsworth’s, but far less solitary. -Behind each of them we feel the world out of which -they have come and to which they belong. There -is a sense of crowded life surging through his poetry. -The city, with all that it means, is not often completely -out of view. “Shelley’s characters,” says a -thoughtful essayist, “are creatures of wave and -sky; Wordsworth’s of green English fields; Browning’s -move in the house, the palace, the street.”<a name="FNanchor_13" id="FNanchor_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> -In many of them, even when they are soliloquizing, -there is a curious consciousness of opposition, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> -conflict. They seem to be defending themselves -against unseen adversaries, justifying their course -against the judgment of absent critics. Thus Bishop -Blougram while he talks over the walnuts and the -wine to Mr. Gigadibs, the sceptical hack-writer, -has a worldful of religious conservatives and radicals -in his eye and makes his half-cynical, wholly militant, -apology for agnostic orthodoxy to them. The -old huntsman, in <cite>The Flight of the Duchess</cite>, is maintaining -the honour of his fugitive mistress against -the dried-up, stiff, conventional society from which -she has eloped with the Gypsies. Andrea del Sarto, -looking at the soulless fatal beauty of his Lucrezia, -and meditating on the splendid failure of his art, -cries out to Rafael and Michelangelo and all his -compeers to understand and judge him.</p> - -<p>Even when Browning writes of romantic love, -(one of his two favourite subjects), he almost always -heightens its effect by putting it in relief against the -ignorance, the indifference, the busyness, or the -hostility of the great world. In <cite>Cristina</cite> and <cite>Evelyn -Hope</cite> half the charm of the passion lies in the feeling -that it means everything to the lover though no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> -one else in the world may know of its existence. -<cite>Porphyria’s Lover</cite>, in a fit of madness, kills his mistress -to keep her from going back to the world which -would divide them. The sweet searching melody -of <cite>In a Gondola</cite> plays itself athwart a sullen distant -accompaniment of Venetian tyranny and ends with -a swift stroke of vengeance from the secret Three.</p> - -<p>Take, for an example of Browning’s way of enhancing -love by contrast, that most exquisite and -subtle lyric called <cite>Love Among the Ruins</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Miles and miles</div> -<div class="verse">On the solitary pastures where our sheep</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Half asleep</div> -<div class="verse">Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stay or stop</div> -<div class="verse indent6">As they crop—</div> -<div class="verse">Was the site once of a city great and gay</div> -<div class="verse indent6">(So they say)</div> -<div class="verse">Of our country’s very capital, its prince</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Ages since</div> -<div class="verse">Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Peace or war.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Smiles to leave</div> -<div class="verse">To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece</div> -<div class="verse indent6">In such peace,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> -<div class="verse">And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Melt away—</div> -<div class="verse">That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Waits me there</div> -<div class="verse">In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul</div> -<div class="verse indent6">For the goal,</div> -<div class="verse">When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Till I come.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse center">...</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">In one year they sent a million fighters forth</div> -<div class="verse indent6">South and North,</div> -<div class="verse">And they built their gods a brazen pillar high</div> -<div class="verse indent6">As the sky,</div> -<div class="verse">Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Gold of course.</div> -<div class="verse">Oh heart! Oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Earth’s returns</div> -<div class="verse">For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Shut them in,</div> -<div class="verse">With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Love is best.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>“Love is best!” That is one of the cardinal -points of Browning’s creed. He repeats it in a hundred -ways: tragically in <cite>A Blot in the ’Scutcheon</cite>; -sentimentally in <cite>A Lover’s Quarrel</cite>, <cite>Two in the Campagna</cite>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -<cite>The Last Ride Together</cite>; heroically in <cite>Colombe’s -Birthday</cite>; in the form of a paradox in <cite>The -Statue and the Bust</cite>; as a personal experience in -<cite>By the Fireside</cite>, <cite>One Word More</cite>, and at the end of -the prelude to <cite>The Ring and the Book</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“For life, with all it yields of joy and woe</div> -<div class="verse">And hope and fear, ...</div> -<div class="verse">Is just our chance o’ the prize of learning love.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But it must be confessed that he does not often -say it as clearly, as quietly, as beautifully as in <cite>Love -Among the Ruins</cite>. For his chosen method is dramatic -and his natural manner is psychological. So -ardently does he follow this method, so entirely -does he give himself up to this manner that his style</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent10">“is subdued</div> -<div class="verse">To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In the dedicatory note to <cite>Sordello</cite>, written in 1863, -he says “My stress lay in the incidents in the development -of a <em>soul</em>; little else is worth study.” -He felt intensely</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“How the world is made for each of us!</div> -<div class="verse indent1">How all we perceive and know in it</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Tends to some moment’s product thus,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">When a soul declares itself—to wit,</div> -<div class="verse">By its fruit, the thing it does!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In <cite>One Word More</cite> he describes his own poetry with -keen insight:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Love, you saw me gather men and women,</div> -<div class="verse">Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy,</div> -<div class="verse">Enter each and all and use their service,</div> -<div class="verse">Speak from every mouth,—the speech a poem.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It is a mistake to say that Browning is a metaphysical -poet: he is a psychological poet. His interest -does not lie in the abstract problems of time -and space, mind and matter, divinity and humanity. -It lies in the concrete problems of opportunity -and crisis, flesh and spirit, man the individual and -God the person. He is an anatomist of souls.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Take the least man of all mankind, as I;</div> -<div class="verse">Look at his head and heart, find how and why</div> -<div class="verse">He differs from his fellows utterly.”<a name="FNanchor_14" id="FNanchor_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But his way of finding out this personal equation -is not by observation and reflection. It is by throwing -himself into the character and making it reveal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> -itself by intricate self-analysis or by impulsive action. -What his poetry lacks is the temperate zone. -He has the arctic circle of intellect and the tropics -of passion. But he seldom enters the intermediate -region of sentiment, reflection, sympathy, equable -and prolonged feeling. Therefore it is that few of -his poems have the power of “sinking inward from -thought to thought” as Wordsworth’s do. They -surprise us, rouse us, stimulate us, more than they -rest us. He does not penetrate with a mild and -steady light through the portals of the human heart, -making them transparent. He flings them wide -open suddenly, and often the gates creak on their -hinges. He is forever tying Gordian knots in the -skein of human life and cutting them with the sword -of swift action or intense passion. His psychological -curiosity creates the difficulties, his intuitive optimism -solves them.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>The results of this preoccupation with such subjects -and of this manner of dealing with them may -be recognized very easily in Browning’s work.</p> - -<p>First of all they turned him aside from becoming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> -a great Nature-poet, though he was well fitted to -be one. It is not that he loves Nature’s slow and -solemn pageant less, but that he loves man’s quick -and varied drama more. His landscapes are like -scenery for the stage. They accompany the unfolding -of the plot and change with it, but they do -not influence it. His observation is as keen, as accurate -as Wordsworth’s or Tennyson’s, but it is -less steady, less patient, less familiar. It is the observation -of one who passes through the country -but does not stay to grow intimate with it. The -forms of nature do not print themselves on his mind; -they flash vividly before him, and come and go. -Usually it is some intense human feeling that makes -the details of the landscape stand out so sharply. -In <cite>Pippa Passes</cite>, it is in the ecstasy of love that -Ottima and Sebald notice</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The garden’s silence: even the single bee</div> -<div class="verse">Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped,</div> -<div class="verse">And where he hid you only could surmise</div> -<div class="verse">By some campanula chalice set a-swing.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It is the sense of guilty passion that makes the -lightning-flashes, burning through the pine-forest, -seem like dagger-strokes,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“As if God’s messenger through the closed wood screen</div> -<div class="verse">Plunged and re-plunged his weapon at a venture,</div> -<div class="verse">Feeling for guilty thee and me.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In <cite>Home Thoughts from Abroad</cite>, it is the exile’s deep -homesickness that brings the quick, delicate vision -before his eyes:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Oh, to be in England</div> -<div class="verse">Now that April’s there,</div> -<div class="verse">And whoever wakes in England</div> -<div class="verse">Sees, some morning, unaware,</div> -<div class="verse">That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf</div> -<div class="verse">Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,</div> -<div class="verse">While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough</div> -<div class="verse">In England—now!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But Browning’s touches of nature are not always -as happy as this. Often he crowds the details too -closely, and fails to blend them with the ground of -the picture, so that the tonality is destroyed and -the effect is distracting. The foreground is too -vivid: the aerial perspective vanishes. There is -an impressionism that obscures the reality. As -Amiel says: “Under pretense that we want to study -it more in detail, we pulverize the statue.”</p> - -<p>Browning is at his best as a Nature-poet in sky-scapes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> -like the description of daybreak in <cite>Pippa -Passes</cite>, the lunar rainbow in <cite>Christmas Eve</cite>, and the -Northern Lights in <cite>Easter Day</cite>; and also in a kind -of work which might be called symbolic landscape, -where the imaginative vision of nature is made to -represent a human experience. A striking example -of this work is the scenery of <cite>Childe Roland</cite>, reflecting -as in a glass the grotesque horrors of spiritual -desolation. There is a passage in <cite>Sordello</cite> which -makes a fertile landscape, sketched in a few swift -lines, the symbol of Sordello’s luxuriant nature; -and another in Norbert’s speech, in <cite>In a Balcony</cite>, -which uses the calm self-abandonment of the world -in the tranquil evening light as the type of the sincerity -of the heart giving itself up to love. But -perhaps as good an illustration as we can find of -Browning’s quality as a Nature-poet, is a little bit -of mystery called <cite>Meeting at Night</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The gray sea and the long black land;</div> -<div class="verse">And the yellow half-moon, large and low;</div> -<div class="verse">And the startled little waves that leap</div> -<div class="verse">In fiery ringlets from their sleep,</div> -<div class="verse">As I gain the cove with pushing prow,</div> -<div class="verse">And quench its speed in the slushy sand.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;</div> -<div class="verse">Three fields to cross till a farm appears;</div> -<div class="verse">A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch</div> -<div class="verse">And the blue spirt of a lighted match,</div> -<div class="verse">And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,</div> -<div class="verse">Than the two hearts beating each to each!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This is the landscape of the drama.</p> - -<p>A second result of Browning’s preoccupation -with dramatic psychology is the close concentration -and “alleged obscurity” of his style. Here again -I evade the critical question whether the obscurity -is real, or whether it is only a natural and admirable -profundity to which an indolent reviewer has given -a bad name. That is a question which Posterity -must answer. But for us the fact remains that -some of his poetry is hard to read; it demands close -attention and strenuous effort; and when we find -a piece of it that goes very easily, like <cite>The Pied -Piper of Hamelin</cite>, <cite>How They brought the Good News -from Ghent to Aix</cite>, <cite>Hervé Riel</cite>, or the stirring <cite>Cavalier -Tunes</cite>, we are conscious of missing the sense of strain -which we have learned to associate with the reading -of Browning.</p> - -<p>One reason for this is the predominance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> -curiosity over harmony in his disposition. He tries -to express the inexpressible, to write the unwritable. -As Dr. Johnson said of Cowley, he has the -habit “of pursuing his thoughts to the last ramifications, -by which he loses the grandeur of generality.” -Another reason is the fluency, the fertility, -the haste of his genius, and his reluctance, or inability, -to put the brakes on his own productiveness.</p> - -<p>It seems probable that if Browning had been able -to write more slowly and carefully he might have -written with more lucidity. There was a time when -he made a point of turning off a poem a day. It -is doubtful whether the story of <cite>The Ring and the -Book</cite> gains in clearness by being told by eleven different -persons, all of them inclined to volubility.</p> - -<p>Yet Browning’s poetry is not verbose. It is singularly -condensed in the matter of language. He seems -to have made his most arduous effort in this direction. -After <cite>Paracelsus</cite> had been published and -pronounced “unintelligible,” he was inclined to -think that there might be some fault of too great -terseness in the style. But a letter from Miss Caroline -Fox was shown to him, in which that lady, (then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> -very young,) took the opposite view and asked -“doth he know that Wordsworth will devote a fortnight -or more to the discovery of the single word -that is the one fit for his sonnet.” Browning appears -to have been impressed by this criticism; -but he set himself to work upon it, not so much by -way of selecting words as by way of compressing -them. He put <cite>Sordello</cite> into a world where many of -the parts of speech are lacking and all are crowded. -He learned to pack the largest, possible amount of -meaning into the smallest possible space, as a hasty -traveller packs his portmanteau. Many small articles -are crushed and crumpled out of shape. He -adopted a system of elisions for the sake of brevity, -and loved, as C. S. Calverley said,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“to dock the smaller parts of speech</div> -<div class="verse">As we curtail th’ already curtailed cur.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">At the same time he seldom could resist the temptation -to put in another thought, another simile, another -illustration, although the poem might be already -quite full. He called out, like the conductor -of a street-car, “Move up in front: room for one -more!” He had little tautology of expression, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> -much of conception. A good critic says “Browning -condenses by the phrase, elaborates by the -volume.”<a name="FNanchor_15" id="FNanchor_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> - -<p>One consequence of this system of writing is that -a great deal of Browning’s poetry lends itself admirably -to translation,—into English. The number -of prose paraphrases of his poems is great, and -so constantly increasing that it seems as if there -must be a real demand for them. But Coleridge, -speaking of the qualities of a true poetic style, remarked: -“Whatever lines can be translated into -other words of the same language without diminution -of their significance, either in sense, or in association, -or in any other feeling, are so far vicious in -their diction.”</p> - -<p>Another very notable thing in Browning’s poetry -is his fertility and fluency of rhyme. He is probably -the most rapid, ingenious, and unwearying rhymer -among the English poets. There is a story that -once, in company with Tennyson, he was challenged -to produce a rhyme for “rhinoceros,” and almost -instantly accomplished the task with a verse in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> -which the unwieldy quadruped kept time and tune -with the phrase “he can toss Eros.”<a name="FNanchor_16" id="FNanchor_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> There are -other <i lang="fr">tours de force</i> almost as extraordinary in his -serious poems. Who but Browning would have -thought of rhyming “syntax” with “tin-tacks,” or -“spare-rib” with “Carib,” (<cite>Flight of Duchess</cite>) or -“Fra Angelico’s” with “bellicose,” or “Ghirlandajo” -with “heigh-ho,” (<cite>Old Pictures in Florence</cite>) or -“expansive explosive” with “O Danaides, O Sieve!” -(<cite>Master Hugues</cite>). Rhyme, with most poets, acts as -a restraint, a brake upon speech. But with Browning -it is the other way. His rhymes are like wild, -frolicsome horses, leaping over the fences and carrying -him into the widest digressions. Many a couplet, -many a stanza would not have been written but -for the impulse of a daring, suggestive rhyme.</p> - -<p>Join to this love of somewhat reckless rhyming, -his deep and powerful sense of humour, and you -have the secret of his fondness for the grotesque. -His poetry abounds in strange contrasts, sudden -changes of mood, incongruous comparisons, and -odd presentations of well-known subjects. Sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> -the whole poem is written in this manner. -The <cite>Soliloquy in a Spanish Cloister</cite>, <cite>Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis</cite>, -and <cite>Caliban upon Setebos</cite>, are poetic -gargoyles. Sometimes he begins seriously enough, -as in the poem on Keats, and closes with a bit of -fantastic irony:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:</div> -<div class="verse">Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats—</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?</div> -<div class="verse">What porridge had John Keats?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Sometimes the poem opens grotesquely, like <cite>Christmas -Eve</cite>, and rises swiftly to a wonderful height of -pure beauty and solemnity, dropping back into a -grotesque at the end. But all this play of fancy -must not be confused with the spirit of mockery or -of levity. It is often characteristic of the most serious -and earnest natures; it arises in fact from the -restlessness of mind in the contemplation of evil, -or from the perception of life’s difficulties and perplexities. -Shakespeare was profoundly right in introducing -the element of the grotesque into <cite>Hamlet</cite>, -his most thoughtful tragedy. Browning is never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> -really anything else but a serious thinker, passionately -curious to solve the riddle of existence. Like -his own <cite>Sordello</cite> he</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Gave to familiar things a face grotesque,</div> -<div class="verse">Only, pursuing through the mad burlesque,</div> -<div class="verse">A grave regard.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>We may sum up, then, what we have to say of -Browning’s method and manner by recognizing -that they belong together and have a mutual fitness -and inevitableness. We may wish that he had attained -to more lucidity and harmony of expression, -but we should probably have had some difficulty -in telling him precisely how to do it, and he would -have been likely to reply with good humour as he -did to Tennyson, “The people must take me as -they find me.” If he had been less ardent in looking -for subjects for his poetry, he might have given -more care to the form of his poems. If he had cut -fewer blocks, he might have finished more statues. -The immortality of much of his work may be discounted -by its want of perfect art,—the only true -preservative of man’s handiwork. But the immortality -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>of his genius is secure. He may not be ranked -finally among the great masters of the art of poetry. -But he certainly will endure as a mine for poets. -They may stamp the coins more clearly and fashion -the ornaments more delicately. But the gold is -his. He was the prospector,—the first dramatic -psychologist of modern life. The very imperfections -of his work, in all its splendid richness and -bewildering complexity, bear witness to his favourite -doctrine that life itself is more interesting than -art, and more glorious, because it is not yet perfect.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>“The Glory of the Imperfect,”—that is a phrase -which I read in a pamphlet by that fine old Grecian -and noble Christian philosopher, George Herbert -Palmer, many years ago. It seems to me to express -the central meaning of Browning’s poetry.</p> - -<p>He is the poet of aspiration and endeavour; the -prophet of a divine discontent. All things are precious -to him, not in themselves, but as their defects -are realized, as man uses them, and presses through -them, towards something higher and better. Hope -is man’s power: and the things hoped for must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> -as yet unseen. Struggle is man’s life; and the purpose -of life is not merely education, but a kind of -progressive creation of the soul.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The world presents itself to him, as the Germans -say, <i lang="de">Im Werden</i>. It is a world of potencies, working -itself out. Existence is not the mere fact of being, -but the vital process of becoming. The glory of -man lies in his power to realize this process in his -mind and to fling himself into it with all his will. -If he tries to satisfy himself with things as they are, -like the world-wedded soul in <cite>Easter Eve</cite>, he fails. -If he tries to crowd the infinite into the finite, like -Paracelsus, he fails. He must make his dissatisfaction -his strength. He must accept the limitations -of his life, not in the sense of submitting to -them, but as Jacob wrestled with the angel, in order -to win, through conflict, a new power, a larger blessing. -His ardent desires and longings and aspirations, -yes, even his defeats and disappointments and -failures, are the stuff out of which his immortal -destiny is weaving itself. The one thing that life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> -requires of him is to act with ardour, to go forward -resolutely, to “burn his way through the world”; -and the great lesson which it teaches him is this:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“But thou shalt painfully attain to joy</div> -<div class="verse">While hope and love and fear shall keep thee man.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Browning was very much needed in the Nineteenth -Century as the antidote, or perhaps it would -be more just to say, as the complement to Carlyle. -For Carlyle’s prophecy, with all its moral earnestness, -its virility, its indomitable courage, had in it -a ground-tone of despair. It was the battle-cry of -a forlorn hope. Man must hate shams intensely, -must seek reality passionately, must do his duty -desperately; but he can never tell why. The reason -of things is inscrutable: the eternal Power that -rules things is unknowable. Carlyle, said Mazzini, -“has a constant disposition to crush the human by -comparing him with God.” But Browning has an -unconquerable disposition to elevate the human by -joining him to God. The power that animates and -governs the world is Divine; man cannot escape -from it nor overcome it. But the love that stirs -in man’s heart is also Divine; and if man will follow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> -it, it shall lead him to that height where he -shall see that Power is Love.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“I have faith such end shall be:</div> -<div class="verse indent1">From the first Power was—I knew.</div> -<div class="verse">Life has made clear to me</div> -<div class="verse indent1">That, strive but for closer view,</div> -<div class="verse">Love were as plain to see.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">When see? When there dawns a day</div> -<div class="verse indent1">If not on the homely earth,</div> -<div class="verse">Then yonder, worlds away,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Where the strange and new have birth</div> -<div class="verse">And Power comes full in play.”<a name="FNanchor_17" id="FNanchor_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Browning’s optimism is fundamental. Originally -a matter of temperament, perhaps, as it is expressed -in <cite>At the Mermaid</cite>,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“I find earth not gray, but rosy,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Heaven not grim but fair of hue.</div> -<div class="verse">Do I stoop? I pluck a posy,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Do I stand and stare? All’s blue——”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">primarily the spontaneous tone of a healthy, happy -nature, it became the chosen key-note of all his -music, and he works it out through a hundred harmonies -and discords. He is “sure of goodness as -of life.” He does not ask “How came good into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -the world?” For that, after all, is the pessimistic -question; it assumes that the ground of things is -evil and the good is the breaking of the rule. He -asks instead “How came evil into the world?” That -is the optimistic question; as long as a man puts -it in that form he is an optimist at heart; he takes -it for granted that good is the native element and -evil is the intruder; there must be a solution of the -problem whether he can find it or not; the rule -must be superior to, and triumphant over, the exception; -the meaning and purpose of evil must somehow, some -time, be proved subordinate to good.</p> - -<p>That is Browning’s position:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent1">“My own hope is, a sun will pierce</div> -<div class="verse">The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;</div> -<div class="verse indent1">That, after Last, returns the First,</div> -<div class="verse">Though a wide compass round be fetched;</div> -<div class="verse indent1">That what began best, can’t end worst,</div> -<div class="verse">Nor what God blessed once prove accurst.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The way in which he justifies this position is characteristic -of the man. His optimism is far less defensive -than it is militant. He never wavers from his intuitive -conviction that “the world means<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> -good.” He follows this instinct as a soldier follows -his banner, into whatever difficulties and conflicts -it may lead him, and fights his way out, now with -the weapons of philosophy, now with the bare -sword of faith.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>It might seem at first as if it were unfair to attempt -any estimate of the philosophic and religious -teaching of a poet like Browning, whose method -we have already recognized as dramatic. Can we -ascribe to the poet himself the opinions which he -puts into the mouths of his characters? Can we -hold him responsible for the sentiments which are -expressed by the actors on his stage?</p> - -<p>Certainly this objection must be admitted as a -restraint in the interpretation of his poetry. We -are not to take all that his characters say, literally -and directly, as his own belief, any more than we -are to read the speeches of Satan, and Eliphaz, and -Bildad, and Zophar, in the Book of Job, as utterances -of the spirit of inspiration. But just as that -great dramatic Scripture, dealing with the problems<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> -of evil and suffering and sovereignty, does contain -a doctrine and convey a lesson, so the poetry of -Browning, taken as a whole, utters a distinct and -positive prophetic message.</p> - -<p>In the first place, many of the poems are evidently -subjective, written without disguise in the -first person. Among these we may consider <cite>My -Star</cite>; <cite>By the Fireside</cite>; <cite>One Word More</cite>; the Epilogues -to <cite>Dramatis Personæ</cite> and <cite>Pachiarrotto</cite> and <cite>Ferishtah’s -Fancies</cite>; the introduction and the close of -<cite>The Ring and the Book</cite>; <cite>Christmas Eve</cite> and <cite>Easter -Day</cite>; the ending of the poem called <cite>Gold Hair</cite>, -and of <cite>A Death in the Desert</cite>, and of <cite>Bishop Blougram’s -Apology</cite>; <cite>Prospice</cite> and <cite>Reverie</cite>. In the second -place we must remember Goethe’s dictum: -“Every author in some degree, pourtrays himself in -his works, even be it against his will.” Even when -Browning is writing dramatically, he cannot conceal -his sympathy. The masks are thin. His eyes -shine through. “His own personality,” says Mr. -Stedman, “is manifest in the speech and movement -of almost every character of each piece. His spirit -is infused as if by metempsychosis, within them all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> -and forces each to assume a strange Pentecostal -tone, which we discover to be that of the poet himself.” -Thus it is not impossible, nor even difficult, -to reach a fair estimate of his ethical and religious -teaching and discover its principal elements.</p> - -<p>1. First among these I would put a great confidence -in God. Browning is the most theological -of modern poets. The epithet which was applied -to Spinoza might well be transferred to him. He -is a “God-intoxicated” man. But in a very different -sense, for whereas the philosopher felt God as -an idea, the poet feels Him intensely as a person. -The song which he puts into the lips of the unconscious -heroine in <cite>Pippa Passes</cite>,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“God’s in his heaven</div> -<div class="verse">All’s right with the world,——”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">is the recurrent theme of his poetry. He cries with -Paracelsus,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“God thou art Love, I build my faith on that.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Even when his music is broken and interrupted by -discords, when it seems to dissolve and fade away -as all human work, in its outward form, dissolves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> -and fades, he turns, as Abt Vogler turns from his -silent organ, to God;</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!</div> -<div class="verse">What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In <cite>Rabbi Ben Ezra</cite> he takes up the ancient figure -of the potter and the clay and uses it to express -his boundless trust in God.</p> - -<p>The characteristic mark of Browning’s view of -God is that it is always taken from the side of humanity. -The Perfect Glory is the correlative of -the glory of the imperfect. The Divine Love is -the answer to the human longing. God is, because -man needs Him. From this point of view it almost -seems, as a brilliant essayist has said, as if “In -Browning, God is adjective to man.”<a name="FNanchor_18" id="FNanchor_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p> - -<p>But it may be said in answer, that, at least for -man, this is the only point of view that is accessible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> -We can never leave our own needs behind us, however -high we may try to climb. Certainly if we -succeed in forgetting them for a moment, in that -very moment we have passed out of the region of -poetry, which is the impassioned interpretation of -man’s heart.</p> - -<p>2. The second element of power in Browning’s -poetry is that he sees in the personal Christ the -very revelation of God that man’s heart most needs -and welcomes. Nowhere else in all the range of -modern poetry has this vision been expressed with -such spiritual ardour, with such poignant joy. We -must turn back to the pages of Isaiah to find anything -to equal the Messianic rapture of the minstrel -in <cite>Saul</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“He who did most shall bear most: the strongest shall stand the most weak.</div> -<div class="verse">’Tis the weakness in strength that I cry for! my flesh that I seek</div> -<div class="verse">In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be,</div> -<div class="verse">A Face like my face that receives thee; a man like to me,</div> -<div class="verse">Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this hand</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! see the Christ stand!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">We must look into the Christ-filled letters of St. -Paul to find the attractions of the Crucified One -uttered as powerfully as they are in the <cite>Epistle of -Karshish</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The very God! think Abib; dost thou think?</div> -<div class="verse">So, the All-great, were the All-Loving too—</div> -<div class="verse">So, through the thunder comes a human voice</div> -<div class="verse">Saying, ‘O heart I made, a heart beats here!</div> -<div class="verse">Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!</div> -<div class="verse">Thou hast no power, nor mayest conceive of mine,</div> -<div class="verse">But love I gave thee, with myself to love,</div> -<div class="verse">And thou must love me who have died for thee!’”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It is idle to assert that these are only dramatic -presentations of the Christian faith. No poet could -have imagined such utterances without feeling their -significance; and the piercing splendour of their -expression discloses his sympathy. He reveals it -yet more unmistakably in <cite>Christmas Eve</cite>, (strophe -XVII) and in <cite>Easter Day</cite>, (strophe XXX.) In the -Epilogue to <cite>Dramatis Personæ</cite> it flashes out clearly. -The second speaker, as Renan, has bewailed the -vanishing of the face of Christ from the sorrowful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> -vision of the race. The third speaker, the poet -himself, answers:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,</div> -<div class="verse">Or decomposes but to recompose</div> -<div class="verse">Become my universe that feels and knows!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“That face,” said Browning to a friend, “that face -is the face of Christ: that is how I feel Him.”</p> - -<p>Surely this is the religious message that the world -most needs to-day. More and more everything in -Christianity hangs upon the truth of the Incarnation. -The alternative declares itself. Either no -God whom we can know and love at all, or God -personally manifest in Christ!</p> - -<p>3. The third religious element in Browning’s -poetry is his faith that this life is a probation, a discipline -for the future. He says, again and again,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“I count life just a stuff</div> -<div class="verse">To try the soul’s strength on, educe the man.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The glory of the imperfect lies in the power of progress, -“man’s distinctive mark.” And progress comes -by conflict; conflict with falsehood and ignorance,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Living here means nescience simply; ’tis next life that helps to learn—”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and conflict with evil,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Why comes temptation but for man to meet,</div> -<div class="verse">And master and make crouch beneath his foot,</div> -<div class="verse">And so be pedestalled in triumph?”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The poet is always calling us to be glad we are engaged -in such a noble strife.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“Rejoice we are allied</div> -<div class="verse indent6">To that which doth provide</div> -<div class="verse">And not partake, effect and not receive!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">A spark disturbs our clod;</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Nearer we hold of God</div> -<div class="verse">Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">Then welcome each rebuff</div> -<div class="verse indent6">That turns earth’s smoothness rough,</div> -<div class="verse">Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Be our joys three-parts pain!</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Strive and hold cheap the strain;</div> -<div class="verse">Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Now this is fine doctrine, lofty, strenuous, stimulating. -It appeals to the will, which is man’s central -power. It proclaims the truth that virtue must be -active in its essence though it may also be passive -in its education, positive in its spirit and negative -only by contrast.</p> - -<p>But it is in the working out of this doctrine into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> -an ethical system that Browning enters upon dangerous -ground, and arrives at results which seem to -obscure the clearness, and to threaten the stability -of the moral order, by which alone, if the world’s -greatest teachers have been right, the ultimate good -of humanity can be attained. Here, it seems to -me, his teaching, especially in its latter utterances, -is often confused, turbulent, misleading. His light -is mixed with darkness. He seems almost to say -that it matters little which way we go, provided -only we go.</p> - -<p>He overlooks the deep truth that there is an activity -of the soul in self-restraint as well as in self-assertion. -It takes as much courage to dare not to -do evil as it does to dare to do good. The hero is -sometimes the man who stands still. Virtue is -noblest when it is joined to virility. But virility -alone is not virtue nor does it always lead to moral -victory. Sometimes it leads straight towards moral -paralysis, death, extinction. Browning fails to see -this, because his method is dramatic and because -he dramatizes through himself. He puts himself -into this or the other character, and works himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> -out through it, preserving still in himself, though -all unconsciously, the soul of something good. Thus -he does not touch that peculiar deadening of spiritual -power which is one result of the unrestrained -following of impulse and passion. It is this defect -in his vision of life that leads to the dubious and -interrogatory moral of such a poem as <cite>The Statue -and the Bust</cite>.</p> - -<p>Browning values the individual so much that he -lays all his emphasis upon the development of -stronger passions and aspirations, the unfolding of -a more vivid and intense personality, and has comparatively -little stress to lay upon the larger thought -of the progress of mankind in harmony and order. -Indeed he poetizes so vigorously against the conventional -judgments of society that he often seems -to set himself against the moral sentiments on which -those conventional judgments, however warped, -ultimately rest. “Over and over again in Browning’s -poetry,” says a penetrating critic, “we meet -with this insistence on the value of moments of -high excitement, of intense living, of full experience -of pleasure, even though such moments be of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> -essence of evil and fruitful in all dark consequences.”</p> - -<p>Take for example his treatment of love. He is -right in saying “Love is best.” But is he right in -admitting, even by inference, that love has a right -to take its own way of realizing itself? Can love -be at its best unless it is obedient to law? Does it -not make its truest music when it keeps its place -in the harmony of purity and peace and good living? -Surely the wild and reckless view of love as -its own law which seems to glimmer through the -unconsumed smoke of Browning’s later poems, -such as <cite>Fifine at the Fair</cite>, <cite>The Inn Album</cite>, and <cite>Red -Cotton Nightcap Country</cite>, needs correction by a true -flash of insight like that which we find in two lines -of <cite>One Word More</cite>:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“<em>Dante, who loved well because he hated,</em></div> -<div class="verse"><em>Hated wickedness that hinders loving.</em>”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Browning was at times misled by a perilous philosophy -into a position where the vital distinction -between good and evil dissolved away in a cloud -of unreality. In <cite>Ferishtah’s Fancies</cite> and <cite>Parleyings -with Certain People of Importance</cite>, any one who has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> -the patience to read them will find himself in a nebulous -moral world. The supposed necessity of showing -that evil is always a means to good tempts to -the assertion that it has no other reality. Perhaps -it is altogether an illusion, needed to sting us into -conflict, but really non-existent. Perhaps it is only -the shadow cast by the good,—or “the silence implying -sound.” Perhaps it is good in disguise, not -yet developed from the crawling worm into the -creature with wings. After this fashion the whimsical -dervish Ferishtah strews his beans upon the -table.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent6">“This bean was white, this—black,</div> -<div class="verse">Set by itself,—but see if good and bad</div> -<div class="verse">Each following other in companionship,</div> -<div class="verse">Black have not grown less black and white less white,</div> -<div class="verse">Till blackish seems but dun, and whitish,—gray,</div> -<div class="verse">And the whole line turns—well, or black to thee</div> -<div class="verse">Or white alike to me—no matter which.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Certainly if this were the essence of Browning’s -poetry the best safeguard against its falsehood would -be its own weakness. Such a message, if this were -all, could never attract many hearers, nor inspire -those whom it attracted. Effort, struggle, noble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> -conflict would be impossible in a world where there -were no moral certainties or realities, but all men -felt that they were playing at a stupid game like the -Caucus race in <cite>Alice in Wonderland</cite>, where everything -went round in a circle and every runner received -a prize.</p> - -<p>But in fact these elements of weakness in Browning’s -work, as it seems to me, do not belong to his -true poetry. They are expressed, generally, in his -most obfuscated style, and at a prohibitory length. -They are embodied in poems which no one is likely -to read for fun, and few are capable of learning by -heart.</p> - -<p>But when we go back to his best work we find -another spirit, we hear another message. Clear, -resonant, trumpet-like his voice calls to us proclaiming -the glorious possibilities of this imperfect -life. Only do not despair; only do not sink down -into conventionality, indifference, mockery, cynicism; -only rise and hope and go forward out of the -house of bondage into the land of liberty. True, -the prophecy is not complete. But it is inspiring. -He does not teach us how to live. But he does tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> -us to live,—with courage, with love to man, with -trust in God,—and he bids us find life glorious, -because it is still imperfect and therefore full of -promise.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="A_QUAINT_COMRADE_BY_QUIET_STREAMS">A QUAINT COMRADE BY QUIET STREAMS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> - -<p>In April, 1653, Oliver Cromwell, after much bloodshed -and amid great confusion, violently dissolved -the “Rump Parliament.” In May of the same -year, Izaak Walton published <cite>The Compleat Angler, -or the Contemplative Man’s Recreation</cite>. ’Twas a -strange contrast between the tranquil book and the -tempestuous time. But that the contrast was not -displeasing may be inferred from the fact that five -editions were issued during the author’s life, which -ended in 1683, at the house of his son-in-law in the -cathedral close at Winchester, Walton being then in -his ninety-first year and at peace with God and -man.</p> - -<p>Doubtless one of the reasons why those early editions, -especially the first, the second, and the fifth, -(in which Walton’s friend Charles Cotton added his -“Instructions How to Angle for a Trout or Grayling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> -in a Clear Stream,”) are now become so rare and -costly, is because they were carried about by honest -anglers of the 17th Century in their coat-pockets or -in their wallets, a practice whereby the body of a -book is soon worn out, though its soul be immortal.</p> - -<p>That this last is true of Walton’s <cite>Angler</cite> seems -proven by its continual reappearance. The Hundredth -Edition (called after the rivers Lea and -Dove, which Walton loved) was brought out in -1888, by the genial fisherman and bibliophile, R. B. -Marston of the London <cite>Fishing Gazette</cite>. Among the -other English editions I like John Major’s second -(1824); and Sir John Hawkins’, reissued by Bagster -(1808); and Pickering’s richly illustrated two volumes -edited by Sir Harris Nicolas (1836). There is -a 32mo reprint by the same publisher, (and a “diamond” -from the Oxford University Press,) small -enough to go comfortably in a vest-pocket with -your watch or your pipe. I must speak also of the -admirable introductions to the <cite>Angler</cite> written in -these latter years by James Russell Lowell, Andrew -Lang, and Richard Le Gallienne; and of the great -American edition made by the Reverend Doctor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> -George W. Bethune in 1847, a work in which the -learning, wit, and sympathy of the editor illuminate -the pages. This edition is already hard to find, but -no collector of angling books would willingly go -without it.</p> - -<p>The gentle reader has a wide choice, then, of the -form in which he will take his Walton,—something -rare and richly adorned for the library, or something -small and plain for the pocket or the creel. But in -what shape soever he may choose to read the book, -if he be not “a severe, sour-complexioned man” he -will find it good company. There is a most propitiating -paragraph in the “Address” at the beginning -of the first edition. Explaining why he has introduced -“some innocent harmless mirth” into his -work, Walton writes:</p> - -<p>“I am the willinger to justify this innocent mirth -because the whole discourse is a kind of picture of -my own disposition, at least of my disposition in -such days and times as I allow myself, when honest -<i>Nat.</i> and <i>R.R.</i> and I go a-fishing together.”</p> - -<p>This indeed is one of the great attractions of the -book, that it so naturally and simply shows the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> -author. I know of no other in which this quality of -self-revelation without pretense or apology is as -modest and engaging,—unless it be the <cite>Essays</cite> of -Charles Lamb, or those of M. de Montaigne. We -feel well acquainted with Walton when we have -read the <cite>Angler</cite>, and perhaps have added to our -reading his only other volume,—a series of brief -<cite>Lives</cite> of certain excellent and beloved men of his -time, wherein he not only portrays their characters -but further discloses his own. They were men of -note in their day: Sir Henry Wotton, ambassador to -Venice; Dr. John Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s; Richard -Hooker, famous theologian; George Herbert, -sacred poet; Bishop Sanderson, eminent churchman. -With most of these, and with other men of like -standing, Walton was in friendship. The company -he kept indicates his quality. Whatever his -occupation or his means, he was certainly a gentleman -and a scholar, as well as a good judge of fishing.</p> - -<p>Of the actual events of his life, despite diligent -research, little is known, and all to his credit. Perhaps -there were no events of public importance or -interest. He came as near as possible to the fortunate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> -estate of the nation which has a good repute -but no history.</p> - -<p>He was born in the town of Stafford, August 9th, -1593. Of his schooling he speaks with becoming -modesty; and it must have been brief, for at the -age of sixteen or seventeen he was an apprentice in -London. Whether he was a linendraper or an ironmonger -is a matter of dispute. Perhaps he was first -one and then the other. His first shop, in the Royal -Burse, Cornhill, was about seven and a half feet -long by five wide. But he must have done a good -business in those narrow quarters; for in 1624 he -had a better place on Fleet Street, and from 1628 to -1644 he was a resident of the parish of St. Dunstan’s, -having a comfortable dwelling (and probably -his shop) in Chancery Lane, “about the seventh -house on the left hand side.” He served twice on -the grand jury, and was elected a vestryman of St. -Dunstan’s twice.</p> - -<p>It was during his residence here that he lost his -first wife, Rachel Floud, and the seven children -whom she had borne to him. In 1644, finding the -city “dangerous for honest men” on account of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> -civil strife and disorder, he retired from London, and -probably from business, and lived in the country, -“sometimes at Stafford,” (according to Anthony -Wood, the antiquary,) “but mostly in the families -of the eminent clergymen of England, of whom he -was much beloved.” This life gave him large opportunity -for his favourite avocation of fishing, and -widened the circle of his friendships, for wherever he -came as a guest he was cherished as a friend. I -make no doubt that the love of angling, to which -innocent recreation he was attached by a temperate -and enduring passion, was either the occasion or the -promoter of many of these intimacies. For it has -often been observed that this sport inclines those -that practise it to friendliness; and there are no -closer or more lasting companionships than such as -are formed beside flowing streams by men who study -to be quiet and go a-fishing.</p> - -<p>After his second marriage, about 1646, to Anne -Ken, half-sister of Bishop Thomas Ken, (author of -the well-known hymns, “Awake, my soul, and with -the sun,” and “All praise to Thee, my God, this -night,”) Walton went to live for some years at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span> -Clerkenwell. While he was there, the book for -which he had been long preparing, <cite>The Compleat -Angler</cite>, was published, and gave him his sure place -in English literature and in the heart of an innumerable -company of readers.</p> - -<p>Never was there a better illustration of “fisherman’s -luck” than the success of Walton’s book. -He set out to make a little “discourse of fish and -fishing,” a “pleasant curiositie” he calls it, full of -useful information concerning the history and practice -of the gentle art, and, as the author modestly -claims on his title-page, “not unworthy the perusal -of most anglers.” Instead of this he produced an -imperishable classic, which has been read with delight -by thousands who have never wet a line. It -was as if a man went forth to angle for smelts and -caught a lordly salmon.</p> - -<p>As a manual of practical instruction the book is -long since out of date. The kind of rod which Walton -describes is too cumbrous for the modern angler, -who catches his trout with a split bamboo weighing -no more than four or five ounces, and a thin waterproofed -line of silk beside which Father Izaak’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> -favourite line twisted of seven horse-hairs would -look like a bed-cord. Most of his recipes for captivating -baits and lures, and his hints about “oyl,” -or “camphire” with which they may be made infallibly -attractive to reluctant fish, are now more -curious than valuable. They seem like ancient -superstitions,—although this very summer I have -had recommended to me a secret magic ointment -one drop of which upon a salmon-fly would (supposedly) -render it irresistible. (Yes, reader, I did -try it; but its actual effect, owing to various incalculable -circumstances, could not be verified. -The salmon took the anointed fly sometimes, but -at other times they took the unanointed, and so I -could not make affidavit that it was the oil that -allured them. It may have been some tickling in -the brain, some dim memory of the time when they -were little parr, living in fresh water for their first -eighteen months and feeding mainly on floating -insects, that made them wish to rise again.)</p> - -<p>But to return to my subject. The angler of to-day -who wishes to understand the technics of modern -fishing-gear will go to such books as H. B. Wells’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> -<cite>Fly Rods and Fly Tackle</cite>, or to Dr. George Holden’s -<cite>The Idyl of the Split Bamboo</cite>. This very year two -volumes have been published, each of which in its -way goes far beyond Walton: Mr. William Radcliffe’s -<cite>Fishing from the Earliest Times</cite>, which will -undoubtedly take its place as the standard history -of the ancient craft of fish-catching; and Mr. Edward -R. Hewitt’s <cite>Secrets of the Salmon</cite>, a brilliant and -suggestive piece of work, full of acute scientific observation -and successful experiment. These belong -to what De Quincey called “the literature of knowledge.” -But the <cite>Angler</cite> belongs to “the literature of -power,”—that which has a quickening and inspiring -influence upon the spirit,—and here it is unsurpassed, -I may even say unrivalled, by any book ever written -about any sport. Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge -commending it to his perusal: “It might sweeten a -man’s temper at any time to read <cite>The Compleat -Angler</cite>.”</p> - -<p>The unfailing charm of the book lives in its delicately -clear descriptions of the country and of rural -life; in its quaint pastoral scenes, like the interview -with the milkmaid and her mother, and the convocation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> -of gipsies under the hedge; and in its sincerely -happy incitements to patience, cheerfulness, a contented -spirit, and a tranquil mind.</p> - -<p>In its first form the book opened with a dialogue -between Piscator and Viator; but later this was revised -to a three-sided conversation in which Venator, -a hunter, and Auceps, a falconer, take the place -of Viator and try valiantly to uphold the merits of -their respective sports as superior to angling. Of -course Piscator easily gets the best of them, (authors -always have this power to reserve victory for their -favourites,) and Auceps goes off stage, vanquished, -while Venator remains as a convert and willing disciple, -to follow his “Master” by quiet streams and -drink in his pleasant and profitable discourse. As a -dialogue it is not very convincing, it lacks salt -and pepper; Venator is too easy a convert; he makes -two or three rather neat repartees, but in general, -he seems to have no mind of his own. But as a -monologue it is very agreeable, being written in a -sincere, colloquial, unaffected yet not undignified -manner, with a plenty of digressions. And these, -like the by-paths on a journey, are the pleasantest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> -parts of all. Piscator’s talk appears easy, unconstrained, -rambling, yet always sure-footed, like the -walk of one who has wandered by the little rivers -so long that he can move forward safely without -watching every step, finding his footing by a kind -of instinct while his eyes follow the water and the -rising fish.</p> - -<p>But we must not imagine that such a style as -this, fluent as it seems and easy to read as it is for -any one with an ear for music, either comes by nature -or is attained without effort. Walton speaks -somewhere of his “artless pencil”; but this is true -only in the sense that he makes us forget the processes -of his art in the simplicity of its results. He -was in fact very nice in his selection and ordering of -words. He wrote and rewrote his simplest sentences -and revised his work in each of the five earlier -editions, except possibly the fourth.</p> - -<p>Take, for example, the bit which I have already -quoted from the “address to the reader” in the -first edition, and compare it with the corresponding -passage in the fifth edition:</p> - -<p>“I am the willinger to justify <i>the pleasant part of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> -it</i>, because, <i>though it is known I can be serious at -reasonable times</i>, yet the whole discourse is, <i>or rather -was</i>, a picture of my own disposition, <i>especially</i> in -such days and times as I <i>have laid aside business, -and gone a-fishing with</i> honest Nat. and R. Roe; <i>but -they are gone, and with them most of my pleasant -hours, even as a shadow that passeth away and returns -not</i>.”</p> - -<p>All the phrases in italics are either altered or -added.</p> - -<p>He cites Montaigne’s opinion of cats,—a familiar -judgment expressed with lightness,—and in the first -edition Winds up his quotation with the sentence, -“To this purpose speaks Montaigne concerning -cats.” In the fifth edition this is humourously improved -to, “Thus <em>freely</em> speaks Montaigne concerning -cats,”—as if it were something noteworthy to -take a liberty with this petted animal.</p> - -<p>The beautiful description of the song of the nightingale, -and of the lark, and the fine passage beginning, -“Every misery that I miss is a new mercy,” -are jewels that Walton added in revision.</p> - -<p>In the first edition he gravely tells how the salmon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> -“will force themselves over the tops of weirs -and hedges or stops in the water, <em>by taking their -tails into their mouths and leaping over those places</em>, -even to a height beyond common belief.” But -upon reflection this fish-story seems to him dubious; -and so in the later edition you find the mouth-and-tail -legend in a poetical quotation, to which -Walton cautiously adds, “<em>This Michael Drayton -tells you</em> of this leap or summer-salt of the salmon.”</p> - -<p>It would be easy to continue these illustrations of -Walton’s care in revising his work through successive -editions; indeed a long article, or even a little -book might be made upon this subject, and if I had -the time I should like to do it.</p> - -<p>Another theme would well repay study, and that -is the influence of the King James Version of the -Bible upon his style and thought. That wonderful -example of pure, strong, and stately English prose, -was first printed and published when Walton was -eighteen years old, about the time he came to London -as an apprentice. Yet to such good purpose -did he read and study it that his two books, the -<cite>Angler</cite> and the <cite>Lives</cite>, are full of apt quotations from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> -it, and almost every page shows the exemplary -effect of its admirable diction. Indeed it has often -seemed to me that his fine description of the style of -the Prophet Amos, (in the first chapter of the -<cite>Angler</cite>,) reveals something of the manner in which -Walton himself desired to write; and in this desire -he was not altogether unsuccessful.</p> - -<p>How clearly the man shines through his book! -An honest, kindly man, not ashamed of his trade, -nor of his amusements, nor of his inmost faith. A -man contented with his modest place in the world, -and never doubting that it was a good world or that -God made it. A firm man, not without his settled -convictions and strong aversions, yet “content that -every reader should enjoy his own opinion.” A liberal-mannered -man, enjoying the music of birds and -of merry songs and glees, grateful for good food, -and “barly-wine, the good liquor that our honest -Fore-fathers did use to drink of,” and a fragrant -pipe afterwards; sitting down to meat not only -with “the eminent clergymen of England,” but -also, (as his Master did,) with publicans and sinners; -and counting among his friends such dignitaries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> -as Dr. John Hales, Bishop King, and Sir -Henry Wotton, and such lively and vagarious persons -as Ben Jonson, Carey, and Charles Cotton. -A loyal, steadfast man, not given to change, anxiety -of mind, or vain complaining, but holding to -the day’s duty and the day’s reward of joy as God -sent them to him, and bearing the day’s grief with -fortitude. Thus he worked and read and angled -quietly through the stormy years of the Civil War -and the Commonwealth, wishing that men would -beat their swords into fish-hooks, and cast their -leaden bullets into sinkers, and study peace and -the Divine will.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="A_STURDY_BELIEVER">A STURDY BELIEVER</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p> - -<p>When James Boswell, Esq., wrote <cite>The Life of -Samuel Johnson, LL.D.</cite>, he not only achieved his -purpose of giving the world “a rich intellectual -treasure,” but also succeeded in making himself a -subject of permanent literary interest.</p> - -<p>Among the good things which the year 1922 -has brought to us I count the <i lang="la">Boswell redivivus</i> from -the industrious and skilful hand of Professor Chauncey -Brewster Tinker of Yale. He calls his excellent -book, which is largely enriched with new material -in the way of hitherto unpublished letters, <cite>Young -Boswell</cite>. This does not mean that he deals only -with the early years, amatory episodes, and first -literary ventures of Johnson’s inimitable biographer, -but that he sees in the man a certain persistent -youngness which accounts for the exuberance of -his faults and follies as well as for the enthusiasm -of his hero-worship.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Tinker does not attempt to camouflage the -incorrigible absurdities of Boswell’s disposition, nor -the excesses of his conduct, but finds an explanation -if not an excuse for them in the fact that he -had a juvenile temperament which inclined him -all through life to self-esteem and self-indulgence, -and kept him “very much a boy” until he died -of it. Whether this is quite consistent with his -being “in fullest truth a genius,” as Mr. Tinker -claims, may be doubted; for genius in the high -sense is something that ripens if time be given it. -But what is certain beyond a question is that this -vain and vagarious little Scotch laird had in him -a gift of observation, a talent of narration, and -above all a power of generous admiration, which -enabled him to become, by dint of hard work, what -Macaulay entitled him, “the first of biographers.”</p> - -<p>Ever since it appeared in 1791, Boswell’s <cite>Life of -Johnson</cite> has been a most companionable book. Reprinted -again and again, it finds a perennial welcome. -To see it in a new edition is no more remarkable -nowadays than it once was to see Dr. Oliver -Goldsmith in a new and vivid waistcoat. -For my own part I prefer it handsomely drest, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> -large type, liberal margins, and a-plenty of illustrations. -For it is not a book in which economy of -bulk is needful; it is less suitable for company on -a journey or a fishing-trip, than for a meditative -hour in the library after dinner, or a pleasant wakeful -hour in bed, when the reading-lamp glows clear -and steady, and all the rest of the family are asleep -or similarly engaged in recumbent reading.</p> - -<p>There are some books with which we can never -become intimate. However long we may know -them they keep us on the cold threshold of acquaintance. -Others boisterously grasp our hand and drag -us in, only to bore us and make us regret the day -of our introduction. But if there ever was a book -which invited genially to friendship and delight it -is this of Boswell’s. The man who does not know -it is ignorant of some of the best cheer that can -enliven a solitary fireside. The man who does not -enjoy it is insensible alike to the attractions of a -noble character vividly depicted, and to the amusement -afforded by the sight of a great genius in company -with an adoring follower capable, at times, -of acting like an engaging ass.</p> - -<p>Yet after all, I have always had my doubts about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> -the supposed “asininity” of Boswell. As his Great -Friend said, “A man who talks nonsense so well -must know that he is talking nonsense.” It is only -fair to accept his own explanation and allow that -when he said or did ridiculous things it was, partly -at least, in order to draw out his Tremendous Companion. -Thus we may think with pleasure of Boswell -taking a rise out of Johnson. But we do not -need to imagine Johnson taking a rise out of Boswell; -it was not necessary; he rose of his own accord. -He made a candid record of these diverting -incidents because, though self-complacent, he was -not touchy, and he had sense enough to see that -the sure way to be entirely entertaining is to be -quite frank.</p> - -<p>Boswell threw a stone at one bird and brought -down two. His triumphant effort to write the life -of his Immense Hero just as it was, with all its surroundings, -appurtenances, and eccentricities, has -won for himself a singular honour: his proper name -has become a common noun. It is hardly necessary -to use a capital letter when we allude to a boswell. -His pious boast that he had “Johnsonized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> -the land,” is no more correct than it would be to -say, (and if he were alive he would certainly say it,) -that he had boswellized biography.</p> - -<p>The success of the book appears the more remarkable -when we remember that of the seventy-five -years of Samuel Johnson’s life not more than -two years and two months were passed in the society -of James Boswell. Yet one would almost -think that they had been rocked in the same cradle, -or, (if this figure of speech seem irreverent,) that -the Laird of Auchinleck had slept in a little trundle-bed -beside the couch of the Mighty Lexicographer. -I do not mean by this that the record is trivial and -cubicular, but simply that Boswell has put into his -book as much of Johnson as it will hold.</p> - -<p>Let no one imagine, however, that a like success -can be secured by following the same recipe with -any chance subject. The exact portraiture of an -insignificant person confers information where there -is no curiosity, and becomes tedious in proportion -as it is precise.<a name="FNanchor_19" id="FNanchor_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> The first thing needful is to catch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> -a giant for your hero; and in this little world it is -seldom that one like Johnson comes to the net.</p> - -<p>What a man he was,—this “old struggler,” as -he called himself,—how uncouth and noble and -genuine and profound,—“a labouring, working -mind; an indolent, reposing body”! What a heart -of fortitude in the bosom of his melancholy, what a -kernel of human kindness within the shell of his -rough manner! He was proud but not vain, sometimes -rude but never cruel. His prejudices were -insular, but his intellect was continental. There -was enough of contradiction in his character to give -it variety, and enough of sturdy faith to give it -unity. It was not easy for him to be good, but it -was impossible for him to be false; and he fought -the battle of life through along his chosen line even -to the last skirmish of mortality.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus6"> -<img src="images/illus6.jpg" width="475" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">SAMUEL JOHNSON.</p> -<p class="caption">Painted by Reynolds.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>I suppose we Americans might harbour a grudge -against him on the score of his opinion of our forefathers. -It is on record that he said of them, during -their little controversy with King George III, that -they were “a race of convicts.” (How exciting it -would have been to hear him say a thing like that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> -to the face of George Washington or Benjamin -Franklin! He was quite capable of it.) But we -can afford to laugh at such an <i lang="la">obiter dictum</i> now. -And upon my honesty it offends me less at the present -time than Lionel Lispingly Nutt’s condescending -advice on poetry and politics, or Stutterworth -Bummell’s patronizing half-praise. Let a man -smite us fairly on one cheek, and we can manage -to turn the other,—out of his reach. But if he deals -superciliously with us as “poor relations,” we can -hardly help looking for a convenient and not too -dangerous flight of stairs for his speedy descent.</p> - -<p>Johnson may be rightly claimed as a Tory-Democrat -on the strength of his serious saying that “the -interest of millions must ever prevail over that of -thousands,” and the temper of his pungent letter -to Lord Chesterfield. And when we consider also -his side remark in defense of card-playing on the -ground that it “generates kindness and consolidates -society,” we may differ from him in our estimate -of the game, but we cannot deny that in small things -as well as in great he spoke as a liberal friend of -humanity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> - -<p>His literary taste was not infallible; in some instances, -(for example his extreme laudation of Sir -John Denham’s poem <cite>Cooper’s Hill</cite>, and his adverse -criticism of Milton’s verse,) it was very bad. In general -you may say that it was based upon theories and -rules which are not really of universal application, -though he conceived them to be so. But his style was -much more the product of his own personality and -genius. Ponderous it often was, but seldom clumsy. -He had the art of saying what he meant in a deliberate, -clear, forceful way. Words arrayed themselves -at his command and moved forward in serried phalanx. -He had the praiseworthy habit of completing -his sentences and building his paragraphs firmly. -It will not do us any good to belittle his merit as a -writer, particularly in this age of slipper-shod and -dressing-gowned English.</p> - -<p>His diction was much more varied than people -usually suppose. He could suit his manner to almost -any kind of subject, except possibly the very -lightest. He had a keen sense of the shading of -synonyms and rarely picked the wrong word. Of -antithesis and the balanced sentence he was over-fond;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> -and this device, intended originally to give -a sharpened emphasis, being used too often, lends -an air of monotony to his writing. Yet it has its -merits too, as may be seen in these extracts from -the fiftieth number of <cite>The Rambler</cite>,—extracts which, -by the way, have some relation to a controversy -still raging:</p> - -<p>“Every old man complains of the growing depravity -of the world, of the petulance and insolence -of the rising generation. He recounts the decency -and regularity of former times, and celebrates the -discipline and sobriety of the age in which his youth -was passed; a happy age, which is now no more -to be expected, since confusion has broken in upon -the world and thrown down all the boundaries of -civility and reverence.... It may, therefore, -very reasonably be suspected that the old draw -upon themselves the greatest part of those insults -which they so much lament, and that age is rarely -despised but when it is contemptible.... He that -would pass the latter part of his life with honour -and decency, must, when he is young, consider that -he shall one day be old; and remember, when he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> -old, that he has once been young. In youth, he -must lay up knowledge for his support, when his -powers of action shall forsake him; and in age forbear -to animadvert with rigour on faults which -experience only can correct.”</p> - -<p>In meaning this is very much the same as Sir -James Barrie’s recent admirable discourse on -“Courage” at the University of St. Andrew’s; but -in manner there is quite a difference.</p> - -<p>It is commonly supposed that Dr. Johnson did a -great deal to overload and oppress the English language -by introducing new and awkward words of -monstrous length. His opportunities in that way -were large, but he always claimed that he had used -them with moderation and had not coined above -four or five words. When we note that “peregrinity” -was one of them, we are grateful that he refrained -so much; but when we remember that -“clubbable” was another, we are glad that he did -not refrain altogether. For there is no quality more -easy to recognize and difficult to define than that -which makes a man acceptable in a club; and of -this Dr. Johnson has given us a fine example in his -life and an appropriate name in his word.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span></p> - -<p>I think one reason why he got on so well with -people who differed from him, and why most of the -sensible ones so readily put up with his downright -and often brusque way of expressing his sentiments, -was because they came so evidently from his sincere -and unshakeable conviction that certain things -are true, that they can not be changed, and that -they should not be forgotten. Not only in politics, -but also and more significantly in religion, Samuel -Johnson stands out as a sturdy believer.</p> - -<p>This seems the more noteworthy when we consider -the conditions of his life. There is hardly one -among the great men of history who can be called -so distinctively “a man of letters,” undoubtedly -none who has won as high a position and as large -a contemporary influence by sheer strength of pen. -Now the literary life is not generally considered to -be especially favourable to the cultivation of religion; -and Johnson’s peculiar circumstances were -not of a kind to make it more favourable in his case -than usual. He was poor and neglected, struggling -during a great part of his career against the heaviest -odds. His natural disposition was by no means -such as to predispose him to faith. He was afflicted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> -from childhood with a hypochondriac and irritable -humour; a high, domineering spirit, housed in an -unwieldy and disordered body; plagued by inordinate -physical appetites; inclined naturally to -rely with over-confidence upon the strength and -accuracy of his reasoning powers; driven by his -impetuous temper into violent assertion and controversy; -deeply depressed by his long years of obscurity -and highly elated by his final success,—he -was certainly not one whom we would select as likely -to be a remarkably religious man. Carlyle had less -to embitter him. Goethe had no more to excuse -self-idolatry. And yet, beyond a doubt, Johnson -was a sincere, humble, and, in the main, a consistent -Christian.</p> - -<p>Of course, we cannot help seeing that his peculiarities -and faults affected his religion. He was intolerant -in his expression of theological views to a -degree which seems almost ludicrous. We may, -perhaps, keep a straight face and a respectful attitude -when we see him turning his back on the Abbé -Raynal, and refusing to “shake hands with an infidel.” -But when he exclaims in regard to a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span> -lady who had left the Church of England to become -a Quaker, “I hate the wench and shall ever hate -her; I hate all impudence of a chit; apostasy I -nauseate”; and when he answers the gently expressed -hope of a friend that he and the girl would -meet, after all, in a blessed eternity, by saying, -“Madam, I am not fond of <em>meeting fools anywhere</em>,” -we cannot help joining in the general laughter of -the company to whom he speaks; and as the Doctor -himself finally laughs and becomes cheerful and -entertaining, we feel that it was only the bear in -him that growled,—an honest beast, but sometimes -very surly.</p> - -<p>As for his remarkable strictures upon Presbyterianism, -his declaration that he preferred the -Roman Catholic Church, his expressed hope that -John Knox was buried in the highway, and his wish -that a dangerous steeple in Edinburgh might not -be taken down because if it were let alone it might -fall on some of the posterity of John Knox, which, -he said, would be “no great matter,”—if when we -read these things we remember that he was talking -to his Scotch friend Boswell, we get a new idea of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span> -the audacity of the great man’s humour. I believe -he even stirred up his natural high-churchism to rise -rampant and roar vigourously, for the pleasure of -seeing Boswell’s eyes stand out, and his neat little -pigtail vibrate in dismay.</p> - -<p>There are many other sayings of Johnson’s which -disclose a deeper vein of tolerance; such as that -remark about the essential agreement and trivial -differences of all Christians, and his warm commendation, -on his dying bed, of the sermons of Dr. -Samuel Clarke, a Dissenting minister.</p> - -<p>But even suppose we are forced to admit that -Dr. Johnson was lacking in that polished liberality, -that willingness to admit that every other man’s -opinions are as good as his own, which we have come -nowadays to regard as the chief of the theological -virtues; even suppose we must call him “narrow,” -we must admit at the same time that he was “deep”; -he had a profundity of conviction, a sincerity of -utterance which made of his religion something, as -the Germans say, “to take hold of with your hands.”</p> - -<p>He had need of a sturdy belief. With that tempestuous, -unruly disposition of his boiling all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span> -time within him, living in the age of Chesterfield -and Bolingbroke, fighting his way through the world -amid a thousand difficulties and temptations, he -had great need to get a firm grip upon some realities -of religion and hold fast to them as things that -were settled. His first conviction of the truth of -Christianity came to him while he was at Oxford, -through a casual reading of Law’s <cite>Call to the Unconverted</cite>. -There were some years after that, he tells -us, when he was totally regardless of religion. But -sickness and trouble brought it back, “and I hope,” -says he, “that I have never lost it since.”</p> - -<p>He was not unwilling to converse with friends at -fitting opportunities in regard to religious subjects, -and no one who heard him could have remained -long in doubt as to the nature of his views. There -was one conversation in particular, on the subject -of the sacrifice of Christ, at the close of which he -solemnly dictated to his friend a brief statement of -his belief, saying finally, “The peculiar doctrine of -Christianity is that of an universal sacrifice and a -perpetual propitiation. Other prophets only proclaimed -the will and the threatenings of God. Christ<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span> -satisfied his justice.” Again, one calm, bright Sunday -afternoon, when he was in a boat with some -friends upon the sea (I think it was during his journey -to the Hebrides,) he fell into discourse with -Boswell about the fear of death, which was often -very terrible to his mind. He would not admit that -the close of life ought to be regarded with cheerfulness -or indifference, or that a rational man should -be as willing to leave the world as to go out of a -show-room after he has seen it. “No, sir,” said -he, “there is no rational principle by which a man -can die contented, but a trust in the mercy of God -through the merits of Jesus Christ.” He was not -ashamed to say that he was afraid to die. He assumed -no braggadocio before the grave. He was -honest with himself, and he felt that he needed all -the fortitude of a religious faith to meet the hour -of dissolution and the prospect of divine judgment -without flinching. He could never have understood -the attitude of men who saunter as unconcernedly -and airily towards the day of judgment as -if they were going to the play.</p> - -<p>But Johnson was by no means given to unseasonable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span> -or unreasonable religious discourse. He had -a holy horror of cant, and of unprofitable controversy. -He once said of a friend who was more loquacious -than discreet, “Why, yes, sir; he will -introduce religious discourse without seeing whether -it will end in instruction and improvement, or produce -some profane jest. He would introduce it in -the company of Wilkes, and twenty more <em>such</em>.”</p> - -<p>It was Dr. Johnson’s custom to keep a book of -<cite>Prayers and Meditations</cite> for his own private use. -These were printed after his death, and they reveal -to us the sincerity of his inner life as nothing else -could do. Think of the old man kneeling down in -his room before he began the painful labours of a -studious day, and repeating this prayer:—</p> - -<p>“<em>Against inquisitive and perplexing thoughts</em>: -O Lord, my Maker and Protector, who hast graciously -sent me into this world to work out my salvation, -enable me to drive from me all such unquiet -and perplexing thoughts as may mislead or hinder -me in the practice of those duties which Thou hast -required. When I behold the works of thy hands, -and consider the course of thy providence, give me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span> -grace always to remember that thy thoughts are -not my thoughts, nor thy ways my ways. And -while it shall please Thee to continue me in this -world, where much is to be done and little to be -known, teach me by thy Holy Spirit to withdraw -my mind from unprofitable and dangerous inquiries, -from difficulties vainly curious, and doubts impossible -to be solved. Let me rejoice in the light which -Thou hast imparted; let me serve Thee with active -zeal and humble confidence, and wait with patient -expectation for the time in which the soul Thou -receivest shall be satisfied with knowledge. Grant -this, O Lord, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”</p> - -<p>These are honest and sensible petitions. And the -more a man knows, the more devoted he is to serious -and difficult studies, the more he ought to feel the -need of just such a divine defense and guidance. -It is good to be kept on the track. It is wise to mistrust -your own doubts. It is happy to be delivered -from them.</p> - -<p>The fundamental quality of Dr. Johnson’s religion -was the sense of reverence. He was never -“known to utter the name of God but on proper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> -occasions and with due respect.” He approached -the consideration of divine things with genuine solemnity, -and could not tolerate sacred trifling or -pious profanity. He was not ashamed to kneel -where men could see him, although he never courted -their notice; or to pray where men could hear him, -although he did not desire their approbation any -more than he feared their ridicule.</p> - -<p>There were grave faults and errors in his conduct. -But no one had so keen a sense of their unworthiness -as the man himself, who was bravely fighting against -them, and sincerely lamenting their recurrence. -They often tripped him and humiliated him, but -they never got him completely down. He righted -himself and went lumbering on. He never sold his -heart to a lie, never confused the evil and the good. -When he sinned he knew it and repented. It gives -us confidence in his sincerity when we see him denying -himself the use of wine because he was naturally -prone to excess, and yet allowing it to his friends -who were able to use it temperately. He was no -puritan; and, on the other hand, he was no slipshod -condoner of vice or suave preacher of moral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> -indifference. He was a big, honest soul, trying hard -to live straight along the line of duty and to do good -as he found opportunity.</p> - -<p>The kindness and generosity of his heart were -known to few save his intimate friends, and not -always appreciated even by those who had most -cause to be grateful to him. The poor broken-down -pensioners with whom he filled his house in later -years, and to whom he alluded playfully as his <i lang="it">seraglio</i>, -were a constant source of annoyance. They -grumbled perpetually and fought like so many cats. -But he would not cast them off any more than he -would turn out his favourite mouser, Hodge, for -whom he used to “go out and buy oysters, lest the -servants having that trouble should take a dislike -to the poor creature.” He gave away a large part -of his income in charity; and, what was still more -generous, he devoted a considerable portion of his -time to counseling young and unsuccessful authors -and, (note this,) <em>reading their manuscripts</em>.</p> - -<p>I suppose if one had been a poverty-stricken beginner -at literature, in London of the eighteenth -century, the best thing one could have done would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span> -have been to find the way to Dr. Johnson’s house -and tell him how the case stood. If he himself had -no money to lend, he would have borrowed it from -some of his friends. And if he could not say anything -encouraging about the manuscripts, he would -have been honest and kind enough to advise the -unhappy aspirant to fame to prefer the life of a -competent shoemaker to that of an incompetent -scribbler.</p> - -<p>Much of what was best in the character of Johnson -came out in his friendships. He was as good a -lover as he was a hater. He was loyal to a fault, -and sincere, though never extravagant, in his admirations.</p> - -<p>The picture of the old man in his last illness, surrounded -by the friends whom he had cherished so -faithfully, and who now delighted to testify their -respect and affection for him, and brighten his lingering -days with every attention, has little of the -customary horror of a death-bed. It is strange indeed -that he who had always been subject to such -a dread of dying should have found it possible to -meet the hour of dissolution with such composure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span> -His old friend Sir Joshua Reynolds comes in to bid -him farewell, and Johnson makes three requests -of him,—to forgive him thirty pounds which he had -borrowed from him, to read the Bible, and never -to use his pencil on a Sunday. Good petitions, -which Sir Joshua readily granted, although we cannot -help fearing that he occasionally forgot the -last.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” says the sick man to his physician, -“can I possibly recover? Give me a direct answer.” -Being hard pressed, Dr. Brocklesby confesses that -in his opinion recovery is out of the question. -“Then,” says Johnson, “I will take no more physick, -not even my opiates: for I have prayed that I may -render up my soul to God unclouded.”</p> - -<p>And so with kind and thoughtful words to his -servant, and a “God bless you, my dear” to the -young daughter of a friend who stood lingering at -the door of his room, this sturdy old believer went -out to meet the God whom he had tried so honestly -to serve. His life was an amazing victory over -poverty, sickness, and sin. Greatness alone could -not have insured, nor could perseverance alone have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span> -commanded, three of his good fortunes in this world: -that Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his portrait; that -Boswell wrote his biography; and that <span class="smcap">His Wife</span> -said of him that “he was the most sensible man -she had ever met.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="A_PURITAN_PLUS_POETRY">A PURITAN PLUS POETRY</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>A friend of mine, one of the Elder Bookmen of -Harvard, told me some twenty years ago that he -had only once seen Ralph Waldo Emerson vexed -out of his transcendental tranquillity and almost -Olympian calm. It was a Sunday afternoon in Concord, -and the philosopher had been drawn from his -study by an unwonted noise in the house. On the -back porch he found his own offspring and some -children of the neighbours engaged in a romping, -boisterous game. With visible anger he stopped it, -saying, “Even if you have no reverence for the day, -you ought to have enough sense and manners to -respect the traditions of your forefathers.”</p> - -<p>Emerson’s puritanism was in the blood. Seven -of his ancestors were ministers of New England -churches of the early type. Among them was Peter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> -Bulkley, who left his comfortable parish in Bedfordshire, -England, to become the pastor of “the church -in the wilderness” at Concord, Massachusetts; -Father Samuel Moody of Agamenticus, Maine, who -was such a zealous reformer that he pursued wayward -sinners even into the alehouse to reprove them; -Joseph Emerson of Malden, a “heroic scholar,” who -prayed every night that no descendant of his might -ever be rich; and William Emerson, the patriot -preacher, who died while serving in the army of the -Revolution. These were verily “soldiers of the -Lord,” and from them and women of like stamina -and mettle, Emerson inherited the best of puritan -qualities: independence, sobriety, fearless loyalty to -conscience, strenuous and militant virtue.</p> - -<p>But he had also a super-gift which was not theirs. -That which made him different from them, gave -him a larger and more beautiful vision of the world, -led him into ways of thinking and speaking which -to them would have seemed strange and perilous, -(though in conduct he followed the strait and narrow -path,)—in short, that which made him what he -was in himself and to countless other men, a seer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> -an inspirer, a singer of new light and courage and -joy, was the gift of poetic imagination and interpretation. -He was a puritan <em>plus</em> poetry.</p> - -<p>Graduating from Harvard he began life as a -teacher in a Boston school and afterwards the minister -of a Boston church. But there was something -in his temperament which unfitted him for the service -of institutions. He was a servant of ideas. -To do his best work he needed to feel himself entirely -independent of everything except allegiance -to the truth as God gave him to see it from day to -day. The scholastic routine of a Female Academy -irked him. The social distinctions and rivalries of -city life appeared to him both insincere and tiresome. -Even the mild formulas and regulations of -a Unitarian church seemed to hamper him. He -was a come-outer; he wished to think for himself, to -proclaim his own visions, to act and speak only -from the inward impulse, though always with an -eye to the good of others. So he left his parish in -Boston and became a preacher at large to “these -United States.” His pulpit was the lecture-platform; -his little books of prose and verse carried his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> -words to a still larger audience; no man in America -during his life had a more extended or a deeper influence; -he became famous both as an orator and as -a writer; but in fact he was always preaching. As -Lamb said to Coleridge, “I never heard you do -anything else.”</p> - -<p>The central word of all his discourse is Self-reliance,—be -yourself, trust yourself, and fear not! -But in order to interpret this rightly one must have -at least an inkling of his philosophy, which was profoundly -religious and essentially poetical. He was -a mystic, an intuitional thinker. He believed that -the whole universe of visible things is only a kind of -garment which covers the real world of invisible ideas -and laws and principles. He believed also that -each man, having a share in the Divine Reason -which is the source of all things, may have a direct -knowledge of truth through his own innate ideas -and intuitive perceptions. Emerson wrote in his -diary, “The highest revelation is that God is in -every man.”</p> - -<p>This way of thinking is called transcendentalism, -because it overleaps logic and scientific reasoning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span> -It is easy to see how such a philosophy might lead -unbalanced persons into wild and queer and absurd -views and practices. And so it did when it struck -the neighbourhood of Boston in the second quarter -of the 19th Century, and began to spread from that -sacred centre.</p> - -<p>But with these vagaries Emerson had little sympathy. -His mysticism was strongly tinctured with -common sense, (which also is of divine origin,) and -his orderly nature recoiled from eccentric and irregular -ways. Although for a time he belonged to the -“Transcendental Club,” he frequently said that he -would not be called a transcendentalist, and at -times he made fun, in a mild and friendly spirit, of -the extreme followers of that doctrine. He held as -strongly as any one that the Divine light of reason -in each man is the guide to truth; but he held it -with the important reservation that when this inner -light really shines, free from passion and prejudice, -it will never lead a man away from good judgment -and the moral law. All through his life he navigated -the transcendental sea safely, piloted by a puritan -conscience, warned off the rocks by a keen sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> -humour, and kept from capsizing by a solid ballast -of New England prudence.</p> - -<p>He was in effect one of the most respected, sagacious, -prosperous and virtuous villagers of Concord. -Some slight departures from common custom he -tranquilly tested and as tranquilly abandoned. He -tried vegetarianism for a while, but gave it up when -he found that it did him no good. He attempted -to introduce domestic democracy by having the servants -sit at table with the rest of the household, -but was readily induced to abandon the experiment -by the protest of his two sensible hired girls against -such an inconvenient arrangement. He began to -practise a theory that manual labour should form -part of the scholar’s life, but was checked by the -personal discovery that hard work in the garden -meant poor work in the study. “The writer shall -not dig,” was his conclusion. Intellectual freedom -was what he chiefly desired; and this he found could -best be attained in an inconspicuous manner of living -and dressing, not noticeably different from that -of the average college professor or country minister.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus7"> -<img src="images/illus7.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">RALPH WALDO EMERSON.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>From a photograph by Black, Boston.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>Here you see the man “in his habit as he lived,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span> -(and as thousands of lecture-audiences saw him,) -pictured in the old photograph which illustrates this -chapter. Here is the familiar <i lang="fr">décor</i> of the photographer’s -studio: the curtain draped with a cord and -tassel, the muslin screen background, and probably -that hidden instrument of torture, the “head-rest,” -behind the tall, posed figure. Here are the solemn -“swallow-tail coat,” the conventional cravat, and -the black satin waistcoat. Yet even this antique -“carte de visite,” it seems to me, suggests something -more and greater,—the imperturbable, kindly -presence, the noble face, the angelic look, the serene -manner, the penetrating and revealing quality of -the man who set out to be “a friend to all who -wished to live in the spirit.”</p> - -<p>Whatever the titles of his lectures,—<cite>Man the Reformer</cite>, -<cite>The Method of Nature</cite>, <cite>The Conduct of Life</cite>, -<cite>Fate</cite>, <cite>Compensation</cite>, <cite>Prudence</cite>, <cite>The Present Age</cite>, -<cite>Society and Solitude</cite>,—his main theme is always the -same, “namely the infinitude of the private man.” -But this private man of Emerson’s, mark you, is -linked by invisible ties to all Nature and carries in -his breast a spark of the undying fire which is of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> -God. Hence he is at his best when he feels not -only his personal <em>unity</em> but also his universal <em>community</em>, -when he relies on himself and at the same -time cries</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“I yield myself to the perfect whole.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This kind of independence is the truest form of obedience.</p> - -<p>The charm of Emerson’s way of presenting his -thought comes from the spirit of poetry in the man. -He does not argue, nor threaten, nor often exhort; -he reveals what he has seen or heard, for you to -make what you will of it. He relies less on syllogisms -than on imagery, symbols, metaphors. His -utterance is as inspirational as the ancient oracle of -Delphi, but he shuns the contortions of the priestess -at that shrine.</p> - -<p>The clearness and symmetry of his sentences, the -modulations of his thrilling voice, the radiance of -his fine features and his understanding smile, even -his slight hesitations and pauses over his manuscript -as he read, lent a singular attraction to his speech. -Those who were mistrustful of his views on theology<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span> -and the church, listened to him with delight when -he poetized on art, politics, literature, human society -and the natural world. To the finest men and -women of America in the mid-Victorian epoch he -was the lecturer <i lang="fr">par excellence</i>, the intellectual awakener -and liberator, the messenger calling them to -break away from dull, thoughtless, formal ways of -doing things, and live freely in harmony with the -laws of God and their own spirit. They heard him -gladly.</p> - -<p>I wonder how he would fare to-day, when lecturers, -male or female, have to make a loud noise -to get a hearing.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Emerson’s books, prose and verse, remain with -us and still live,—“the precious life-blood of a masterspirit, -embalmed and treasured up on purpose -to a life beyond life.” That they are companionable -is proved by the way all sorts of companionable -people love them. I know a Pullman car conductor -who swears by Emerson. A young French Canadian -woodsman, (who is going to work his way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> -through college,) told me the other day that he -liked Emerson’s essays better than any other English -book that he had read. Restive girls and boys -of the “new generation” find something in him -which appeals to them; reading farmers of New -England and the West prefer him to Plato; even -academic professors and politicians qualifying for -statesmen feel his stimulating and liberating influence, -although (or perhaps because) he sometimes -says such hard things about them. I guess that -nothing yet written in America is likely to live -longer than Emerson’s best work.</p> - -<p>His prose is better known and more admired than -his verse, for several reasons: first, because he took -more pains to make the form of it as perfect as he -could; second, because it has a wider range and an -easier utterance; third, because it has more touches -of wit and of familiarity with the daily doings of -men; and finally, because the majority of readers -probably prefer prose for silent reading, since the -full charm of good verse is revealed only in reading -aloud.</p> - -<p>But for all that, with Emerson, (as with a writer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span> -so different as Matthew Arnold,) I find something -in the poems which is not in the essays,—a more -pure and subtle essence of what is deepest in the -man. Poetry has a power of compression which is -beyond prose. It says less and suggests more.</p> - -<p>Emerson wrote to the girl whom he afterwards -married: “I am born a poet,—of a low class without -doubt, but a poet.... My singing, to be sure, is -very husky and is for the most part in prose. Still -I am a poet in the sense of a perceiver and dear lover -of the harmonies that are in the soul and in matter, -and specially of the correspondence between them.” -This is penetrating self-criticism. That he was “of -a low class” as poet is more than doubtful,—an -error of modesty. But that his singing was often -“husky” cannot be denied. He never troubled -himself to learn the art of song. The music of -verse, in which Longfellow gained such mastery, -and Lowell and Whittier had such native gifts, is -not often found in Emerson’s poetry. His measures -rarely flow with freedom and harmony. They -are alternately stiff and spasmodic, and the rhymes -are sometimes threadbare, sometimes eccentric.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> -Many of his poems are so condensed, so tight-packed -with thought and information that they -seem to labour along like an overladen boat in a -choppy sea. For example, this:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The journeying atoms,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Primordial wholes,</div> -<div class="verse">Firmly draw, firmly drive,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">By their animate poles.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Or this:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Puny man and scentless rose</div> -<div class="verse">Tormenting Pan to double the dose.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But for these defects of form Emerson as poet -makes ample amends by the richness and accuracy -of his observation of nature, by the vigorous flight -of his imagination, by the depth and at times the -passionate controlled intensity of his feeling. Of -love-poetry he has none, except the philosophical. -Of narrative poetry he has practically none, unless -you count such brief, vivid touches as,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,</div> -<div class="verse">Here once the embattled farmers stood,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">And fired the shot heard round the world.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But his descriptive pieces are of a rare beauty and -charm, truthful in broad outline and delicate detail,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> -every flower and every bird in its right colour and -place. Walking with him you see and breathe New -England in the light of early morn, with the dew -sparkling on the grass and all the cosmic forces -working underneath it. His reflective and symbolic -poems, like <cite>Each and All</cite>, <cite>The Problem</cite>, <cite>Forerunners</cite>, -<cite>Days</cite>, <cite>The Sphinx</cite>, are full of a searching and daring -imaginative power. He has also the genius of the -perfect phrase.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The frolic architecture of the snow.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,</div> -<div class="verse">As the best gem upon her zone”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“The silent organ loudest chants</div> -<div class="verse indent1">The Master’s requiem.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Music pours on mortals</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Its beautiful disdain.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“Over the winter glaciers,</div> -<div class="verse">I see the summer glow,</div> -<div class="verse">And through the wild-piled snowdrift</div> -<div class="verse">The warm rose-buds below.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“I thenceforward and long after,</div> -<div class="verse">Listen for their harp-like laughter,</div> -<div class="verse">And carry in my heart, for days,</div> -<div class="verse">Peace that hallows rudest ways.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span></p> - -<p>His <cite>Threnody</cite>, written after the early death of his -first-born son, has always seemed to me one of the -most moving elegies in the English tongue. His -patriotic poems, especially the <cite>Concord Ode</cite>, are unsurpassed -as brief, lyrical utterances of the spirit of -America. In certain moods, when the mind is in -vigour and the windows of far vision open at a touch, -Emerson’s small volume of <cite>Poems</cite> is a most companionable -book.</p> - -<p class="tb">As his prose sometimes intrudes into his verse -and checks its flow, so his poetry often runs over into -his prose and illuminates it. What could be more -poetic in conception than this sentence from his -first book, <cite>Nature</cite>? “If the stars should appear but -one night in a thousand years, how would men believe -and adore and preserve for many generations -the remembrance of the city of God which had been -shown!”</p> - -<p>Emerson’s <cite>Essays</cite> are a distillation of his lectures. -His way of making these was singular and all his -own. It was his habit to keep note-books in which -he jotted down bits of observation about nature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span> -stray thoughts and comparisons, reflections on his -reading, and striking phrases which came to him in -meditation or talk. Choosing a subject he planted -it in his mind and waited for ideas and illustrations -to come to it, as birds or insects to a flower. When -a thought appeared he followed it, “as a boy might -hunt a butterfly,” and when it was captured he -pinned it in his “thought-book.” No doubt there -were mental laws at work all the time, giving guidance -and direction to the process of composition -which seemed so irregular and haphazard. There is -no lack of vital unity in one of Emerson’s lectures -or essays. It deals with a single subject and never -gets really out of sight of the proposition with which -it begins. Yet it seldom gives a complete, all-round -view of it. It is more like a series of swift and vivid -glimpses of the same object seen from different -stand-points, a collection of snap-shot pictures taken -in the course of a walk around some great mountain.</p> - -<p>From the pages of his note-books he gathered the -material for one of his lectures, selecting and arranging -it under some such title as Fate, Genius, Beauty, -Manners, Duty, The Anglo-Saxon, The Young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> -American, and giving it such form and order as he -thought would be most effective in delivery. If the -lecture was often repeated, (as it usually was,) the -material was frequently rearranged, the pages were -shifted, the illustrations changed. Then, after it -had served its purpose, the material was again rearranged -and published in a volume of <cite>Essays</cite>.</p> - -<p>It is easy to trace in the essays the effects of this -method of writing. The material is drawn from a -wide range of reading and observation. Emerson is -especially fond of poetry, philosophy and books of -anecdote and biography. He quotes from Shakespeare, -Dante, Goethe, George Herbert, Wordsworth, -Plutarch, Grimm, St. Simon, Swedenborg, -Behmen the mystic, Plato, and the religious books -of the East. His illustrations come from far and -near. Now they are strange and remote, now -homely and familiar. The Zodiac of Denderah; the -Savoyards who carved their pine-forests into toys; -the <i lang="la">lustrum</i> of silence which Pythagoras made his -disciples keep; Napoleon on the <i>Bellerophon</i> watching -the drill of the English soldiers; the Egyptian -legend that every man has two pair of eyes; Empedocles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> -and his shoe; the flat strata of the earth; a -soft mushroom pushing up through the hard ground;—all -these allusions and a hundred more are found -in the same volume. On his pages, close beside the -Parthenon, St. Paul’s, the Sphinx, Ætna and Vesuvius, -you will read of the White Mountains, Monadnock, -Katahdin, the pickerel-weed in bloom, the -wild geese honking across the sky, the chickadee -singing in the face of winter, the Boston State-house, -Wall Street, cotton-mills, railroads, Quincy granite, -and so forth. Nothing is too far away to seem real -to him, nothing too near to seem interesting and -valuable. There is an abundance, sometimes a -superabundance, of material in his essays, not always -well-assorted, but all vivid and suggestive.</p> - -<p>The structure of the essay, the way of putting the -material together, does not follow any fixed rule or -system. Yet in most cases it has a well-considered -and suitable form; it stands up; it is architecturally -built, though the art is concealed. I once amused -myself trying to analyze some of the essays, and -found that many of the best ones have a definite -theme, like a text, and follow a regular plan of development,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> -with introduction, discussion, and conclusion. -In some cases Emerson does not disdain -the “heads and horns” of the old-fashioned preacher, -and numbers his points “first,” “second,” “third,”—perhaps -even “fourth.” But this is rare. For -the most part the essays do not seem to be constructed -but to grow. They are like conversations -with the stupid things left out. They turn aside -from dull points, and omit connecting links, and -follow an attractive idea wherever it may lead. -They seldom exhaust a subject, but they usually -illuminate it.</p> - -<p>“The style is the man,” and in this case it is well -suited to his material and his method. It is brilliant, -sparkling, gem-like. He has great freedom in -the choice of words, using them sometimes in odd -ways and not always correctly. Generally his diction -is made up of terse, pungent Anglo-Saxon -phrases, but now and then he likes to bring in a -stately word of Greek or Latin origin, with a telling -effect of contrast. Most of his sentences are short -and clear; it is only in the paragraph that he is -sometimes cloudy. Every essay is rich in epigrams.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span> -If one reads too much of a style like this, the effect -becomes fatiguing. You miss the long, full, steady -flow of sentences with varied cadence and changing -music.</p> - -<p>Emerson’s river is almost all rapids. The flash -and sparkle of phrase after phrase tire me after a -while. But for a short voyage nothing could be -more animated and stimulating. I read one essay -at a time and rise refreshed.</p> - -<p>But the secret of Emerson’s power, (to change -the figure,) is in the wine which he offers, not the -cup into which he pours it. His great word,—“self-reliance,”—runs -through all his writing and pervades -all that he says. At times it is put in an extreme -form, and might lead, if rashly followed, to -intellectual conceit and folly. But it is balanced -by other words, no less potent,—self-criticism, modesty, -consideration, prudence, and reverence. He -is an aspiring, hopeful teacher of youth; correcting -follies with a sharp wit; encouraging noble ambitions; -making the face of nature luminous with the -glow of poetic imagination; and elevating life with -an ideal patriotism and a broad humanity. In all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> -his writing one feels the serene, lofty influence of a -sane and chastened optimism, the faith which holds, -amid many appearances which are dark, mysterious -and terrifying, that Good is stronger than Evil and -will triumph at last everywhere.</p> - -<p>Read what he says in the essay called <cite>Compensation</cite>: -“There is no penalty to virtue; no penalty to -wisdom; they are proper additions of being. In a -virtuous action I properly <em>am</em>; in a virtuous act I -add to the world; I plant into deserts conquered -from Chaos and Nothing, and see the darkness receding -on the limits of the horizon. There can be -no excess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty, -when these attributes are considered in the purest -sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms -an Optimism, never a Pessimism.”</p> - -<p>This is the note that brings a brave joy to the -ear of youth. Old age gladly listens to the same -note in the deeper, quieter music of Emerson’s poem, -<cite>Terminus</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“As the bird trims her to the gale,</div> -<div class="verse">I trim myself to the storm of time,</div> -<div class="verse">I man the rudder, reef the sail,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> -<div class="verse">Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:</div> -<div class="verse">‘Lowly faithful, banish fear,</div> -<div class="verse">Right onward drive unharmed;</div> -<div class="verse">The port, well worth the cruise, is near,</div> -<div class="verse">And every wave is charmed.’”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="AN_ADVENTURER_IN_A_VELVET_JACKET">AN ADVENTURER IN A VELVET JACKET</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus gallantly he appears in my mind’s eye when -I pause in rereading one of his books and summon -up a fantasm of the author,—Robert Louis Stevenson, -gentleman adventurer in life and letters, his -brown eyes shining in a swarthy face, his lean, long-enduring -body adorned with a black-velvet jacket.</p> - -<p>This garment is no disguise but a symbol. It is -short, so as not to impede him with entangling tails. -It is unconventional, as a protest against the tyranny -of fashion. But it is of velvet, mark you, to match -a certain niceness of choice and preference of beauty,—yes, -and probably a touch of bravura,—in all its -wearer’s vagaries. ’Tis like the silver spurs, broad -sombrero and gay handkerchief of the thoroughbred -cowboy,—not an element of the dandiacal, but a -tribute to romance. Strange that the most genuine -of men usually have a bit of this in their composition; -your only incurable <i lang="fr">poseur</i> being the fellow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span> -who affects never to pose and betrays himself by -his attitude of scorn.</p> - -<p>Of course, Stevenson did not always wear this -symbolic garment. In fact the only time I met -him in the flesh his clothes had a discouraging resemblance -to those of the rest of us at the Authors -Club in New York. And a few months ago, when -I traced his “footprints on the sands of time” at -Waikiki beach, near Honolulu, the picture drawn -for me by those who knew him when he passed that -way, was that of a lank, bare-footed, bright-eyed, -sun-browned man who daundered along the shore -in white-duck trousers and a shirt wide open at the -neck. But the velvet jacket was in his wardrobe, -you may be sure, ready for fitting weather and occasion. -He wore it, very likely, when he went to -beard the Honolulu colourman who was trying to -“do” his stepson-in-law in the matter of a bill for -paints. He put it on when he banqueted with his -amiable but bibulous friend, King Kalakaua. You -can follow it through many, if not most, of the photographs -which he had taken from his twentieth to -his forty-fourth, and last, year. And in his style<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span> -you can almost always feel it,—the touch of distinction, -the ease of a native elegance, the assurance -of a well-born wanderer,—in short, the velvet -jacket.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;" id="illus8"> -<img src="images/illus8.jpg" width="475" height="700" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.</p> -<p class="caption-copy"><i>From a photograph, negative of which is owned by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</i></p> -</div> - -<p>Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson began the adventure -of life in a decent little house in Howard -Place, Edinburgh, on November 13, 1850. He -completed it on the Samoan island of Upolu in the -South Seas, December 3, 1894,—completed it, I -think, for though he left his work unfinished he -had arrived at the port of honour and the haven -of happy rest.</p> - -<p>His father, and his father’s father, were engineers -connected with the Board of Northern Lights. This -sounds like being related to the Aurora Borealis; -and indeed there was something of mystery and -magic about Stevenson, as if an influence from that -strange midnight dawn had entered his blood. But -as a matter of fact the family occupation was nothing -more uncanny than that of building and maintaining -lighthouses and beacons along the Scottish -coast, a profession in which they won considerable -renown and to which the lad himself was originally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span> -assigned. He made a fair try at it, and even won -a silver medal for an essay on improvements in -lighthouses. But the calling did not suit him, and -he said afterward that he gained little from it except -“properties for some possible romance, or -words to add to my vocabulary.”</p> - -<p>This lanky, queer, delicate, headstrong boy was -a dreamer of dreams, and from youth desperately -fond of writing. He felt himself a predestinated -author, and like a true Scot toiled diligently to make -his calling and election sure.</p> - -<p>But there was one thing for which he cared more -than for writing, and that was living. He plunged -into it eagerly, with more zest than wisdom, trying -all the games that cities offer, and learning some -rather disenchanting lessons at a high price. For -in truth neither his physical, nor (as he later discovered) -his moral, nature was suited to the sowing -of wild oats. His constitution was one of the frailest -ever exposed to the biting winds and soaking mists -of the North British Boston. Early death seemed -to be written in his horoscope. But an indomitable -spirit laughs at dismal predictions. Robert Louis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span> -Stevenson, (as he now called himself, velvet-jacketing -his own name,) was not the man to be easily -snuffed out by weak lungs or wild weather. Mocking -at “bloody Jack” he held fast to life with grim, -cheerful, grotesque courage; his mother, his wife, -his trusty friends, heartened him for the combat; -and he succeeded in having a wider experience and -doing more work than falls to the lot of many men -in rudely exuberant health. To do this calls for a -singular kind of bravery, not inferior to, nor unlike, -that of the good soldier who walks with Death undismayed.</p> - -<p>Undoubtedly Stevenson was born with a <i lang="de">Wanderlust</i>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">“My mistress was the open road</div> -<div class="verse">And the bright eyes of danger.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Ill health gave occasion and direction to many -voyages and experiments, some of which bettered -him, while others made him worse. As a bachelor -he roamed mountains afoot and travelled rivers in -his own boat, explored the purlieus and sublittorals -of Paris, London, and Edinburgh, lodged “on the -seacoast of Bohemia,” crossed the ocean as an emigrant,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span> -and made himself vagrantly at home in California -where he married the wife “the great Artificer -made for him.” They passed their honeymoon in -a deserted miner’s cabin, and then lived around, in -Scotland, the Engadine, Southern France, Bournemouth, -the Adirondacks, and on a schooner among -the South Sea Islands, bringing up at last in the -pleasant haven of Vailima. On all these distant -roads Death pursued him, and, till the last ten years, -Poverty was his companion. Yet he looked with -keen and joyful eyes upon the changing face of the -world and into its shadowy heart without trembling. -He kept his spirit unbroken, his faith unquenched -even when the lights burned low. He -counted life</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse indent15">“just a stuff</div> -<div class="verse">To try the soul’s strength on and educe the man.”</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">He may have stumbled and sometimes fallen, things -may have looked black to him; but he never gave -up, and in spite of frailties and burdens, he travelled -a long way,—upward. Through all his travels and -tribulations he kept on writing, writing, writing,—the -very type of a migratory author. He made his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span> -first appearance in a canoe. The log of this journey, -<cite>An Inland Voyage on French Rivers</cite>, published in -1878, was a modest, whimsical, charming début in -literature. In 1879 he appeared again, and this -time with a quaint companion. <cite>Travels with a Donkey -in the Cevennes</cite> is one of the most delightful, -uninstructive descriptions of a journey ever written -in English. It contains no practical information -but plenty of pleasure and profit. I do not envy -the reader who can finish it without loving that -obstinate little mouse-coloured Modestine, and feeling -that she is one of the best-drawn female characters, -of her race, in fiction.</p> - -<p>From this good, quiet beginning his books followed -rapidly, and (after <cite>Treasure Island</cite>, that incomparable -boys’ book for men,) with growing popularity -among the judicious, the “gentle readers,” -who choose books not because they are recommended -by professors or advertised in department stores, -but because they are really well written and worth -reading.</p> - -<p>It is difficult to classify Stevenson’s books, perhaps -just because they are migrants, borderers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span> -Yet I think a rough grouping, at least of his significant -works, may be made. There are five volumes -of travels; six or seven volumes of short stories; -nine longer novels or romances; three books of verse; -three books of essays; one biography; and one -study of South Sea politics. This long list lights -up two vital points in the man: his industry and -his versatility.</p> - -<p>“A virtue and a vice,” say you? Well, that may -be as you choose to take it, reader. But if you say -it in a sour or a puritanical spirit, Stevenson will -gaily contradict you, making light of what you -praise and vaunting what you blame.</p> - -<p>Industry? Nonsense! Did he not write <cite>An -Apology for Idlers</cite>? Yet unquestionably he was a -toiler; his record proves it. Fleeing from one land -to another to shake off his implacable enemy; camping -briefly in strange places; often laid on his back -by sickness and sometimes told to “move on” by -Policeman Penury; collecting his books by post and -correcting his proofs in bed; he made out to produce -twenty-nine volumes in sixteen years,—say -8,000 pages of 300 words, each,—a thing manifestly -impossible without a mort of work. But of this he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> -thought less than of the fact that he did it, as a -rule, cheerfully and with a high heart. Herein he -came near to his own ideal of success: “To be -honest, to be kind—to earn a little and to spend a -little less, to make upon the whole a family happier -for his presence, to renounce when that shall be -necessary and not to be embittered, to keep a few -friends, but these without capitulation,—above all, -on the same grim condition, to keep friends with -himself—here is a task for all that a man has of -fortitude and delicacy.” Of his work I think he -would have said that he stuck to it, first, because -he needed the money that it brought in, and second, -because he enjoyed it exceedingly. With this he -would have smiled away the puritan who wished -to pat him on the back for industry.</p> - -<p>That he was versatile, turned from one subject -to another, tried many forms of his art, and succeeded -in some better than in others, he would have -admitted boldly—even before those critics who -speak slightingly of versatility as if it marked some -inferiority in a writer, whereas they dislike it chiefly -because it gives them extra trouble in putting him -into his precise pigeonhole of classification. Stevenson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span> -would have referred these gentlemen to his masters -Scott and Thackeray for a justification. His -versatility was not that of a weathercock whirled -about by every wind of literary fashion, but that of -a well-mounted gun which can be turned towards -any mark. He did not think that because he had -struck a rich vein of prose story-telling he must -follow that lead until he had worked it or himself -out. He was a prospector as well as a miner. He -wished to roam around, to explore things, books, -and men, to see life vividly as it is, and then to write -what he thought of it in any form that seemed to -him fit,—essay, or story, or verse. And this he did, -thank God, without misgiving, and on the whole -greatly to our benefit and enjoyment.</p> - -<p>I am writing now of the things which make his -books companionable. That is why I have begun -with a thumb-nail sketch of the man in the velvet -jacket who lives in them and in his four volumes of -letters,—the best English letters, it seems to me, -since Lamb and Thackeray. That also is why I -have not cared to interrupt this simple essay by -telling which of his works strike me as comparative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> -failures, and giving more or less convincing reasons -why certain volumes in my “collective edition” are -less worn than others.</p> - -<p>’Tis of these others that I wish to speak,—the -volumes whose bindings are like a comfortable suit -of old clothes and on whose pages there are pencil-marks -like lovers’ initials cut upon the bark of -friendly trees. What charm keeps them alive and -fresh, in an age when most books five years old are -considered out of date and everything from the unspacious -times of Queen Victoria is cordially -damned? What manner of virility is in them to -evoke, and to survive, such a flood of “Stevensoniana”? -What qualities make them still welcome -to so wide a range of readers, young and old, -simple and learned,—yes, even among that fair -and capricious sex whose claim to be courted his -earlier writings seem so lightly (or prudently) to -neglect?</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Over and above the attraction of his pervading -personality, I think the most obvious charm of -Stevenson’s books lies in the clear, vivid, accurate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span> -and strong English in which they are written. Reading -them is like watching a good golfer drive or putt -the ball with clean strokes in which energy is never -wanting and never wasted. He does not foozle, or -lose his temper in a hazard, or brandish his brassy -like a war-club. There is a grace of freedom in his -play which comes from practice and self-control.</p> - -<p>Stevenson describes (as far as such a thing is -possible) the way in which he got his style. “All -through my boyhood and youth,” says he, “I was -known and pointed out for the pattern of an idler, -and yet I was always busy on my own private end, -which was to learn to write.” He traces with gusto, -and doubtless with as much accuracy as can be -expected in a map drawn from memory, the trails -of early admiration which he followed towards this -goal. His list of “authors whom I have imitated” -is most entertaining: Hazlitt, Lamb, Wordsworth, -Sir Thomas Browne, Defoe, Hawthorne, Montaigne, -Baudelaire, Obermann. In another essay, on -“Books Which Have Influenced Me,” he names -<cite>The Bible</cite>, <cite>Hamlet</cite>, <cite>As You Like It</cite>, <cite>King Lear</cite>, <cite>Le -Vicomte de Bragelonne</cite>, <cite>The Pilgrim’s Progress</cite>, <cite>Leaves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span> -of Grass</cite>, Herbert Spencer’s books, Lewes’s <cite>Life of -Goethe</cite>, the <cite>Meditations</cite> of Marcus Aurelius, the -poems of Wordsworth, George Meredith’s <cite>The -Egoist</cite>, the essays of Thoreau and Hazlitt, Mitford’s -<cite>Tales of Old Japan</cite>,—a strange catalogue, -but not incoherent if you remember that he is speaking -now more of their effect upon his way of thinking -than of their guidance in his manner of writing,—though -in this also I reckon he learned something -from them, especially from the English Bible.</p> - -<p>Besides the books which he read, he carried about -with him little blank-books in which he jotted down -the noteworthy in what he saw, heard, or imagined. -He learned also from penless authors, composers -without a manuscript, masters of the <i lang="la">viva-voce</i> style, -like Robert, the Scotch gardener, and John Todd, -the shepherd. When he saw a beggar on horseback, -he cared not where the horse came from, he watched -the rascal ride. If an expression struck him “for -some conspicuous force, some happy distinction,” -he promptly annexed it;—because he understood -it, it was his.</p> - -<p>In two separate essays, each of which he calls<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span> -“A Gossip,” he pays tribute to “the bracing influence -of old Dumas,” and to the sweeping power -and broad charm of Walter Scott, “a great romantic—an -idle child,” the type of easy writers. But -Stevenson is of a totally different type, though of -a kindred spirit. He is the best example in modern -English of a careful writer. He modelled and remodelled, -touched and retouched his work, toiled -tremendously. The chapter on Honolulu in <cite>The -Wrecker</cite>, was rewritten ten times. His essays for -<cite>Scribner’s Magazine</cite> passed through half a dozen -revisions.</p> - -<p>His end in view was to bring his language closer -to life, not to use the common language of life. -That, he maintained, was too diffuse, too indiscriminate. -He wished to condense, to distil, to -bring out the real vitality of language. He was -like <cite>Sentimental Tommy</cite> in Barrie’s book, willing -to cogitate three hours to find the solitary word -which would make the thing he had in mind stand -out distinct and unmistakable. What matter if -his delay to finish his paper lost him the prize in -the competition? Tommy’s prize was the word; -when he had that his work was crowned.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span></p> - -<p>A willingness to be content with the wrong colour, -to put up with the word which does not fit, is the -mark of inferior work. For example, the author of -<cite>Trilby</cite>, wishing to describe a certain quick, retentive -look, speaks of the painter’s “<em>prehensile</em> eye.” The -adjective startles, but does not illuminate. The -prehensile quality belongs to tails rather than to -eyes.</p> - -<p>There is a modern school of writers fondly given -to the cross-breeding of adjectives and nouns. Their -idea of a vivid style is satisfied by taking a subject -which belongs to one region of life and describing -it in terms drawn from another. Thus if they write -of music, they use the language of painting; if of -painting, they employ the terminology of music. -They give us pink songs of love, purple roars of -anger, and gray dirges of despair. Or they describe -the andante passages of a landscape, and the minor -key of a heroine’s face.</p> - -<p>This is the extravagance of a would-be pointed -style which mistakes the incongruous for the brilliant. -Stevenson may have had something to do -with the effort to escape from the polished commonplace -of an English which admitted no master earlier<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span> -than Addison or later than Macaulay. He may -have been a leader in the hunting of the unexpected, -striking, pungent word. But for the excesses and -absurdities of this school of writing in its decadence, -he had no liking. He knew that if you are going -to use striking words you must be all the more careful -to make them hit the mark.</p> - -<p>He sets forth his theory of style in the essay called -<cite>A Humble Remonstrance</cite>. It amounts to this: First, -you shall have an idea, a controlling thought; then -you shall set your words and sentences marching -after it as soldiers follow their captain; and if any -turns back, looks the other way, fails to keep step, -you shall put him out of the ranks as a malingerer, -a deserter at heart. “The proper method of literature,” -says he, “is by selection, which is a kind of -negative exaggeration.” But the positive exaggeration,—the -forced epithet, the violent phrase, -the hysterical paragraph,—he does not allow. -Hence we feel at once a restraint and an intensity, -a poignancy and a delicacy in his style, which make -it vivid without ever becoming insane even when -he describes insanity, as he does in <cite>The Merry Men</cite>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span> -<cite>Olalla</cite>, and <cite>Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde</cite>. His words -are focussed on the object as with a burning-glass. -They light it up; they kindle it; but they do not -distort it.</p> - -<p>Now a style like this may have its occasional -fatigues: it may convey a sense of over-carefulness, -of a choice somewhat too meticulous,—to use a -word which in itself illustrates my meaning. But -after all it has a certain charm, especially in these -days of slipshod, straddling English. You like to -see a man put his foot down in the right place, -neither stumbling nor swaggering. The assurance -with which he treads may be the result of forethought -and concentration, but to you, reading, -it gives a feeling of ease and confidence. You follow -him with pleasure because he knows where he -is going and has taken pains to study the best way -of getting there.</p> - -<p>Take a couple of illustrations from the early -sketches which Stevenson wrote to accompany a -book of etchings of Edinburgh,—hack work, you -may call them; but even hack work can be done -with a nice conscience.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span></p> - -<p>Here is the Edinburgh climate: “The weather is -raw and boisterous in winter, shifty and ungenial -in summer, and a downright meteorological purgatory -in spring. The delicate die early, and I, as a -survivor among bleak winds and plumping rains, -have been sometimes tempted to envy them their -fate.”</p> - -<p>Here is the Scottish love of home: (One of the -tall “lands,” inhabited by a hundred families, has -crumbled and gone down.) “How many people -all over the world, in London, Canada, New Zealand, -could say with truth, ‘The house I was born -in fell last night’!”</p> - -<p>Now turn to a volume of short stories. Here is -a Hebridean night, in <cite>The Merry Men</cite>: “Outside -was a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and -there a cloud still hanging, last stragglers of the -tempest. It was near the top of the flood, and the -Merry Men were roaring in the windless quiet.”</p> - -<p>Here is a sirocco in Spain: “It came out of malarious -lowlands, and over several snowy sierras. -The nerves of those on whom it blew were strung -and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span> -their legs ached under the burden of their body; -and the touch of one hand upon another grew to -be odious.”</p> - -<p>Now take an illustration from one of his very -early essays, <cite>Notes on the Movements of Young Children</cite>, -printed in 1874. Here are two very little girls -learning to dance: “In these two, particularly, the -rhythm was sometimes broken by an excess of -energy, <em>as though the pleasure of the music in their -light bodies could endure no longer the restraint of the -regulated dance</em>.”</p> - -<p>These examples are purposely chosen from tranquil -pages; there is nothing far-fetched or extraordinary -about them; yet I shall be sorry for you, -reader, if you do not feel something rare and precious -in a style like this, in which the object, however -simple, is made alive with a touch, and stands before -you as if you saw it for the first time.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Tusitala,—“Teller of Tales,”—was the name -which the South Sea Islanders gave to Stevenson; -and he liked it well. Beginning as an essayist, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span> -turned more and more, as his life went on, to -the art of prose fiction as that in which he most -desired to excel. It was in this field, indeed, that -he made his greatest advance. His later essays do -not surpass his earlier ones as much as his later -stories excel his first attempts.</p> - -<p>Here I conceive my reader objecting: Did not -<cite>Treasure Island</cite> strike twelve early in the day? Is -it not the best book of its kind in English?</p> - -<p>Yes, my fellow Stevensonian, it is all that you -say, and more,—of its kind it has no superior, so -far as I know, in any language. But the man who -wrote it wrote also books of a better kind,—deeper, -broader, more significant, and in writing these he -showed, in spite of some relapses, a steadily growing -power which promised to place him in the very -highest rank of English novelists.</p> - -<p><cite>The Master of Ballantrae</cite>, maugre its defects of -construction, has the inevitable atmosphere of fate, -and the unforgettable figures of the two brothers, -born rivals. The second part of <cite>David Balfour</cite> is -not only a better romance, but also a better piece -of character drawing, than the first part. <cite>St. Ives</cite>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span> -which was left unfinished, may have been little -more than a regular “sword-and-cloak” story, more -choicely written, perhaps, than is usual among the -followers of “old Dumas.” But Stevenson’s other -unfinished book, <cite>Weir of Hermiston</cite>, is the torso of -a mighty and memorable work of art. It has the -lines and the texture of something great.</p> - -<p>Why, then, was it not finished? Ask Death.</p> - -<p><cite>Lorna Doone</cite> was written at forty-four years: -<cite>The Scarlet Letter</cite> at forty-six: <cite>The Egoist</cite> at fifty-one: -<cite>Tess of the D’Urbervilles</cite> at fifty-one. Stevenson -died at forty-four. But considerations of what -he might have done, (and disputes about the insoluble -question,) should not hinder us from appraising -his actual work as a teller of tales which -do not lose their interest nor their charm.</p> - -<p>He had a theory of the art of narration which he -stated from time to time with considerable definiteness -and inconsiderable variations. It is not obligatory -to believe that his stories were written on -this theory. It is more likely that he did the work -first as he wanted to do it, and then, like a true -Scot, reasoned out an explanation of why he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span> -done it in just that way. But even so, his theory -remains good as a comment on the things that he -liked best in his own stories. Let us take it briefly.</p> - -<p>His first point is that fiction does not, and can -not, compete with real life. Life has a vastly more -varied interest because it is more complex. Fiction -must not try to reproduce this complexity -literally, for that is manifestly impossible. What -the novelist has to do is to turn deliberately the -other way, and seek to hold you by simplifying and -clarifying the material Which life presents. He wins -not by trying to tell you everything, but by telling -you that which means most in the revelation of -character and in the unfolding of the story. Of -necessity he can deal only with a part of life, and -that chiefly on the dramatic side, the dream side; -for a life in which the ordinary, indispensable details -of mere existence are omitted is, after all, more -or less dream-like. Therefore, the story-teller must -renounce the notion of making his story a literal -transcript of even a single day of actual life, and -concentrate his attention upon those things which -seem to him the most real in life,—the things that -count.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now a man who takes this view of fiction, if he -excels at all, will be sure to do so in the short story, -a form in which the art of omission is at a high premium. -Here, it seems to me, Stevenson is a master -unsurpassed. <cite>Will o’ the Mill</cite> is a perfect idyl; -<cite>Markheim</cite>, a psychological tale in Hawthorne’s -manner; <cite>Olalla</cite>, a love-story of tragic beauty; and -<cite>Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde</cite>, in spite of its obvious -moving-picture artifice, a parable of intense power.</p> - -<p>Stevenson said to Graham Balfour: “There are -three ways of writing a story. You may take a -plot and fit characters to it, or you may take a character -and choose incidents and situations to develop -it, or lastly you may take a certain atmosphere and -get actions and persons to express and realize it. -I’ll give you an example—<cite>The Merry Men</cite>. There -I began with the feeling of one of those islands on -the west coast of Scotland, and I gradually developed -the feeling with which that coast affected -me.” This, probably, is somewhat the way in which -Hawthorne wrote <cite>The House of the Seven Gables</cite>; -yet I do not think that is one of his best romances, -any more than I think <cite>The Merry Men</cite> one of Stevenson’s -best short stories. It is not memorable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span> -as a tale. Only the bits of description live. <cite>The -Treasure of Franchard</cite>, light and airy as it is, has -more of that kind of reality which Stevenson sought. -Therefore it seems as if his third “way of writing -a story” were not the best suited to his genius.</p> - -<p>The second way,—that in which the plot links and -unfolds the characters,—is the path on which he -shows at his best. Here the gentleman adventurer -was at ease from the moment he set forth on it. -In <cite>Treasure Island</cite> he raised the dime novel to the -level of a classic.</p> - -<p>It has been charged against Stevenson’s stories -that there are no women in them. To this charge -one might enter what the lawyers call a plea of “confession -and avoidance.” Even were it true, it would -not necessarily be fatal. It may well be doubted -whether that primitive factor which psychologists -call “sex-interest” plays quite such a predominant, -perpetual, and all-absorbing part in real life as that -which neurotic writers assign to it in their books. -But such a technical, (and it must be confessed, -somewhat perilous,) defense is not needed. There -are plenty of women in Stevenson’s books,—quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span> -as many, and quite as delightful and important as -you will find in the ordinary run of life. Marjory -in <cite>Will o’ the Mill</cite> is more lovable than Will himself. -Olalla is the true heroine of the story which -bears her name. Catriona and Miss Grant, in the -second part of <cite>David Balfour</cite>, are girls of whom it -would be an honour to be enamoured; and I make -no doubt that David, (like Stevenson) was hard -put to it to choose between them. Uma, in <cite>The -Beach of Falesa</cite>, is a lovely insulated Eve. The two -Kirsties, in <cite>Weir of Hermiston</cite>, are creatures of intense -and vivid womanhood. It would have been -quite impossible for a writer who had such a mother -as Stevenson’s, such a friend of youth as Mrs. Sitwell, -such a wife as Margaret Vandegrift, to ignore -or slight the part which woman plays in human -life. If he touches it with a certain respect and -<i lang="la">pudor</i>, that also is in keeping with his character,—the -velvet jacket again.</p> - -<p>The second point in his theory of fiction is that -in a well-told tale the threads of narrative should -converge, now and then, in a scene which expresses, -visibly and unforgettably, the very soul of the story.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span> -He instances Robinson Crusoe finding the footprint -on the beach, and the Pilgrim running from -the City of Destruction with his fingers in his ears.</p> - -<p>There are many of these flash-of-lightning scenes -in Stevenson’s stories. The duel in <cite>The Master of -Ballantrae</cite> where the brothers face each other in -the breathless winter midnight by the light of unwavering -candles, and Mr. Henry cries to his tormentor, -“I will give you every advantage, for I -think you are about to die.” The flight across the -heather, in <cite>Kidnapped</cite>, when Davie lies down, forspent, -and Alan Breck says, “Very well then, I’ll -carry ye”; whereupon Davie looks at the little -man and springs up ashamed, crying “Lead on, -I’ll follow!” The moment in <cite>Olalla</cite> when the Englishman -comes to the beautiful Spanish mistress of -the house with his bleeding hand to be bound up, -and she, catching it swiftly to her lips, bites it to -the bone. The dead form of Israel Hands lying huddled -together on the clean, bright sand at the bottom -of the lagoon of <cite>Treasure Island</cite>. Such pictures -imprint themselves on memory like seals.</p> - -<p>The third point in Stevenson’s theory is, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span> -details should be reduced to a minimum in number -and raised to a maximum in significance. He wrote -to Henry James, (and the address of the letter is -amusing,) “How to escape from the besotting <em>particularity</em> -of fiction? ‘Roland approached the house; -it had green doors and window blinds; and there -was a scraper on the upper step.’ To hell with Roland -and the scraper!” Many a pious reader would -say “thank you” for this accurate expression of his -sentiments.</p> - -<p>But when Stevenson sets a detail in a story you -see at once that it cannot be spared. Will o’ the -Mill, throwing back his head and shouting aloud -to the stars, seems to see “a momentary shock -among them, and a diffusion of frosty light pass -from one to another along the sky.” When Markheim -has killed the antiquarian and stands in the -old curiosity shop, musing on the eternity of a moment’s -deed,—“first one and then another, with -every variety of pace and voice,—one deep as the -bell from a cathedral turret, another ringing on its -treble notes the prelude of a waltz,—the clocks began -to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span> -Turning over the bit of paper on which “the black -spot,” the death-notice of the pirates, has been -scrawled with charcoal, Jim Hawkins finds it has -been cut from the last page of a Bible, and on the -other side he reads part of a verse from the last -chapter of the Revelation: <em>Without are dogs and -murderers</em>.</p> - -<p>There is no “besotting particularity” in such details -as these. On the contrary they illustrate the -classic conception of a work of art, in which every -particular must be vitally connected with the general, -and the perfection of the smallest part depends -upon its relation to the perfect whole. Now this -is precisely the quality, and the charm, of Stevenson’s -stories, short or long. He omits the non-essential, -but his eye never misses the significant. He -does not waste your time and his own in describing -the coloured lights in the window of a chemist’s shop -where nothing is to happen, or the quaint costume -of a disagreeable woman who has no real part in -the story. That kind of realism, of local colour, does -not interest him. But he is careful to let you know -that Alan Breck wore a sword that was much too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span> -long for him; that Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, -gave an impression of deformity without any nameable -malformation, and bore himself “with a sort -of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness”; -that John Silver could use his wooden leg as a terrible -weapon; that the kitchen of the cottage on -Aros was crammed with rare incongruous treasures -from far away; and that on a certain cold sunny -morning “the blackbirds sung exceeding sweet and -loud about the House of Durisdeer, and there was -a noise of the sea in all the chambers.” Why these -<em>trivia</em>? Why such an exact touch on these details? -Because they count.</p> - -<p>Yet Stevenson’s tales and romances do not give—at -least to me—the effect of over-elaboration, of -strain, of conscious effort; there is nothing affected -and therefore nothing tedious in them. They move; -they carry you along with them; they are easy to -read; one does not wish to lay them down and take -a rest. There is artifice in them, of course, but it -is a thoroughly natural artifice,—as natural as a -clean voice and a clear enunciation are to a well-bred -gentleman. He does not think about them;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span> -he uses them in his habit as he lives. Tusitala enjoys -his work as a teller of tales; he is at home in -it. His manner is his own; it suits him; he wears -it without fear or misgiving,—the velvet jacket -again.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Of Stevenson as a moralist I hesitate to write -because whatever is said on this point is almost -certain to be misunderstood. On one side are the -puritans who frown at a preacher in a velvet jacket; -on the other side the pagans who scoff at an artist -who cares for morals. Yet surely there is a way -between the two extremes where an artist-man -may follow his conscience with joy to deal justly, -to love mercy, and to walk humbly with his God. -And having caught sight of that path, though he -may trace it but dimly and follow it stumbling, -surely such a man may say to his fellows, “This is -the good way; let us walk in it.” Not one of the -great writers who have used the English language, -so far as I know, has finished his career without -wishing to moralize, to teach something worth learning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span> -to stand in the pulpit of experience and give -an honest message to the world. Stevenson was -no exception to this rule. He avowed the impulse -frankly when he said to William Archer, “I would -rise from the dead to preach.”</p> - -<p>In his stories we look in vain for “morals” in the -narrow sense,—proverbs printed in italics and -tagged on to the tale like imitation oranges tied to -a Christmas tree. The teaching of his fiction is -like that of life, diffused through the course of events -and embodied in the development of characters. -But as the story unfolds we are never in doubt as -to the feelings of the narrator,—his pity for the -unfortunate; his scorn for the mean, the selfish, -the hypocritical; his admiration for the brave, the -kind, the loyal and cheerful servants of duty. Never -at his lightest and gayest does he make us think of -life as a silly farce; nor at his sternest and saddest -does he leave us disheartened, “having no hope -and without God in the world.” Behind the play -there is a meaning, and beyond the conflict there -is a victory, and underneath the uncertainties of -doubt there is a foothold for faith.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span></p> - -<p>I like what Stevenson wrote to an old preacher, -his father’s friend. “Yes, my father was a ‘distinctly -religious man,’ but not a pious.... His -sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic thinker. -Now granted that life is tragic to the marrow, it -seems the proper service of religion to make us accept -and serve in that tragedy, as officers in that -other and comparable one of war. Service is the -word, active service in the military sense; and the -religious man—I beg pardon, the pious man—is he -who has a military joy in duty,—not he who weeps -over the wounded.”</p> - -<p>This is the point of view from which Stevenson -writes as a novelist; you can feel it even in a romance -as romantic as <cite>Prince Otto</cite>; and in his essays, -where he speaks directly and in the first person, -this way of taking life as an adventure for the valourous -and faithful comes out yet more distinctly. -The grace and vigour of his diction, the pointed -quality of his style, the wit of his comment on men -and books, add to the persuasiveness of his teaching. -I can see no reason why morality should be -drab and dull. It was not so in Stevenson’s character,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span> -nor is it so in his books. That is one reason -why they are companionable.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing in it [the world],” wrote he to -a friend, “but the moral side—but the great battle -and the breathing times with their refreshments. -I see no more and no less. And if you look again, -it is not ugly, and it is filled with promise.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="footnotes"> - -<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> <cite>Syllabus Scriptorum Veterum Recentiumque qui Veritatem Religionis -Christianæ Asseruerunt</cite>: Hamburg, 1725.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <cite>The Poetry of Tennyson.</cite> Scribner’s: New York, 1889-1920.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Smith, Elder & Co.: London, 1880.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <cite>The Bible in Browning.</cite> Macmillan: New York, 1903.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> “The Works of Mr. Abraham Cowley.” London, 1710. -Preface to <cite>Pindarique Odes</cite>, volume I, page 184.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6" id="Footnote_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Lowth, <cite>De Sacra Poesi Hebræorum Praelectiones</cite>. Oxon., 1753.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_7" id="Footnote_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> <cite>English Odes</cite>, selected by Edmund Gosse. Preface, page xiii.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_8" id="Footnote_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> <cite>The Book of Psalms.</cite> 2 volumes, London, 1883. Volume I, -page 82.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_9" id="Footnote_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Joseph Addison, 1712.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_10" id="Footnote_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Reverend A. H. Strong, <cite>The Great Poets and their Theology</cite>, -p. 384.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_11" id="Footnote_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> John Jay Chapman, <cite>Emerson and Other Essays</cite>, p. 195.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_12" id="Footnote_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> J. H. Nettleship, <cite>Robert Browning, Essays and Thoughts</cite>, -p. 292.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_13" id="Footnote_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Miss Vida D. Scudder, <cite>The Life of the Spirit in Modern English -Poets</cite>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_14" id="Footnote_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Epilogue to <cite>Dramatis Personæ</cite>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_15" id="Footnote_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Cheney, <cite>The Golden Guess</cite>, p. 143.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_16" id="Footnote_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> <cite>Memoir of Alfred Lord Tennyson</cite>, vol. II, p. 230.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_17" id="Footnote_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> <cite>Asolando</cite>, “Reverie.”</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_18" id="Footnote_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> J. J. Chapman, <cite>Emerson, and Other Essays</cite>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_19" id="Footnote_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> I am haunted by the notion that Johnson himself said this, -but I cannot find the passage for quotation.</p> - -</div> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Companionable Books, by Henry van Dyke - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPANIONABLE BOOKS *** - -***** This file should be named 61345-h.htm or 61345-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/4/61345/ - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian -Libraries) - -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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