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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..0145e40 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63446 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63446) diff --git a/old/63446-0.txt b/old/63446-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e6d5242..0000000 --- a/old/63446-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5876 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Silver Domino, by Marie Corelli - - -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: The Silver Domino - Or, Side Whispers, Social and Literary - - -Author: Marie Corelli - - - -Release Date: October 12, 2020 [eBook #63446] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER DOMINO*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images digitized by the -Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) and generously made -available by HathiTrust Digital Library (https://www.hathitrust.org/) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - HathiTrust Digital Library. See - https://hdl.handle.net/2027/mdp.39015063547536 - - - - - -THE SILVER DOMINO - - - * * * * * * - -_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._ - -"The 'Silver Domino' can handle words and phrases in a manner which -either proves an extraordinary original gift or a good deal of -practice.... The parody of Miss Olive Schreiner is one of the best and -severest parodies we have seen for years.... The book is one to read -and laugh over."--_Daily Chronicle, Oct. 14th._ - -"All unexpectedly one finds one's self in the midst of a most -up-to-date literary satire.... I am bound to say the 'thwackings' [in -the 'Silver Domino'] are entertaining."--_Star, Oct. 10th._ - -"The unknown author of the 'Silver Domino' has been good enough to send -me his book, which is very bright and amusing and outspoken. He has his -knife into a great many people."--_The World, Oct. 10th._ - -"An audacious little book called the 'Silver Domino' is causing a great -deal of amusement in literary circles.... There are some delightful -parodies; also a capital literary creed, which takes liberties with the -_Saturday Review_, which, by the way, is again for sale."--_Western -Daily Mercury, Oct. 15th._ - -"The 'Silver Domino' consists of truculently candid sallies at the -expense of men eminent in politics, literature, and journalism."--_The -Times, Oct. 15th._ - -"I must confess to have chuckled hugely over some of his [the 'Silver -Domino's'] diatribes."--_News of the World, Oct. 23rd._ - -"Pungent, mordant satire went out with Grenville Murray, but his mantle -has fallen upon the anonymous author of the 'Silver Domino,' who has -issued some intensely amusing social and literary side-whispers.... All -that he has to tell us is told with wonderful _verve_ and in an easy -flowing style which has a great charm for all who can appreciate such -satire.... I could dwell upon the 'Silver Domino' with great benefit -to my readers and satisfaction to myself, but space forbids; so I -will only say that the book is the most valuable contribution to our -satirical literature that has appeared for many, many years. Our advice -is: 'Get it; read it; and re-read it.'"--_Society, Oct, 19th._ - -"The 'Silver Domino' is a volume of essays.... There are pungency and -freshness about many of the writer's observations."--_Sunday Sun, Oct. -23rd._ - -"The 'Silver Domino' is suggestive of the gentle Malayan exercise of -running a-muck or the emancipated young person having a fling to its -own obvious enjoyment."--_Saturday Review, Oct. 29th._ - -"If it is to Mr. Lang's generosity that we owe the hatching of this -book, that gentleman must assuredly stand aghast."--_Vanity Fair, Oct. -29th._ - -"The literary puzzle of the hour is--Who wrote the 'Silver Domino'?... -The question of authorship apart, nothing at once so bitter and so -clever has appeared since the days of Lord Byron."--_The Literary -World, Nov. 4th._ - -"'Who is the author of the "Silver Domino"?' That is the question I am -asked wherever I go. Whoever it is, he is the author of an extremely -clever book.... Were I to make one single quotation from the 'Silver -Domino' you would be angry with me, yet there is not one of you but -will read it speedily."--_The Queen, Oct. 29th._ - - * * * * * * - - -THE SILVER DOMINO; - -Or - -Side Whispers, Social and Literary. - -Eighth Edition. - -With Author's Note to This Issue. - - - - - - -London: -Lamley and Co., Exhibition Road. -1893. - -[All rights reserved.] - - - - -To - -ANDREW LANG, - -WHOSE LITERARY GENEROSITY TOWARDS ME - -IS PAST ALL PRAISE, - -I, - -WITH THE UTMOST RECOGNITION, - -DEDICATE THIS BOOK. - - - - -AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. - -Since the first edition of this book was published, some three weeks -ago, a grave event has occurred, which may be said to have closed an -epoch in the history of Literature. Tennyson, Poet and Laureate, the -last, perhaps, of the exponents of a pure, refined, and musical school -of English poesy, has left us. I will not say he has "crossed the -bar," because I consider that phrase has been overdone. He has passed -away in the fulness of years and honours, amid the sorrowing regret -of all those thousands to whom his melodious muse was as a part of -home and country. No poet ever lived a more easy and amply rewarded -life,--no poet ever died a more easy and enviable death. And I have -nothing to recant in what I have said of him in my chapter entitled -"Of Certain Great Poets." I am only sorry that he did not live to -read my lines, as I know he would have readily understood the sincere -spirit of admiration for his great qualities that moved me to my candid -speech. My "reviewers" have not elected to quote any word of mine on -the subject of the late Laureate, they generally preferring to save -time and trouble by an all-round but rash declaration that there is no -good said of any one in my book. I therefore challenge my readers to -the perusal of "Certain Great Poets," for I will yield to no one in my -admiration of Tennyson, no, not even to Lewis Morris, who calls him -"Master," whereas I was privileged to call him "Friend." I have praised -his genius with as much fervour and possibly more sincerity than any of -the versifiers who have written rhymes to his memory while squabbling -for his vacant post; and, as regards his Diogenes-like unsociability -and distaste for the "outside vulgar," I have only said what every one -admits to be true. I transcribe here the copy of a letter received from -the great Poet not long before his death:-- - - - "ALDWORTH, HASLEMERE, SURREY. - - "MY DEAR ----,--I thank you heartily for your kind letter and - welcome gift. You do well not to care for fame. Modern fame is too - often a mere crown of thorns, and brings all the vulgarity of the - world upon you. I sometimes wish I had never written a line. - - "Your friend, - "TENNYSON." - - -The "vulgarity of the world" and the "outside vulgar" are phrases -by which the literary folk designate the vast Public, without whose -substantial appreciation, they, the inside elect, would starve. The -"outside vulgar," however, with unerring good taste, have purchased -Tennyson's work for the past fifty years, and in the rich harvest -of thoughts they have thus gathered, they can smile with a tender -indulgence at their Kingly Minstrel's shrinking aversion to the -"crowd" who loved him. He was the greatest poet of the Victorian era; -and, draped in the flag of England, as befits his sturdy and splendid -patriotism, he sleeps the sleep of the just and pure-minded who have -served their Art, as worthy subjects serve their Queen, loyally and -unflinchingly to the end. It was "fitting," I suppose, that he should -be laid to rest in dismal "Poet's Corner"--(beside Browning, too! the -Real singer beside the Sham!)--but many would rather have seen him -placed in a shrine of his own,--a warm grassy grave under the "talking" -English oaks whose forest language he so well translated, than thus -pent up among the crumbling ashes of inferior and almost forgotten men. - -Another change has come "o'er the spirit of my dream" since, in the -language of the _Daily Chronicle_, I flung back the curtain and made -my bow to the public "in a breezy, not to say slap-bang, manner." The -_Pall Mall Gazette_ has changed hands and politics. Once, as will -be seen in the ensuing pages, I adored the _Pall Mall Gazette_. Its -fads, its whimsies, its prize "booms," and above all its religious -notions, were my delight. It was, as I said, a "bright particular star" -in the sphere of journalism, but I doubt whether it will continue to -shine on. I much fear that its days of Whimsicality and Boom are over, -though it now has a serious and gentlemanly Scot for an editor, who -does not find his chief amusement in levelling cheap sneers at Crown -and Constitution, and advocating a dangerous and (at heart) unpopular -Democracy. However, we shall see. In the interim, though I may not now -"adore" the _Pall Mall_, I mournfully respect it. - -I fancy I have made a slight error in that harmless, but Grundy-scaring -jest of mine entitled "The Journalist's Creed." I have alluded to the -excellent and brilliant Henry Labouchere, as "very Rad of very Rad." It -should have been "very Tory of very Tory." This is absurd? Incongruous? -Impossible? Well! Events will prove whether I am right or wrong. And -I beg to assure all whom it may concern, that I consider there is no -more "irreverence" in the "Journalist's Creed" than is displayed by the -respectable church-goer who murmurs an address or prayer to God in the -hollow of his stove-pipe hat, rather than spoil the set of his trousers -by kneeling down. - -I very earnestly desire to thank my critics one and all for the -attention they have bestowed upon me. They have taken me very -seriously; much more seriously than I have taken myself. I am so -little "peculiar," that I confess to have copied the phraseology of -my diatribes on certain poets and novelists from the language of the -"reviews" in divers journals, and I am truly surprised to hear such -phraseology termed "vulgar." When I was a "known" author (I was, once!) -reviewers "reviewed" _me_ with a profuseness of vituperative force that -struck me as singular; but I did not presume to call their well-rounded -terms of abuse "vulgar" or "scurrilous." Now I see I might very well -have done so, as they all agree in a condemnation of their own -literary vernacular. One lives and learns (this is a platitude), and -when an author anonymously "slates" those who anonymously "slate" him, -it is curious and instructive to observe what a different view is taken -of his case! It is a strange world (platitude number two). - -In conclusion I would fain express my gratitude for the diverting -entertainment which I have had out of the various "guesses" as to my -identity. They are guesses as wild and strange and erroneous as any -that ever followed the track of a "domino noir" through the mazes of -Carnival. I can, however, only repeat that I am not what I seem, and -that up to the present, so far as my personality has been hinted at, or -even boldly asserted, such supposititious "clues" are all random shots -and fall wide of the mark. With the utmost civility, I beg to inform -you, dear friends and enemies alike, that in this trivial matter of -"guessing," you are all, every one of you,--wrong! - -THE SILVER DOMINO. - -_Nov. 9th, 1892._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - I. OPENETH DISCOURSE 3 - - II. SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS 23 - - III. PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS 43 - - IV. OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS 59 - - V. HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS 79 - - VI. CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY 91 - - VII. CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN 109 - - VIII. OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED 127 - - IX. OF WRITERS IN GROOVES 137 - - X. OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT 165 - - XI. THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM 183 - - XII. QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 197 - - XIII. DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER 211 - - XIV. OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS 227 - - XV. OF MORE POETS 251 - - XVI. TO A MIGHTY GENIUS 267 - - XVII. CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY 293 - -XVIII. EULOGISETH ANDREW 311 - - XIX. BYRON LOQUITUR 327 - - XX. MAKETH EXIT 359 - - - - -I. - -OPENETH DISCOURSE. - - -Well, old musty, dusty, time-trodden arena of Literature and Society, -what now? Are your doors wide open, and may a stranger enter? A -perpetual dance is going on, so your outside advertisements proclaim; -and truly a dance is good so long as it is suggestive of wholesome -mirth. But is yours a dance of Death or of Life? A fandango of mockery, -a rigadoon of sham, or a waltzing-game at "beggar my neighbour"? -Moreover, is the fun worth paying for? Let me look in and judge. - -Nay, by the gods of Homer, what a dire confusion of sight and sense -and sound is all this "mortal coil" and whirligig of humanity! What -noise and laughter, interspersed with sundry groanings, as of fiends -in Hell! Listening, I catch the echoes of many voices I know; now -and again I have glimpses of faces that in their beauty or ugliness, -their smiling or sneering, are perfectly familiar to me. Friends? No, -not precisely. No man who has lived long enough to be wise in social -wisdom can be certain that he has a friend anywhere; besides, I do not -pretend to have found what Socrates himself could not discover. Enemies -then? Truly that is probable! Enemies are more than luxuries: they are -necessities; one cannot live strongly or self-reliantly without them. -One does not forgive them (such pure Christianity has never yet been in -vogue); one fights them, and fighting is excellent exercise. So, have -at you all, good braggarts of work done and undone! I am as ready to -give and take the "passado" as any Mercutio on a hot Italian day. Note -or disregard me, I care naught; it is solely for my own diversion, not -for yours, that I come amongst you. I want my amusement as others want -theirs, and nothing amuses me quite so much as the strange customs and -behaviour of the men and women of my time. I love them--in a way; but I -cannot, help laughing at them--occasionally. Sentiment would be wasted -on them; one does not "grieve" over folly and vice any more, unless -one is an ill-paid (and therefore ill-used) cleric, because folly and -vice assume such pettifogging and ludicrous aspects that one's risible -faculties are at once excited, and pity dries up at its fountain-head. -For we live in a little age, and nothing great can breathe in the -stifling atmosphere of our languid, listless indifference to God and -man. - -Nevertheless, there is a curious touch of fantastic buffoonery in -everything that temporarily stirs our inertia nowadays. Consider -our Browning-mania! Our Stanley-measles! With what dubious and -half-bewildered enthusiasm we laid the mortal remains of our -incomprehensible "Sordello" to rest in Westminster Abbey! With what -vulgar staring and ridiculous parade we gathered together to see the -"cute" Welsh trader in ivory wedded to his "Tennant for life" in the -same wrongfully-used sacred edifice! Has not our "world of fashion" -metaphorically kissed the cow-boots of Buffalo Bill? and "once upon a -time," as the fairy-tales say, did not the great true heart of England -pour itself out on--Jumbo? A mere elephant, vast of trunk and small of -tail--a living representative of our Indian and African possessions; -sure 'twas an innocent beast-worship that became us well! What matter -if giddy France held her sides with hilarious laughter at us, and Spain -and Italy giggled decorously at us behind their fans and mantillas, -and Germany broke into a huge guffaw at our "goings-on" over the brim -of her beer-mug,--let those laugh who win! And have we not always -won? yea, though (in an absent-minded moment) we allowed Barnum, of -ever-blessed memory, to buy for vulgar dollars that which we once so -loved! - -Ah, we are a marvellous and motley crowd at this huge gathering called -Life, dear gossips all!--gossips in society and out of society--a -motley, lying, hypocritical, crack-brained crowd! I glide in among -you, masked for the nonce; I hold my silver draperies well up to my -eyes that the smile of derision I now and then indulge in may not -show itself too openly. I am not wishful to offend, albeit I am oft -offended. Yet it is well-nigh impossible to avoid giving offence in -these days. We are like hedgehogs: we bristle at a touch, out of the -excess of our hog-like self-consciousness, and the finger of Truth -laid on a hair of our skins makes us start with feeble irritability -and tetchy nervousness. Christ's command to "bless them that curse -you, and pray for them which despitefully use you," is to us the -merest feeble paradox; for our detestation of all persons who presume -to interfere with our business, and who say unpleasant things about -us, is too burningly sincere to admit of discussion. I, for my part, -frankly confess to entertaining the liveliest animosity towards -certain individuals of my acquaintance, people who shake my hand with -the utmost cordiality, smile ingenuously in my eyes, and then go off -and write a lying paragraph about me in order to pocket a nefarious -half-crown. I never feel disposed to "bless" such folk, and certes, I -should be made of flabbier matter than a jelly-fish if I prayed for -them. - -But then I am not a Christian; please understand that at once. I am a -Jew, a Gentile, a Pharisee, and--a devil! I may be all four if I like -and yet be Pope of Rome. Why not? since these are the days of free -thought, and one's private religious opinions are not made the subject -of inquisitorial examination. Moreover, all classes aid and abet the -truly pious hypocrite, provided his hypocrisy be strictly consistent. -With equal delightsomeness, all creeds, no matter how absurd, just now -obtain some kind of a hearing. We are at perfect liberty to worship any -sort of fetish we like, without interference. We can grovel before our -Divine Self, and sink to the lowest possible level of degradation in -ministering to its greedy wants, and yet we shall not for this cause be -ostracised from society or excommunicated from any sacred pale. With -clerics and with laymen alike, our Divine Self needs more care than our -soul's salvation; for our Divine Self, in its splendid egoism, is a -breathing, eating, drinking, digesting Necessity; our soul's salvation -is a hazy, far-off, dubious concern wherein we are but vaguely -interested, a sort of dream at night which we now and then remember -languidly in the course of the day. - -Talking of dreams, one cannot but consider them with a certain respect. -They are such very powerful "factors," as the useful penny-a-liner -would say, in the world's history. We affect to despise them; and yet -how large a portion of the community are at this moment getting their -daily bread-and-butter out of nothing more substantial than the "airy -fabric" of a vision, which in this particular instance has proved -solid enough to establish itself as one of the foundations of European -civilisation. - -"_The angel of the Lord appeared unto Joseph in a dream._" - -It is all there. That dream of the good Joseph was the strange -nutshell in which lay the germ of all the multitudinous Churches, -Popes, Cardinals, Archbishops, bishops, confessors, priests, parsons, -and last (not least), curates. One wonders (when one is a doomed and -damned "masquer" like myself) what would have happened if Joseph had -dreamed a different dream? or, as might have chanced, if he had slept -so profoundly as not to have dreamed at all? We should have perhaps -been under the sway of Mahomet (another dream), or Buddha (another -dream); for certain it is we cannot do without dreams at any period of -our lives, from the celebrated "deep sleep" of Adam, when he dreamt he -lost a rib to gain a wife, down to the "hypnotic-trance" schools of -to-day, where we are gravely informed we can be taught how to murder -each other "by suggestion." The most abandoned of us has an Idea--or -an Ideal--of something better (or worse) than ourselves, according -to whether our daily potations be crushed out of burgundy grape, or -made of mere vulgar gin-and-water. Even Hodge, growing stertorous and -sleepy over his poisoned beer and _Daily Telegraph_ at his favourite -"public," takes his turn at castle-building, and drowsily muses on -a coming time of Universal Uproar, which _till_ it comes is proudly -called Socialism, when the "sanguinary" aristocrat will be laid low in -the levelling mire, and he, plain Hodge, will be proved a more valuable -human unit than any educated ruler of any realm. Alas for thee, good -Hodge, that thou should'st boozily indulge in such romantic flights of -fancy! Thou, who in uninstructed thirsty haste dost rush to vote for -him who most generously plies thee with beer, what would'st thou do -without the aristocrat or rich man thou would'st fain trample upon? -Who would employ thee, simple Hodge? Another Hodge like thyself? Grant -this, and lo! Hodge Number Two, by possessing the means, the will and -the power to make thee work for him, tacitly becomes thy master and -superior. Wherefore the Equality thou clamourest after, is wholly at an -end if thou, Hodge Number One, dost hire thyself out as labourer or -servant to Hodge Number Two! This is a plain statement, made plainly, -without Gladstonian periods of eloquence; think it over, friend Hodge, -when thou art alone, _sans_ beer and cheap news-sheet to obfuscate thy -simple intelligence. - -Nevertheless, it would be cruel to deprive even Hodge of an idea, -provided the idea be good for him. For ideas are the only unalterable -suggestions of the eternal; their forms change, but themselves are -ever the same. One Idea, running through history, built Baal-bec, -the Pyramids, the temples of India, the Duomo of Milan, and in our -own poor day of brag, the hideous Eiffel tower. The idea has always -been the same; to compass great height and vastness of some kind, and -Eiffel has only dragged down to the level of his merely mechanical -intelligence Nimrod's fantastic notion of the Tower of Babel. Nimrod -had a belief that he could reach Heaven. M. Eiffel was convinced he -could advertise himself. _Voilà la difference!_ That "difference" is -the great gulf between ancient art and modern. In the past they went -star-gazing and tried to climb--in the present, we stay where we are, -look after ourselves, and put up an advertisement. Thus has the form of -the idea changed from the likeness of a god into a painted clown--yet, -fundamentally, it is still the same idea. And, reduced to its primeval -element, its first dim, nebulous hint, an idea is nothing but a dream. - -Hence I return to my previous proposition, _i.e._, the respect we -owe to dreams, particularly when they result in fixed realities such -as, well!--such as curates, for example. I mention this class of -individuals particularly, because there are so many of them, and also -because they are generally so desperately poor, and (to young ladies -in country parishes) so desperately interesting. What English fiction -would do without a curate or a clerical personage of some kind or -other to figure in its pages I dare not imagine. The novels of other -countries do not produce such hosts of invaluable churchmen, but in -England the most successful books are frequently those which treat -of the clergy, from "Robert Elsmere," who found himself startled out -of orthodoxy by a few familiar and well-ventilated French and German -theories of creed, down to the gentle milksops of the church as found -in the novels of Anthony Trollope and the dreary stories of Miss -Edna Lyall. This well-intentioned lady's productions would assuredly -find few readers were it not for the "old-woman-and-faded-spinster" -fanaticism for clergymen. And yet--I once knew a wicked army man -(worshippers of Edna Lyall prepare to be disgusted! truth is always -disgusting) who for some years amused himself by collecting out of the -daily newspapers, cuttings of all the police reports and criminal cases -in which clergymen were implicated, and this volume, an exceedingly -bulky one, he brought to me, with a Mephistophelian twinkle in his bad -old eyes. - -"Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest!" said he. "These fellows in -'holy orders' have committed every crime in the calendar, and the only -mischief I have not found them out in yet is Arson!" - -This was the fact. The calm, unromantic statements of the police, as -chronicled in that carefully-collected book of damnatory evidence, -bore black witness against clerical virtue and morality--a "reverend" -was mixed up in every sort of "abomination" which in old times called -down the judgments of the Lord--save and except the one thing--that -none of them had been convicted of wilfully setting fire to their own -or other peoples' dwellings. But I believe--I may be wrong--that Arson -is not a very common crime with any class. It is not of such frequent -occurrence as murder or bigamy--or if it is, it does not attract so -much attention. So I fancy it may be taken for granted that clergymen -are, on the whole, not a whit better, while they are very often worse, -than the laity they preach at--hence their "calling and election" is -vain, and nobody wonders that they are by their proven inefficiency -causing the very pillars of the Church to totter and fall. And has not -Parliament been seriously busying itself with a "Clerical Immorality" -Bill? This speaks volumes for the integrity of the preachers of the -Gospel! - -As for me, who am no Churchman, but merely a stray masquerader -strolling through the social bazaar, I consider that all churches as -they at present exist, are mockeries, and as such, are inevitably -doomed. Nothing can save them; no prop will keep them up; neither -fancy spiritualism, nor theosophism, nor any other "ism" offered by -notoriety-hunting individuals as a stop-gap to the impending crash. -Not even the Booth-boom will avail--that balloon of cleverly-inflated -philanthropy which has been sent up just high enough to attract -attention from the gaping Britishers, who, like big children, must -always have something to stare at. Of course, my opinion, being the -opinion of an "anonymous," is worthless, and I do not offer it as -being valuable. In saying things, I say them for my own amusement, and -if I bore any one by my remarks, so much the more am I delighted. -As a matter of fact, I take peculiar pleasure in boring people. Why? -Because people always bore _me_, and I adore the sentiment of revenge! -And that I stand here, masked, a stranger to all the brilliant company -whirling wildly around me, is also for my own particular entertainment. -If I have said anything to offend any of the excellent clericals I see -running towards me with the inevitable "collection-plate," I am sorry. -But I will not bribe them for their good opinion, nor will I flatly -disobey the command received (which they all seem to forget), "Do not -your alms before men." Besides, I have nothing with me just now--not -a farthing. I am only in this great assembly for a few moments, and -my "silver domino," lavishly studded with stars, has cost me dear. -For the completion of churches, and the mending of chancels, and the -french-polishing of pews, I have no spare cash. Walls will not hold -me when I am fain to worship--I take the whole arching width of the -uncostly sky. There are rich old ladies in this vast throng of people, -doubtless?--dear Christian souls who hate their younger relatives, -and who are therefore willing to spend spare cash in order to prove -their love of God. From these gather your harvest while you may, all -ye ordained "disciples of the Lord," but excuse a poor wandering -Nobody from No-land from the uncongenial task of helping to provide -a new organ for parish yokels, and from sending out cheap Bibles to -the "heathen Chinee," who frequently disdains to read them. Let me -pass on--I am not worth buttonholing--and I want to take a passing -glance at things in general. I shall whisper, mutter, or talk loudly -about anything I see, just as the humour takes me. Only I will not -promise any polite lying. Not because I object to it, but simply -because it has become commonplace. Everybody does it, and thus it -has ceased to be original, or even diplomatic. To openly declare the -Truth--the truth of what we are now, and what, in the course of our -present down-hill "progress," we are likely to become; the truth that -is incessantly and relentlessly gnawing away at the foundations of -all our social sophistries--to do this, I say, and stand by it when -done, would be the only possible novelty that could really startle the -indolent and exhausted age. But nobody will undertake it. It would be -too troublesome. One would run so many risks. One would offend so many -"nice" people! True--very true. All the same, neither for convenience -nor amiability do I personally consider myself bound to tell lies -for the mere sake of lying. So, while elbowing a passage through the -crowd, I shall give expression to whatever thoughts occur to me, -inconsequentially or rationally, as my varying moods suggest; moreover, -I shall be very content to glide out of the "hurly-burly," and enter it -no more, when once I have said my say. - - - - -II. - -SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS. - - -One can hardly be among a great number of people more or less -distinguished, without observing the way they move, talk, walk, -and generally behave themselves. And the first impression received -on entering the throng over which the electric light flashes its -descriptive sky-sign "Present Day" is distinctly one of--bad manners; -yes, bad, ungainly, jostling, "higgledy-piggledy" manners. The general -effect (bird's-eye view) is as of motley-clothed lunatics hurrying -violently along to a land of Nowhere. Men stoop and shuffle and -amble from the knees, instead of walking with an erect and dignified -demeanour; women skip or waddle, making thereby an undue exhibition -of purely English feet. In art-collections one sees plenty of old -engravings wherein are depicted gallant, well-shaped gentlemen, -pressing three-cornered hats to the left sides of their lace-ruffled, -manly bosoms, and bending with exquisite deference and stately -deportment to demurely sweet dames, who, holding out gossamer skirts in -taper fingers, perform the prettiest curtsies in response. It must have -been charming to see them thus habitually realising the value of mutual -politeness in everyday life; one would like to witness a revival of the -same. Men lost nothing by outwardly expressing a certain reverence for -women; women gained a great deal by outwardly expressing their gentle -acknowledgment of that reverence. "Manner makyth the man," says the -old adage, and if that be true, then there are no men, for certainly -there are no manners--at least, not among the "upper ten." I am in a -position to judge, for I am somewhat of a favourite at Court, where -manners are not at a very high premium. I can only judge, of course, by -what I see, and in my observations of the fair sex I submit that, not -being a "fair" myself, I may be wrong. Yet I believe it is true that -ladies of high rank and good education are obliged to be taught (three -lessons for one guinea) how to make a proper obeisance to the Queen. -And the lesson is, I presume, too cheap to include any training in the -art of decently polite behaviour during the "wait" before entering -the Throne-room. The impudent push and self-assertion of these "noble -dames" is something amazing to witness: the looks at one another--looks -as bold as those of Jezebel--the scramble, the reckless tearing of -lace, and scratching of arms and shoulders in the heated _mêlée_ -is--well--simply degrading to the very name of womanhood. Better, -dear ladies, not to go to a Drawing-room at all if you cannot get to -your Queen without tearing your fellow-woman's dress off her back and -inflicting scars on her unprotected shoulders. Men are better behaved -at the _levées_, but among them all scarce one knows how to bow. -Nevertheless, they are more polite to each other than women are; they -are obliged to be--no man will take insolence from another man without -instantly resenting it. - -A strange thing it is to consider how poets have raved from time -immemorial about the "grace" of woman! It is pathetic to see how these -ingenuous verse-writers will persist in keeping up their illusions. -As a matter of fact, in England at least, there is scarce one woman -in a hundred who knows how to walk well. And that one is always such -a "peculiar" object that her movements are generally commented upon -as "affected." To a masculine observer this is very strange. A lady -who bundles up her clothes well behind, exposes thick legs, flat -feet, and ugly boots all at once in order to effect her entrance into -carriage, cab, or omnibus, is, by certain of her own sex, voted "a good -soul," "unaffected," "no nonsense about her," "as frank and simple -a creature as ever lived." But a lady who lifts her dress just high -enough to show the edge of a dainty lace on her petticoat, clean, trim -boots, the suspicion of an ankle, and only the pleasing suggestion -of a leg--she--ah! nasty designing creature! "No good, my dear!" "all -affectation, every bit of her!" "_Look at the lace on her petticoat!_" -This last clause, I have noticed, is always damnatory in the opinion -of super-excellent females with no lace on their petticoats. There is -enough in this suggestion to make even a strolling masquerader pause -and meditate, because, arguing from the point of view taken by many -eminently virtuous dames, it would seem that manners, _i.e._, walking -well, keeping clean, and holding one's self with a certain affable -grace and air of distinction, are indicative of latent cunning. This -curious but popular fallacy applies in England to men as well as women. -The awkward gawk, whose clothes never fit, and who appears to be always -encumbered and distressed by his own hands and feet, is frequently -declared to be a "good fellow," "heart in the right place," "regular -trump," and so forth, as probably he is. I do not for a moment imply -that he is not. But I will maintain that because a man holds himself -well, dresses well, and is perfectly at ease with the appurtenances of -his own body, he need not therefore be "a confirmed _roué_" "a turf -man," or "a club gamester." But this is what he frequently passes for -if he dares to indulge in a suspicion of "manner." In fact, the only -presumable effort of "style" now attempted by the men of to-day appears -to be concentrated in the art of twirling or stroking the moustache -whenever the owner of the moustache perceives a pretty woman. This -little trick is done in different ways, of course; the "twist" can be -rendered insolently, familiarly, aggressively, or with a caressing -feline movement, indicative of dawning amorousness. It is frequently -effective, particularly with schoolgirls and provincial misses, who -have been known to render up their susceptible hearts instantaneously -to one victorious twirl of a really well-grown moustache, but I have -also seen many creditable performances of moustache-twirling completely -thrown away on unappreciative women. It is, however, the only piece -of elegance--if elegance it can be called--indulged in by the true -"masher." And beyond it he never soars. He does not know how to lift -his hat gracefully; he does not know how to enter a room (without -looking vaguely surprised or beamingly idiotic), or leave it again with -any touch of affable dignity. His movements are generally stiff and -ungainly to the very last degree, and, worst of all, he seldom has any -brains to make up for his lack of breeding. - -A good position from whence to observe the manners of the time is close -to the right hand of the Premier on the evening of a great crush at -the Foreign Office. If courtly Lord Salisbury be there, you get in his -bow, smile, and cordial handshake the finest essence of diplomatic -urbanity and ease. But when you have exchanged greetings with him and -his gracious lady you have seen nearly all you shall see of "manner." -The throng come tumbling in helter-skelter, treading on each other's -heels, for all the world like an untrained crowd of the "bas-peuple," -all heated, all flustered, all vaguely staring ahead. Ambassadors, -foreign princes, military dignitaries, jerk their heads spasmodically -on entering the rooms, but evidently have no proper notion of a bow, -while some of them let their arms hang stiffly down at their sides, -and proffer a salutation that seems as though it were the result of a -galvanic wire working their spines by some curious patent process not -yet quite perfected. And the women!--the poets' goddesses! They arrive -in very ungoddess-like bundles of rich clothing, some waddling, some -ambling, some sidling, but only a rare few, a dozen at most, _walking_, -or carrying themselves as being at all superior to their gowns. Most -of these "fair" forget to curtsey properly to their distinguished -entertainers, and the general impression made on the mind of an -observer in looking at the "manner" of their entrance is distinctly -unpleasing. Most of them wear far too many diamonds, a notable sign -of egregious bad taste. A woman I saw there on one occasion wore a -sort of dish-cover of diamonds on her head. (A friend told me it was -a "garland"; it may have been, but it looked like a dish-cover.) Her -hair was straight and flat, and stuck close to her scalp, and beneath -the gorgeous headpiece of jewels was a fat red face profusely adorned -with wrinkles and pimples, on which the diamonds cast a cruel glare. -"Alas, good soul," I thought, as she went glittering past, "thou hast -fallen on the most evil hour of all thy span--the fateful time when thy -jewels are preferable to thyself!"--though, truly, as an unnoteworthy -personage, I may here remark that I do not like diamonds. I own that -a few choice stones, finely set and sparkling among old lace, are -effective, but the woman who can wear a soft white gown without any -ornaments save natural flowers would always carry away the palm of true -distinction for me. I confess my notions are old-fashioned, especially -those concerning women. - -Talking of the Foreign Office, there was a terrible man there once -who trod on everybody's toes. He seemed born to do it. He was tall -and powerful, and wore the full Highland costume. I shall never -forget the bow he made to Lady Salisbury--it bent him double in true -Scottish fashion; for a _bonâ-fide_ Scot, you know, always yearns -to cast himself on his knees before a title. It is in his blood and -heritage so to do: the remains of the old humility practised by the -clans to their chiefs what time they were all robbers and rievers -together. This man literally divided himself to do fitting homage -to the Premier's lady--his head sank to the level of the hem of her -dress, while the back part of his kilt (not to be irreverent) rose -visibly in air in a way that was positively startling. The achievement -appeared to alarm some people, to judge by their anxious looks. Would -the noble Highlander ever come straight again? That was the question -that was evidently agitating the observers of his attitude. He did come -straight, with galvanic suddenness too, and marched off on the war-path -through the rooms, planting his foot, not "on his native heath," but on -every other foot he could find with a manly disregard of consequences. -He was a great man, he _is_ a great man; I feel sure he must be, -otherwise he would not have hurt so many people without apologising. - -As a matter of fact, there is nothing so rare in these days as -distinguished and affable manners. An Arab thief has often more -external personal dignity than many an English peer. In some of -the best houses in the land I have seen the owners of the stately -surroundings comport themselves with such awkward sheepishness as to -suggest the idea that they were there by mistake. I have seen great -ladies sitting in their own drawing-rooms with a fidgety and anxious -air, as though they momentarily expected to be ordered out by their -paid domestics. When I was "green" and new to society I used to think -somewhat of dukes and earls. I had a foolish notion that the wearers -of great historic names must somehow look as if they inwardly felt -the distinction of race and ancestry. Now that I know a great many -of these titled folk, I have discovered my mistake. I find several -of them vote their "ancestors" a "bore." They carry no outward marks -to show that they ever had ancestors. They might indeed have been -ground into existence by means of a turning-lathe, for aught of -inherited beauty, stateliness or courtesy they exhibit. I have seen -great dukes bulge into a room with less grace than sacks of flour, and -I have watched "belted earls" sneaking timorously after the footman -who announced their lofty names, with a guilty air as though they -had picked that footman's plush pockets on the way. I once heard -a very, very "blue-blooded" duchess run through the items of her -chronic indigestion with as much weight and emphasis of detail as a -brandy-seeking cook. A famous lord, brother to a famous duke, has -shuffled into my study and sunk into a chair with the "manner" of -an escaped convict, and I have had much ado to drag him out of his -self-evident humiliation. He has picked his fingers and surveyed his -boots disconsolately. He has felt the leg of his trouser in doubtful -plight. That his "ancestry" performed acts of valour on Bosworth field -awakens in his flabby soul no pulse of pride. His heroic progenitors -might as well have been tallow-chandlers for all he cares. Yet he is -the living representative of their greatness, more's the pity! I often -wonder what those old Bosworth fellows would say if they could come to -life and see him--their descendant--as he is--with but two ideas in his -distinguished noddle--ballet-girls and brandy-and-soda! - -I am here reminded of an incident which in this place may not come -amiss. I happened to be present on one occasion at a luncheon-party -made up chiefly of men, most of them well known in Parliament and -society. Our hostess was (and is) a lady who always has more men than -women at her parties, but on this particular day there was one stranger -present, a lady noted for a great literary success. After luncheon, -when this lady took leave of her hostess and went downstairs into -the hall, it was found that her carriage had not arrived. She waited -patiently, with the footman on guard staring at her. Meanwhile man -after man came downstairs, passed her in the hall as though she were a -stray servant (they had all eagerly conversed with her at luncheon, -and had tried to get as much entertainment out of her as possible), -and never uttered a word. Not one of them paused to say, "Allow me to -escort you upstairs till your carriage comes," or, "Can I do anything -for you?" or, "May I have the pleasure of waiting to see you into -your carriage?" or any other of the old-world chivalrous formalities -once _de rigueur_ with every gentleman. Not one man; except the last -who came down, and who (under the immediate circumstances) shall be -nameless, as he was evidently a fool. Because among the gentlemen who -thus passed the lady by, were Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr. Lockwood, -Q.C., and other "notabilities," so I am forced to argue from this -that it is the very essence of modern "good form" to ignore a lady -(with whom you have previously conversed) at the precise moment when -she might seem to require a little attention. So that the stupid and -ill-bred person was the nameless "he" who came down last, who spoke to -the solitary "damozel," escorted her upstairs again to her hostess, -waited with her, chatting pleasantly in the drawing-room till her -carriage arrived, then took her down to it, put her in, and lifted his -hat respectfully as she drove away. He was not "nineteenth-century -form"--and his "manner" was obsolete. Most people would rather be -considered downright vulgar than what they are pleased to term -"old-fashioned." - -Hurry kills "manner," and there can be no doubt that in this day we -are all in a frantic hurry. I don't know what about, I'm sure. We are -after no good that I can see. I have tried to fathom the reason of -this extraordinary and vilely unbecoming haste, and the only apparent -cause I can discover is that we are trying to get as much out of life -as possible before we die. The means, however, entirely defeat the -object. We have no time to be generous, no time to be sympathetic, no -time to converse well, no time to do anything but feed and look after -our own interests, and we get so fatigued in the business of living -that life itself becomes worthless. At least, so it seems to me. I say -we are "all" in a terrible hurry, but this is not quite correct. There -are exceptions to the rule. I myself am one. I never hurry. I "laze" -through life and enjoy it. I never "scramble" for anything, and never -"fluster" myself for anybody. Even now I am sauntering, not rushing, -amidst you all with the utmost ease; I move softly and talk softly, -and, though frequently disposed to laughter, I never snigger aloud. -The loud snigger (sign of "well-bred" hilarity) is the muffled but -exact echo of the donkey's bray. It resembles it in tone and sense and -quality. I avoid it; because, though a donkey is an exceedingly clever -beast and much maligned, his voice might be easily surpassed. As it is, -_au naturel_, it does not appear to me worth imitating. - -And now, pardon me, sirs and dames, but as I perceive a small crowd of -you engaged in the truly English occupation of staring, not at me, but -at my glittering domino, and as I do not wish to create an obstruction, -I will, with your very good leave, pass on. Observe how quietly I -glide; with only the very faintest rustle of my "star-spangled" -wrappings; striving not to tread on anybody's corns, carefully winding -my way in and out the busy throng, and only holding myself a little -more erect than some of you, because--well! because I have no favours -to ask of anybody, and therefore need not trouble myself to acquire the -nineteenth-century skulk and propitiatory grin. And so--on through the -motley! - - - - -III. - -PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS. - - -I think if everybody would only be as frank as I am, they would -confess we haven't such a thing as a Little Moral left, except in the -copy-books. Big Morals are everywhere, writ large for all the world -to see; we don't trouble about them because they do not individually -concern us--they are merely the names and forms that help to keep -things going. But little morals are gone out of fashion entirely. It -is rather perplexing when we come to think of it. Because we ought -to be moral, strictly moral; and feeling that we ought to be, we -have to pretend that we are. Sometimes we find it difficult to keep -up the game, but as a rule we succeed fairly well. Only we know, you -know, that a "little moral" is a bore. That is why, in our heart of -hearts, we will have nothing to do with it. For example, it is not -on the lines of "little morality" that we should run up bills. But -we do run them up. Sometimes, too, without the smallest intention of -paying them. It is not in the path of unselfish virtue that we should -give our dear friends wine from the "stores" at "store" prices, while -we carefully reserve our old Chambertin and Chateau d'Yquem for our -own special drinking; but we do this sort of thing every day. And yet -we love our dear friends--oh! how we love them! we would do anything -for them, anything--except produce our Chambertin. And it is not, I -believe, a "little moral," _i.e._, a copy-book maxim, that we should -fall in love with our neighbour's wife. But that is just precisely -the most delightful among our modern fashionable amusements. Our -neighbour's wife is the most interesting woman in our social set. -Our neighbour's daughter is not half so interesting. Because our -neighbour's daughter is generally marriageable; our neighbour's wife -is only divorceable--hence her superior charm. The scandalous and -rude statement, "Whoso looketh on his neighbour's wife to lust after -her, hath already committed----" No, no! I will not defile delicate -ears polite with pure New Testament language. It is too strong; it is -painfully strong--quite unpleasant--a thunderous speech uttered by the -holiest lips that ever breathed man's breath, but it is shocking, and -gives our nerves an unpleasant thrill. Because we do look after our -neighbour's wife a good deal nowadays; "neigh" after her is the old -Scriptural term for our latter-day custom, which has been set in vogue -by the most distinguished examples of aristocracy among us. And our -neighbour's wife's husband is a capital butt for our "chaff"; we like -him, oh yes, we always like him: we go and stay with him for weeks, and -shoot game in his preserves, and ride his best horses; he is a capital -fellow, by Jove, but an awful fool. Yes, so he is. Our neighbour's -wife's husband is generally a fool. His dense noddle never discerns -any way out of his dishonour but the crooked path of the law. I haven't -got a wife--praise be to heaven!--but if I had, and I found any "noble" -personage disposed to "neigh" after her, I know what I should do with -him. I should trounce him with a tough cowhide thong till his "blue -blood" declared itself, till his "nobility" roared for mercy. Whether -he were prince, duke, lord, or plain "Mister," he would be black as -well as "blue" before I had done with him. Of course the law would have -to come in afterwards by way of a summons for assault, but who would -not pay liberally for the satisfaction of thrashing a low scoundrel? -Besides, viewed in the most practical light, it would cost less than -the business of divorce, besides having the immense advantage of giving -no satisfaction to the guilty parties concerned. - -By Heaven, there are some men I know whom I would kick in the way -of pure friendship, if a kick would rouse them to a sense of their -position--men whose wives are openly shamed, the whole public knowing -of their flagrant, unblushing infidelity--men who stand by and look -on at their own disgrace, and yet presume to offer the "example" of a -public career to the "lower" classes. And how these "lower" despise -them; how they who still do call a spade a spade are filled with honest -scorn for such "distinguished" cowards! Well, well, I shall do no -good, I warrant, by heating my blood in the cause of the worthless and -degraded; fidelity in wives, manly principle in husbands, are "little -morals," and seem to have gone out with the jewelled snuff-boxes and -rapiers of old time. - -Among other of these "little morals" it used to be tacitly understood -that "gentlemen" should preserve a certain delicacy of speech when -conversing before "ladies." This idea appears to be almost obsolete. -Men have no scruple nowadays in talking about their special ailments to -women (and not old women either), and they will allude to the various -parts of their bodies affected by those ailments in the most frankly -disgusting manner. At a supper-party given by one of the most exalted -of noble dames not long ago, I heard a brute detailing the ins and -outs of his "liver" trouble to an embarrassed looking young woman of -about eighteen. As for the ugly word "stomach," it is commonly used in -various circles of the _beau-monde_, and the most revolting details -of medicine and surgery are frequently dealt with in what used to be -termed "polite conversation." That ugly old women, and fat, greasy -matrons love to chatter about their own and their friends' illnesses, -is of course an accepted fact, but that men should do so before a -casual company of the married and unmarried "fair" is a new and highly -repulsive phase of "social intercourse." I remember hearing the editor -of a well-known magazine talk with a pretty young unmarried woman -concerning the possibilities of her sex in Art, and after the utterance -of many foolish platitudes, he brought his remarks to a brusque -conclusion with the following words: "Oh yes, I admire gifted women, -but, after all, their genius is bound to be interfered with and marred -by the _bearing of children_." Coarse ruffian as he was, I suppose the -surprised, hot blush that stained the poor girl's face was agreeable -to his low little soul, while I, for my part, yearned to knock him -down. His words, and above all, his manner, implied that he in his -fatuous mind considered every woman bound, willy-nilly, to submit -herself to the passions of man, be she saint or sinner. "The bearing -of children," as he put it, is, according to natural animal law, the -prime business of the average woman's life, average women being seldom -fit for anything else. But it has to be conceded that there are women -above the average, who, gifted with singular powers of ambition and -attainment, sweep on from one intellectual triumph to another, and do -so succeed in quelling the natural animalism that they do not consider -themselves bound to "bring forth and multiply" their kind. With -brilliant, fiery-souled Bashkirtseff, they exclaim: "Me marier et avoir -des enfants! Mais chaque blanchisseuse peut en faire autant!" - -And in her next sentence the captive genius cries: "Mais qu'est ce que -je veux? Oh, vous le savez bien. Je veux la gloire!" And "la gloire," -despite the opinions of the vulgar little editor aforementioned, does -not precisely consist in having babies, in hushing their frantic yells -hour after hour, and wiping their perpetually dribbling noses, what -time the fathers of these "blessings" sleep and snore in peace. "La -gloire" assumes an inviting aspect to many feminine souls to-day, and -the "joys of marriage" pale in comparison. It is rather a dangerous -seed to sow, this "la gloire," in the hitherto tame fields of woman's -life and labour, and the harvest promises to astonish the whole world. -That is, provided women will be original and not imitate men. At -present they imitate us too closely, and even in the question of coarse -freedom of speech they ape the masculine example. If a man insists -on talking about his "liver" a woman will bring her "leg" into the -conversation in order to be even with him. The vulgar word "ripping" -slips off the tongue of a well-bred young woman as easily as though she -were a rough schoolboy. And so on through the whole gamut of slang. As -a casually interested spectator of these things, I would respectfully -inform the "fair" that as long as they elect to "follow" instead of -"lead," so long will their efforts to attain eminence be laughed at and -contemptuously condemned. A painful flabby-mindedness distinguishes -many of the sex feminine, an inviting readiness to be "sat upon" which -is perhaps touching, but also ridiculous. If you take up an art, -dear ladies, you require to be strong if you ever wish to consummate -anything worth doing. Art accepts no half measures. You will need to -live solitary and eat the bread of bitterness, with tears for wine. -Consolations you will have doubtless, but they will come slowly, and -not from without, only from within. An ethereal ice-air will surround -and sever you from the common lot, you will be lifted higher and -higher into a cold, pure atmosphere that will require all your force -of lung to breathe without losing life in the effort. If you can stand -it--well! if not, better be Bashkirtseff's "blanchisseuse qui pent -faire autant." - -Is it worth while, among "little morals," to mention gambling? I -trow not? Everybody gambles, from the men on the Stock Exchange to -the princes of the blood. We gamble on the turf, in the clubs, and -in our own homes, with the most admirable persistency. Any trifling -excuse serves, as, for example, a man asked me the other day to risk a -sovereign on the question as to whether a certain music-hall artiste's -Christian name began with a P. or a W. I declined the offer, not being -interested in music-hall artistes. And this brings me to a final point -in our "little morals," namely, the point of considering how utterly -and finally some of us have kicked over the traces with regard to -preserving the respectability and virtue of our women. We frequently -allow women to do things nowadays that may, or will, in the end -degrade them, while we put obstacles in all directions to retard their -elevation to distinction in the arts or sciences. We hate the idea of -their having a voice in the government of the country, but we do not at -all mind their appearing half naked to dance before us on the stage. -We are hardly civil to the young daughters of our aristocratic host, -but we will make a countess of the public dancer of "break-downs." -We will only arrive at an intimate friend's ball in time to eat his -supper, but we will hang about for hours to stare at an advertised -"beauty barmaid." Yet I should not say "we," since I am not guilty of -these things. I am not fond of music-halls, though I confess to finding -them more entertaining than Mr. Irving's hydraulic efforts at tragedy. -Still I daresay my good friend Gladstone patronises them more than I -do. Again, I am not devoted to barmaids. I may here remark a trifling -particular connected with "little morals" which has often struck me. -It is this. A "man about town" will kiss a pretty housemaid or any -other "low-class" woman he fancies without considering himself demeaned -by the act. Now, how is it that a lady of equal position never wishes -to kiss a footman or a waiter at a restaurant? One would think the -situation as tempting to one sex as another. But no. The "lady" would -consider herself insulted if kissed by a footman; the "gentleman" -chuckles with ecstasy if kissed by the housemaid. Why is this thus? I -am inclined to think that here the "fair sex" score the winning number -in the trifling matter of self-respect. - -And now we have come soundly upon the cause of our open disregard of -"little morals." It is this: loss of self-respect. We do not respect -ourselves any longer, probably because we do not find ourselves worthy -of respect. We cannot respect a creature who is ready to sell soul, -body, sentiment, and opinion for hard cash, but that creature is -Ourself, in this blessed time of progress. Morals are nowhere weighed -against a fat balance at the banker's. Self-respect is ridiculous if -it opposes the gospel of Grab. What will self-respect do for us? Simply -isolate us from our fellow-men! Our fellow-men tell convenient lies, -cheat prettily, steal their neighbour's wives, and yet walk openly in -social daylight; why should not we all do the same? Where is the harm? -We only hurt ourselves if we try to do otherwise, and, what is far -worse, we are looked upon as fools. We cannot possibly be "in the swim" -unless we are good hypocrites. Herein is my sore point. I am unable -to hypocrise. Candour is part of my composition. It is unfortunate, -because it keeps me out of many delightful entertainments where Humbug -rules the roast. Socrates was not a "social" favourite, neither am -I. I am perfectly aware how unpleasantly tedious I have been all the -time I have talked about morals. They are not interesting subjects of -conversation at any time, and people would much rather not hear about -them at all. True! Only in church o' Sundays are we bound (by fashion's -decree) to listen to discourses on morality by a possibly immoral -cleric, but during the week we are, thank Heaven, free to forget that -morals, little or big, exist. This is as it should be in all civilised -communities. Of course we must keep up the _pretence_ of morality--this -is a necessity enforced by law and police. But we may piously assure -ourselves that our "feigning" is the most perfectly finished art in the -world. No nation can out-rival the English in Sunday-show morality. -It is the severest, grandest, dullest Sham ever evolved from social -history. From its magnitude it commands wondering admiration; from its -ludicrous inconsistency it provokes laughter. And I, strolling idler as -I am, stop an instant to stare and smile, and involuntarily I think of -the Ten Commandments. I believe that on one occasion Moses was so angry -that he broke the tablets on which they were graven. This was mere -temper on the part of Moses; he should have known better. He should -have spared the tablets, and broken the Commandments, every one of -them; as we do! - - - - -IV. - -OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS. - - -Pausing awhile to consider the question, I find that on the whole, -most of you, my dear friends, appear to get on excellently well -without either manners or morals. There you all are, taking your -several parts in the pageant before me, pushing, scrambling, and -making generally the most infernal din, the while you move heaven and -earth to serve your own personal interest and pleasure, regardless of -anybody else's convenience, and you manage to make a tolerably good -show of respectability. Your finished education in the great art of -counterfeiting does everything for you. The sum and substance of modern -culture is in the one line, "Assume a virtue though you have it not." -You all "assume" superbly. And yet the best actors tell us they find -their profession entails fatigue and exhaustion at times, and they are -glad when they can throw aside the mask and take to "rough-and-tumble" -in the secrecy of their own homes. For there is one great fact about -us which we all strive to hide, and yet which is for ever declaring -itself, and that is, that despite all our civilisation and progress, we -are savages still. Absolute barbarians are we, born so, made so, and -neither God nor Time shall alter us. Our education teaches us how to -cover Nature with a mask, even as our innocent Scriptural progenitors -covered themselves with fig-leaves; but Nature is not thereby -destroyed. The savage leaps out at all sorts of times and seasons, in -the tempers and habits of the most highly cultured men and women. "My -Lord," unbracing himself at night and unbuttoning his waistcoat to -give freedom to his ample paunch, hiccoughs himself into bed with as -much rude noise as the naked Zulu who has drunk himself nearly dead -on rum. "My Lady," unclasping her fashionable "corset" and allowing -her beauties to expand, sighs, yawns, shakes herself jelly-wise in -freedom, and plumps between the sheets as casually as any squaw in a -wigwam. And it is probable that both my lord and my lady asleep, snore -as loudly and look as open-mouthed and ugly in their slumbers as any -uncivilised brutes ever born. Old Carlyle's notion of the virtue of -clothes was the correct one. What should we do with a naked Parliament? -The clothes maintain order and respectability, but without artificial -covering the whole community would be as they truly are in their heart -of hearts--savages, and no more. - -I think we are all pretty well conscious of this, some of us perhaps -painfully so. And what we are painfully aware of we always try to -conceal. Byron, despite his genius, was always thinking of his -club-foot. So are we always voluntarily or involuntarily, thinking -of our savagery. It will out, still, as I say, we do try to keep it -in. We do most faithfully pretend we are civilised, though we know we -never shall be; not in this planet. The thing is manifestly impossible. -The attraction of sex, the love of fighting, the thirst of conquest, -the greed of power: these things are savage elements, like wind and -fire and lightning; they make up life, and so long as life is ours, so -long shall we be savages at heart--savages in our grandest passions -as well as in our meanest. That is why I am disposed to think the -doctrines of Christianity unsuited to the world, because they are so -directly opposed to natural instinct. However, this is a point I am -quite unfitted to argue upon, being of no creed myself, and very much -of a savage to boot. Personally, I would not give a fig for a man who -had nothing of the savage about him. I have met the kind of fellow -often, especially among the literary set. "Not that I intend to imply," -as the G. O. M. sayeth, "that under certain circumstances, and given -certain conditions," the literary set cannot be savage--they can be, -and are, but it is a savagery that is mere palaver, and never comes to -honest fisticuffs. The "literary set" are physically timorous, and not -fond of firearms or manly sports; effeminacy and dyspepsia mark these -gifted creatures for their own. They have "nerves," have the bookish -folk, like fine ladies, and with the "nerves" spite and petulance go as -a matter of course. Real, _bonâ-fide_, fierce savagery is infinitely -preferable to the puling whine or the cynical snarl of little poets -and "society" philosophers; and the company of a bluff soldier who has -"faced fire" is preferable to that of a dozen magazine editors. - -Gathering my domino closer about me, I gaze steadily over the circling -noisy throng that whirls before me, and I think of wild tribes and -famished hordes scurrying fiercely along through clouds of sand -over miles of desert, and I see very little difference between the -"cultured" crowd and the hungry "barbarians." Desert, or the road -called Custom; sand or dust in the eyes of moral perception--they come -to very much the same thing in the end. Can it be possible that the -present century is "helping on" civilisation? I don't believe it any -more than I believe that the wretches who flung themselves under the -car of Juggernaut went straight to heaven. The most curious and awful -part of the whole spectacle to me is to realise that all this movement, -clamour, and confusion, should be doomed to end in sudden silence by -and by; such silence, that not a sound from any one of these now living -noisy tongues will stir it by so much as a curse or a groan. - -Yes, my friends; deny it if you will that we are all savages (I expect -you to deny it because I assert it, and you would not be human if you -did not contradict me), you will hardly refuse to admit that we are all -skeletons. Our flesh makes our savagery. Our clothes make our morality. -But reduced to our primal selves, we are plain Bones. And in honest, -unadorned Bones, to be positive to the utmost degree of positivism, we -invariably discover ourselves grinning. At what? Ah, who shall say! -Unless it be at our own exquisite fooling with fate, which, truth to -tell, is very exquisite indeed. And, however serious we may look in the -flesh, we must remember our own death's-head is always laughing at us. - -Death's-heads are jolly companions. Some of my friends are fond of -wearing imitation ones to remind them of the wide perpetual smile they -carry behind their own fleshly covering. One or two charming ladies -I know carry jewelled death's-heads on their watch-chains, and play -with them in a sufficiently gruesome manner. Lady Dorothy Nevill, -she of shrewd Walpole wit and keen intelligence, wears a conspicuous -ornament given her by our own amiable Prince of Wales--a red coral or -cornelian death's-head, with a couple of diamonds in the eye-sockets. -I wonder what Albert Edward was thinking about when he made the lady -this valuable present, and whether the line, "To this complexion must -we come at last," occurred at all to his memory. Lady Dorothy herself -is particularly fond of the suggestive bauble; she perceives and -appreciates as much as I do the delicate irony of a skull's smile. - -And it really needs a good deal of intelligence to understand -death's-heads. A duke I know, of the best possible ducal brand, annoys -me exceedingly by his lack of perception in this regard. The handle -of his walking-stick is an ivory skull, and he is always sucking it. -The effect of this act is indescribable. He seems to be mouthing the -dried and polished cranium of an ancestor. I meet him frequently in the -"row," or Snobs' Parade, where gilded youth goes to stare at gilded -age, by which phrase I mean that the foot-passengers are mostly young -and lissom of limb, while the fine carriages frequently contain naught -but the dried and desolate fragments of old age, or the painted and -bedizened wrecks of youth. It is really quite curious to note how few -pretty or even genial-looking persons are seen in the vehicles that -crowd the Row during a "season." Max O'Rell declares that the entire -show is like Tussaud's wax-work taken out for an airing, but I have -never seen any one so good-looking or so clear-complexioned as wax-work -in a carriage. On foot, yes; there are any number of pretty women and -tolerably well set-up men to be met with strolling about under the -trees, and it is precisely for this reason that whenever I go to the -Park I walk instead of driving, as I prefer pretty women to ugly ones. - -And thus by preamble and general tedium I have come leisurely round to -the point I wished to arrive at, which is the narration of a singular -dream I once had; a vision which fell upon me, not in the "silence of -the night," but in the glaring heat of a midsummer afternoon while -I was seated on a penny chair in the middle of the Row. I had just -exchanged the usual greetings with my kindly young idiot friend the -duke (sucking the ivory skull on his cane as usual) and he had gone -on his way blandly grinning. I had shaken hands with a couple of -vagrant journalists. I had saluted a few charming women, chatted for -ten minutes with Lord Salisbury, and had imparted to a dear paunchy -diplomat the secret of stewing prawns in wine--a dish which I assure -you, on the faith of a true _gourmet_, is excellent. I had studied -the back of a massively fat woman's dress for several seconds, trying -to puzzle out the ways and means by which it got fastened over so -much rebellious flesh. Fatigued with these exertions, and lulled by -the monotonous noise of the rolling wheels of the carriages going to -and fro, I fell into a sort of semi-conscious doze, in which I was -perfectly aware of my surroundings, though more than half asleep. And -"a change came o'er the spirit" of the scene--a change which might -have alarmed unphilosophic people, but which to one like myself, -who am surprised at nothing, merely transformed a dull and ordinary -spectacle into a deeply interesting one. A curious white light pervaded -the atmosphere and tinged the overhanging foliage with a sickly shade -of green, the yellow sunshine took upon itself a jaundiced hue, and -lo! all suddenly and straightway the "row" was stripped of its "too, -too solid flesh" and appeared as too, too truthful Bones. Bones were -the fashion of the hour--skulls the order of the day. Clothes were -worn, of course, for decency's sake, clothes, too, of the very newest -fashion and cut; but flesh was discarded as superfluous. And so the -most elegant Paris "creations" in the way of lace parasols shaded -the sun from the delicate female death's-heads; skeleton steeds in -gorgeous trappings worked their ribs bravely, guided along by skeleton -coachmen superb in plush and wigs well powdered; and dear antiquated -Lady Doldrums, as she turned her eye-sockets to right and left with a -pleasant leer, seemed to be more cheerful than she had been for many a -long day. She still wore her favourite style of youthful hat, pinched -artistically about the brim and turned up with artificial roses, -but these handsomely-made French flowers now nodded quite waggishly -against her bare jaws, knowing there was no longer any painted flesh -there to eclipse their colour. Yes, Lady Doldrums was herself at -last--the terrible strain of pretending to be young was over, and the -only _coquetterie_ she practised in her honest condition of Bones, -was the wielding of a fan in her grisly sticks of fingers, not for -heat's sake--no, merely to keep away the flies. And the wonderful -crowd thickened every moment--bones, bones, nothing but bones;--they -multiplied by scores, and I began to find out a few of my dear society -friends by the armorial bearings on their carriages. I could guess -nothing by their faces, as these were nearly all alike, and there -was no variety of expression. True, there were short jaws and long, -high foreheads and low, wide skulls and narrow, but I was unable to -guide myself entirely by these hints. I found out Randolph Churchill, -though, in a minute, but then his head is of a curious shape one does -not easily forget. I should know his skull anywhere as thoroughly as -the gravedigger in _Hamlet_ knew Yorick's. He looked very cool and -comfortable in his bones, I thought. So did the delightful _danseuse_ -who followed close behind him in a high-wheeled trap, with the -smartest little skeleton "tiger" possible to conceive, pranked out in -livery, an impudent little top-hat perched jauntily on his impudent -little half-grown skull, while as for the exquisite "dancing-girl" -herself, good heavens! her bones were positively fascinating! The wind -whistled in and out them with a breezy amorousness--and then her smile -was more than usually perfect owing to the admirable set of false -teeth which were so dexterously screwed into her jaw. It would take -years of mouldering away to loosen those teeth, and the mouldering -had evidently not yet begun. She wore a wig too--a bronze-red wig in -beauteous curl--and upon my soul, she looked almost as well arrayed -in bones as in her usual heavily enamelled flesh. Very different was -the aspect of the toothless old bundle that came after, seated in a -springy victoria, and wrapped in rich rugs to the chin. His skeleton -steeds pranced nobly, his skeleton coachman sat stiffly upright, -his skeleton footman preserved the accustomed dignified cross-armed -attitude, but he himself, poor wretch, rolled uneasily from side to -side, till it seemed that his yellow skull would sever itself from -the spinal attachment and fall incontinently into his own shaking -claws. I recognised him by the showy monogram on his carriage-rug; he -was the rich proprietor of several newspapers, the "impresario" of -several music-halls, and the dotard lover of several ballet-girls. -After him came a "four-in-hand," a marvellous sight to see with its -skeleton team, its "lordly" skeleton driver, and its "select" party -of skeleton "professional beauties" on top. It made quite a white -glare as it passed in the sickly sun, and scattered a good deal of -bone-dust from its wheels. Quite close to me there were a couple of -skeletons engaged in love dallyings of the most ethereal description. -The one, a female, was seated in a victoria, sheltering the top of her -skull (on which a fashionable bonnet was perched) with a black lace -parasol lined in crimson--a tint which flung a rouge-like reflection -on her fleshless but still sensually-shaped jaws. The other, a man, -clothed in "afternoon visiting" costume, leaned tenderly towards her -over the park-railing, proferring for her acceptance a spray of white -lilies which he had taken from his button-hole, and which he held -affectionately between his dry bone fingers. Anything more sublimely -chaste, yet "realistic," can never be imagined. The way their two -skulls nodded and grinned at each other was intensely edifying--it -was a case of purely "spiritual" love and platonic desire, in which -the wicked flesh had no existing part. And one of the most remarkable -features of the whole pageant was the intense stillness which -pervaded the movements of the elegant bony throng of "rank, beauty, -and fashion." Not a leaf on the trees rustled, not a joint in any -distinguished skeleton cracked. Two skeleton policemen kept order, -and the crowd itself kept silence. The skeleton horses rubbed against -each other in the press, but not a bone clattered, and not a wheel -grated. As noiselessly as mist or rolling cloud, the white-ribbed, -motley-clothed multitude moved on; the foot-passengers were skeletons -also, and 'Arry, turning empty eye-sockets about, looked quite as -"noble" as my lord the duke in his barouche, somewhat more so in fact, -though wearing shabbier clothes. A delightful equality ruled the -scene--a true "fraternity," fulfilling some of the socialistic ideas -to the letter. For once the "row" had cast off hypocrisy, and appeared -in its absolutely real aspect--everybody had found out everybody -else--there was no polite lie possible; frank Bones declared themselves -as Bones, and nothing more. Moreover, each skeleton was so like its -neighbour skeleton that there were really no differences left to argue -about. The famous beauty, Lady N., could no longer scowl at her rival, -the Duchess of L., because they looked precisely similar, save for a -trifling difference in length of jaw, and also for the more impressive -fact that one wore blue and the other grey. The bones were the same in -each "fair" composition, and as bones, the two ladies were, or seemed -to be, amiable enough--it was only the wretched flesh that had made -them quarrelsome. And of all things, the chief thing that was truly -beautiful to witness was the universal smile that beamed through the -vast assemblage. Never had the "row" presented itself to broad daylight -with such a sincerely unaffected, all-pervading Grin! From end to end -the grin prevailed--horses, dogs, and men--there was not one serious -exception. Into the air, into the very sky, the wide, perpetual, toothy -smile appeared to stretch itself out illimitably, everlastingly: like -a grim satire carved in letters of white bone, it seemed to inscribe -itself upon the blue of heaven; a mockery, a savagery, a protest, a -curse, and a sneer in one, it spread itself in ghastly dumb mirth to -the very edge of the far horizon, till I, watching it, could stand -the death's-head jollity no longer. Starting in my chair, I uttered -a smothered cry, and awoke. A friendly hand fell on my shoulder--a -pair of friendly eyes twinkled good-humouredly into mine. "Hullo! Were -you asleep?" And there beside me stood Labby--the genial Labby--with -"Truth" glittering all over him. Should I tell him of my queer vision, -I thought, as I took his arm and strolled away in his ever-delightful -company? No. Why should I bother him with the question of honest Bones -_versus_ dishonest Flesh? He was (and is) already too busy exposing -Shams. - - - - -V. - -HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS. - - -"What's in a name?" sighed the fair Juliet of Shakespeare's fancy. She -was very much in love when she propounded the question, so she must be -excused for coming to the conclusion that a name meant nothing. But -no one who is not in love, no one who is not absolutely mad, can be -pardoned for indulging in such an opinion. Romeo was more than his name -to Juliet, but out of romantic poesy, nobody is more than his name as a -rule. The Name is everything; the Person behind the Name is generally -nothing when you come to know him. A fine title frequently covers -the most unpretentious individual. Beginning with the very highest -example in the land, can there be anything more lofty-sounding than -this--"Her Majesty Victoria Regina, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, -and Empress of India!" The full-mouthed, luscious, trumpet-roll of -this description calls up before the imagination something beyond -all speech to express; visions of great nations, glittering armies, -stately war-ships, kingdoms of the Orient, stores of wealth and wonder -untold--well, and after it all, when you come to stand face to face -with this so tremendous Victoria Regina, you find only a dear, simple -old lady attired in dowdy black, who might just as well be Mrs. Anybody -as the Queen, for all she looks to the contrary. She is a dreadful -disappointment to the young and enthusiastic, who almost expect to see -something of the enthroned goddess about her, with Athene's shield and -buckler bracing her woman's breast, and all the jewels of her Eastern -Empire blazing on her brow. Alas for the young and enthusiastic! They -are doomed to a great many such disillusions. They dream of Names, -and find only Persons, and the fall from their empyrean is an almost -paralysing shock as a rule. There are exceptions of course. There is a -majestic Cardinal in Rome who looks every inch a Cardinal--the others -might be anybodies or nobodies. The Pope is not entirely disappointing; -he has the air of a refined Spanish Inquisitor, a sort of etherialised -Torquemada. He is much more impressive in demeanour than our own -excellent Archbishop of Canterbury, who does not overawe us at any -time. In fact, we are seldom awed by persons at all, only by names. -A small boy of my acquaintance, taken to see the Shah, expressed his -disgust in a loud voice--"Why, he's only a man!" There is the whole -mischief of the thing. Only a man--only a woman. Nothing more. But the -Names seem so much more. Names spread themselves in a large, vast way -over the habitable globe--they are everywhere, while the Persons remain -limited to one place, or else are nowhere. The name of Shakespeare -is so all-pervading that we will not hear of Bacon being substituted -for it, even though Donelly should chance to be right. How well it is -for us that we never knew the Person (whoever he was) that wrote the -plays. Even Homer himself--should we have cared to know him? I doubt -it. His name has proved infinitely better than himself because more -lasting. And so, what slight amount of reverence I have in my nature -I bestow entirely on Names--for Persons I have little or no respect. -A great name possesses a great charm--a great person is generally a -great bore. Any one who takes the trouble to observe society closely -will support my theory of the superiority of names to individuals. -Try the mere sound of several names and see. "The Prince of Wales." -That is a fine historical designation, but, curiously enough, it does -not convey so much in the way of grand suggestions as it ought to do. -Yet he who bears it now is the first gentleman in the land; kindly, -courteous, chivalrous, and a veritable Prince of good fellows. -"Baron Rothschild"--a name suggestive of wealth galore--but the great -financier himself is not such wondrous company. "His Grace the Duke -of Marlborough" hath a pleasing roll in the utterance, but when you -get close to the distinguished biped so designated, you are conscious -of a dismal sense of failure somewhere. "Her Grace the Duchess of -Torrie MacTavish" suggests a "gathering of the clans" and bonfires -on the Highland hills, but her Grace herself is but a little mean -old Scotchwoman, with an avaricious eye upon every "bawbee" expended -in her household. "Prime Minister" is a fine title--"Prime Minister -of England"--the finest title in the world; but Salisbury is the -only man who looks the stately part. The G.O.M. is pure Plebeian--a -big-brained plebeian, if you like, but plebeian to the marrow. The -demagogue declares itself in the shape of his feet and hands, which are -as long and flat as it is the privilege of demagogue hands and feet -to be. Coming to the "dream-weavers," or men of letters, some of us -(young and enthusiastic) breathe the name "Tennyson" with reverential -tenderness, thinking the old man must be well-nigh a demi-god. Not a -bit of it. Crusty and perverse, he will have little of our company, -and against many of those who have bought his books he thunders -denunciation and bars his garden-gate. A little of the exquisite -vanity of old Victor Hugo, who used to show himself to passers-by -at his window, would better become our veteran Laureate than his -hermit-like sourness. "Ruskin" is another great name--but who can count -the intense disappointments entailed on ardent admirers of the Name -when they discover the Person! "Swinburne" suggests poetry, romance, -wild and wondrous things--a bitter awakening awaits those who will -insist on peering behind the Name to see the bearer thereof. And it -is nearly always so. Names open to us the gates of the Ideal--Persons -shut us up in the dungeon of Commonplace. Few famous people come up to -their names--still fewer go beyond them. If ever I chance to meet a -celebrated man or woman whose personal charm fascinates me more than -his or her celebrated name, I shall make a great fuss about it. I -shall--let me see, what shall I do?--why, I shall write to the _Times_. -The _Times_ is the only correct threepenny outlet for ebullitions of -sincere national feeling. But till I am otherwise convinced, I adhere -to my expressed opinion that Names are the chief motors of social -influence, and that individuals are of infinitely less account. Thus, -I think it a thousand pities that Stanley did not meet with the good -old style of melo-dramatic hero's death in the Dark Continent. His Name -might have become a glory and a watchword--as matters now stand his -Person has extinguished his Name. - -Yes, my dear friends all, I assure you, on my honour as an honest -masquer, that both my opinion and advice in this matter are well worth -following. When you have selected a Name to hold in some particular -reverence, you will be unwise if you try to peep behind it in search -of the person belonging to it. The Name is like the door forbidden to -Bluebeard's wife: once opened, it shows no end of horrors, headless -corpses of good intentions weltering in their blood, and hacked -limbs of fine sentiment mouldering on the floor. Keep the door shut -therefore. Never unlock it. Let no light fall through the crannies. -Stand outside and worship what you imagine may be within. Do as I -do--know as many Names as you like and as few Persons as possible. -Life is more agreeable that way. For example, if you wanted to find -_me_ out, and you were to peep behind my name and tear off my domino, -you would only be disappointed. You would find nothing but--a person; -a Person who might possibly be your friend and might equally be your -foe. 'Twere well to be wary in such a doubtful business. Best accept me -as I appear, and entertain yourselves with the notion that there may -be a "Somebody" hidden behind the mask. Make an "ideal" of me if you -choose--ideal saint, or devil, whichever pleases your fancy, for I have -no taste either way. Only, for Heaven's sake, remember that if you do -persuade yourselves into thinking I am a Somebody, and I turn out after -all to be a Nobody, it is not my fault. Don't blame me; blame your own -self-deception. Inasmuch as it is especially necessary in my case to -bear in mind that the Name is not the Person. - - - - -VI. - -CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY. - - -Excellent and courteous friend, one moment, I beseech you! I know -how busy you are, but I also know, much to my satisfaction, that, -like a true diplomat and wise man, you give ear to all, even to fools -occasionally, inasmuch as from fools sometimes emanate certain snatches -of wisdom. Therefore pause beside me for an instant with the patient -grace and friendliness I am accustomed to from you; for though I call -myself a fool with the heartiest good will, you have often thought and -spoken of me otherwise, for which condescension I thank you. It is -something to have won your good opinion, inasmuch as you are guiltless -of "booming" second-rate literature, in the style of the venerable -Woodcutter of Hawarden, for the sake of bringing yourself into notice. -Indeed, I think the admirable qualities of your head and heart have -hardly been sufficiently insisted upon by the party you serve. And the -genius of patriotism and love of Queen and country which inspire your -spirit--are these rightly, fairly, acknowledged? No. But what can you -or any one else expect from the weak, vacillating souls you are called -upon to lead, such as Randolph Churchill, for example, whose political -career is but a disappointment and mockery to public onlookers. I -consider that you fight single-handed. Your endeavours are noble and -fearless, but those who should support you are for the most part -cowards--and not only cowards, but selfish cowards; for to some of your -party whom I know, a matter of digestion is more paramount than the -good of the country. When a leading Conservative finds himself slightly -bilious through over-eating, he hastens away abroad, there to nurse his -miserable physical ills and pamper his worthless carcase, regardless -of, or indifferent to, the fact that, by virtue of his position, if not -his brains, his presence in England might be useful and valuable. There -are numerous such lazy hounds in your party, my dear Lord, who deserve -to be lashed with the whip of a Fox's or a Pitt's eloquence. And I have -wondered oft why you have not spoken the lurking reproach against them, -the indignant "Shame on you all!" that must have frequently burned for -utterance in your mind. - -And "shame on you all!" is the cry that leaps to the lips of every true -Briton who thinks of the former historical glories of his country, -and at the same time observes the lamentable unsteadiness, the lack -of courage, the dearth of principle in politicians of every grade -to-day. Parliament gabbles; it does not speak. Often it resembles a -cackling chorus of old women striving to describe their own and their -friends' various ailments. Why is Radicalism rampant? Why is there -any Radicalism? Because so many Radicals are honest, hard-working -men--honest in their opinions, honest in the utterance of those -opinions, honest in thinking that their cause is good. And you, my -dear Lord, have a certain sympathy with this active, energetic, vital, -if wrong-headed honesty--you know you have. You love your Sovereign, -you love your country, you love the constitution, but for all that you -cannot but sympathise with integrity. You know that the Monarch has -left England pretty much to itself for the last thirty years, and that -she has allowed the people to realise that they can get on without -her, seeing she will take no part with them in their daily round. A -pity! but the evil is done, and it is too late to remedy it. There is -practically no social ruler of the realm, and you must confess, good -Salisbury, that this fact makes your work difficult. The mass of the -people can only be got to understand a monarch who behaves like one, -and the more intellectual food you put into them, the more obstinate -they become on the point. With similar pigheadedness they can only -understand the personality of a prince whose conduct is a princely -example; they are quite sure about themselves here, and have the most -appallingly distinct notions concerning right and wrong. They do not go -to church for these notions--no. Many cobblers and coalheavers would -be mentally refreshed if they were allowed to kick a few seeming-holy -clerics whose hypocrisies are apparent despite sermons on Sunday. It -must not be forgotten that education is making huge strides among the -populace; it has got its seven-leagued boots on, and is clearing all -manner of difficulties at a bound. When your greengrocer studies Plato -o' nights, when your shoemaker carries the maxims of Marcus Aurelius -about in his pocket to refresh himself withal in the intervals of -stitching leather, when the wife of your butcher sheds womanly tears -over Keats' "Pot of Basil," a poem which the "cultured" dame has "no -time" to read--these be the small signs and tokens of a wondrous -change by and by. Cheap literature, especially when it is a selection -of the finest in the world, is a dangerous "factor" in the making -of revolutions, and among other purveyors of literary food for the -million, one who calleth himself Walter Scott, of Newcastle-on-Tyne, -is unconsciously doing a curious piece of work. He is putting into the -hands of the "lower classes," for the moderate price of one shilling -(discount price ninepence) small volumes well bound and well printed, -which contain the grandest thoughts of humanity, such as "Epictetus," -"Seneca," Mazzini's "Essays," "Sartor Resartus," "Past and Present," -the "Religio Medici," the Emerson "Essays," and what not--and it is -necessary to take into consideration the fact that the people who buy -these books read them. Yes, they read them, every line, no matter how -slowly or laboriously; for whether they have expended a shilling or -the discount ninepence, they always want to know what they have got -for their money. This is the peculiar disposition of the "masses"; -the "upper ten" are not so particular, and will lay out a few guineas -on Mudie by way of annual subscription, getting scarce anything back -of value in exchange. After this fashion, too, the "upper ten" -entertain the ungrateful, keep horses and carriages for display, and -trot the dreary round of season after season, striving to extract -amusement from the dried-up gourd of modern social life, and finding -nothing in it all but a bitter jest or a sneering laugh at the slips -in morality of their so-called "friends" and neighbours. And thus it -is, my dear Lord, that the balance of things is becoming alarmingly -unequal; the "aristocratic" set are a scandal to the world with their -divorce cases, their bankruptcies, their laxity of principle, their -listless indifference to consequences; they never read, they never -learn, they never appear to see anything beyond themselves. Whereas -the "bas-peuple" _are_ reading, and reading the books that have helped -to make national destinies--they _are_ learning, and they are not -afraid to express opinions. They do not think a duke who seduces his -friend's wife merely "unfortunate"--they call him in plain language -a low blackguard. They cannot be brought to believe that the heir -to a great name who has gambled away all his estates on the turf a -"gentleman"--they call him a "loose fish" without parley. Now you, -excellent and true-hearted Salisbury, have to look on two sides of -the question. On the one are your own people, the aristocrats, the -Tories, lazy, indifferent, inert, many of them--fond of what they term -"pleasure," and as careless of the interests of the country (with a -few rare exceptions) as they can well be. On the other hand you have -the sturdy, loyal, splendid English "masses," who in their heart of -hearts are neither Radicals, Whigs, or Tories, but are simply as they -always have been--"For God and the Right!" It matters not which party -expresses what they consider the Right; it is the Right they want, and -the Right they will have, and they will try all means and appliances -in their power till they get it. And it is with this clamour for the -Right that you, my Lord, sympathise, because you know how much there -is just now that is wrong; how politicians shuffle and lie and play -at cross-purposes simply to attain their own personal ends; how -over-competition is cutting the throat of Free Trade; how foolishly -the tricksters have played with poor distracted Ireland; how openly -we have lowered the standard of society by admitting into it men and -women of well-known degraded reputation, as well as the painted mimes -and puppets of the stage; how wives are bargained for and bought for -a price, almost as shamelessly as in an open market; how good faith, -chivalry, honour, and modesty are every day becoming rarer and rarer -among men; and how, worst of all, we try to cover our vices by a -cloak of hypocrisy--the most canting hypocrisy current in the world. -English hypocrisy, the ultra-pious form--oh! "it is rank; it smells -to heaven!" There is nothing like it anywhere--nothing--no devil so -well sainted by psalm-singing, church-going, Sunday observance, and -charitable subscription lists. The married woman of title and high -degree who sells the jewel of her wifely chastity for the trifling -price of a fool's praise, is ever careful to look after the poor, -and give her "distinguished" patronage to church-bazaars. Pah! such -things are as a sickness to the mind; one's gorge rises at them; and -yet they are, as the Queen said to Hamlet, "common." So common, i' -faith, that we are beginning to accept them as an inevitable part of -our "social observances." And, alas, my Lord of Salisbury, you can do -nothing to remedy these things, and yet it is precisely "these things" -that swell the rising wave of Radicalism. And despite all the power -of your keen, capacious brain, and all the love of country working in -your soul, believe me, the storm will break. Nothing will keep it back; -because, though there are men of genius in the realm, these men are not -permitted to speak. The tyrant Journalism forbids. Why "tyrant"? Is not -Journalism free? Not so, my Lord; it is not the "voice of the people" -at all; it is simply the voice of a few editors. Were the most gifted -man that ever held a pen to write a letter to any of the papers on a -crying subject of national shame, he would be refused a hearing unless -he were a friend of the proprietors of whatever journal he elected to -write to. And men of genius seldom are friends of editors--a curious -fact, but true. And so we never really hear the "voice of the people" -save in some great crisis, and when we do, it invariably astonishes -us. It upsets our nerves, too, for a long time afterwards. It is -always so horribly loud, authoritative and convincing! The "voices of -editors" die away on these occasions like the alarmed squealings of -cats chased by infuriated hounds, and into the place of such a smug -and well-satisfied person as the Editor of the _Times_, for example, -leaps a shabby, dirty, hungry, eager-eyed creature like Jean Jacques -Rousseau, who, instead of a clean and carefully prepared pen, uses for -the nonce a red, sputtering torch of revolution, which, setting fire to -old abuses, spreads wide conflagration through the land. And how the -heart leaps, how the blood thrills, when old abuses _are_ destroyed! -When the rats' nests of cliques are thrust out to perish in the gutter, -when the dirty cobwebs of self-interest and love of gain are swept -down, and the fat spiders within them trampled under foot, when the -great white palace of national Honour is cleansed and made sweet and -fresh for habitation, even at the cost of groaning labour, confusion, -and stress, how one breathes again, how one lives the life of a true -man in the purified strong air! - -As you know well, my Lord, I am of no political party. I am proud to be -as one with this great nation in its vital desire for the Right and the -Just. Wherever the Right appears I am its follower to the death. I hate -false things; I hate bubble reputations, empty wind-bags of policy, -dried skeletons of faith. Why not leave this dubious handling of bones -and dusty material? It is too late to set wry matters straight. They -are an obstruction, and must be cleared from the path of England. Had -you the temerity, as I know you have the will, you would speak your -thoughts more openly than you have yet done. You would say: "I refuse -to lead cowards. I will call to my side men of proved brain and honesty -and skill, with whom honour is more than pelf; I will get at the heart -of England, and move with _its_ pulsations; and of those who are not -with this heart I will have none. I will at once make some attempt to -remedy the frightful abuses of the law; I will move heaven and earth -till England, not party, is satisfied!" - -And oh, my most excellent friend, what a wise thing you would do, if -you would only keep a watchful eye on the scribblers--the poor and -hungry and ambitious scribblers especially! Your party at all times of -history has been foolishly prone to neglect this sort of inky folk, -and what an error of policy is such neglect! These same inky folk, my -Lord, do cause thrones to fall and empires to tremble, wherefore you -and all whom it concerns should look after them warily. Make friends -with them; soothe their irritated nerves; take time and trouble to -explain a situation to them, and remember, never was there dusty, -crusty writing-biped yet but could not be moved to a pale, pleased -smile of response to a royal hand-shake, a royal greeting, given in -good season. It is not singers and twiddlers on musical strings that -a wise Court should patronise, but the wielders of pens--they, who, if -despised and neglected, take relentless vengeance, and, fearing neither -God nor devil, proceed to make strange bargains with both. The Press -is a plebeian creature--yes, I know; but for all that, it has stumbled -with its big, hob-nailed shoes and Argus eyes into the Royal precincts, -and stands there smacking its greasy lips and staring rudely, after the -fashion of all plebeians unaccustomed to polite society. It is vulgar, -this Press--there is no doubt of that; it dresses badly, and wears, not -a sword by its side, but a stumpy pen stuck unbecomingly behind its -ear, and it gives itself a vast amount of coarse swagger because it is -for the most part deficient in education, and picks up its knowledge -by hearsay--nevertheless it has power. And it is a power which neither -you nor any one else can afford to despise; wherefore, good friend, -when you have any grand object in view and want to attain it, let all -else go if necessary, but gather a grand muster-roll of Pens. These -shall win you your cause if you only know how to lead them, and without -their assistance you shall be lost in a sea of contradictions. Some -of these Pens are already yours to command; but others are not, and -you trouble not your head concerning these "others" which are the very -ones you should secure. As for me, I could go on advising you with the -most infinite tedium on sundry matters, but I will not now, inasmuch -as we shall have frequent opportunities for discourse in the library -at Hatfield. And so, till we meet again, accept the assurance of my -admiration and devoted service. You are one of the noblest of living -Englishmen; you have the kindest heart in the world; your foreign -policy means peace and satisfaction to Europe; and yet, with it all, -and with my ardent friendship for you, I cannot help asking myself the -question whether, if the storm breaks and the waves rise mountains -high, will you have the strength to be a pilot for the ship of England -in her dark hour? And if it should be proved that you cannot steer us, -Who shall be found that can? - - - - -VII. - -CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN. - - -Dost thou remember, my dear Mr. Gladstone, a certain warm and pleasant -July afternoon when thou didst honour and oppress me with thy Grand -Old Presence for a couple or more of weary hours, regardless of the -fact that the "House" expected thee to appear and reply on some moot -point or other to Mr. Goschen? There in my modest studio thou didst -sit, rubbing that extensive ear of thine with one long forefinger, -and smiling suavely at such regular intervals as almost to suggest -the idea of there being a patent smiling-machine secreted behind thy -never-resting jaw! - -Ah, that was a day! We talked--but no! 'twas thou didst talk, thou -noble old man! and I--as all poor mortals must needs do in thy -company--listened. Listened intently; helpless to remove thee from the -chair in which thou sattest; hopeless of putting any stop to thine -eloquence; while on, on, on, still on, rolled the stream of thy fluent -and wordy contradictions, till my mind like a ship broken loose from -its moorings, rocked up and down in a wild, dark sea of uncertainty -as to what thou didst mean; or whether thy meaning, if it could by -chance be discovered, should in truth be meant? Hadst thou been a -Book instead of a Man, I should have flung thee aside, walked the -room, and clutched my hair after the manner of the intense tragedian; -but with thee, thou astonishing Biped, I could do no more than stare -stonily at thy careless collar-ends and concentrate all my soul on my -powers of hearing. "Listen, fool!" I said to my inner self--"Listen! -It is Gladstone who is speaking--Gladstone the old man eloquent; -Gladstone the thinker; Gladstone the Bible scholar; Gladstone the Greek -translator; Gladstone the Scotchman, Gladstone the Irishman, Gladstone -the--the--the--Wood-cutter! Listen!" - -And, as I live, I listened to thee, Gladstone; I swallowed, as it -were, thine every word, in spite of increasingly lethargic mental -indigestion. Specially did I strive to follow thee in thy wild flights -up the stairs of many religious theories, when with gray hair ruffled -and eyes aglare, thou didst solemnly rend piecemeal "Robert Elsmere," -forgetting, O thou grand old Paradox, that if thou hadst never lifted -up that clamant voice of thine in _Nineteenth-Century-Magazine_ -utterance, Robert and his oppressive religious troubles might scarcely -have attracted notice? Didst thou not "boom" Robert, and then feign -surprise at the result? Ay, venerable Splitter of Straws and Hewer of -Logs, wilt deny the truth? And shall I not advise thee in thine own -terms to retire from public life, not "now," but "at present." Or if -not "at present" then "now"? Either will serve, before thou dost make -more blows with thy hatchet-brain (somewhat dulled at the edge) at the -future honour and welfare of thy country. - -Ah, what things I could have said to thee, thou Quibble, when thou -didst venture to assail me with thy converse, if thou hadst but -taken decent pause for breathing! Why, amongst other marvels, didst -thou deem it worth thy while to flatter me, or to praise the casual -sputterings of my pen? Thy unctuous insinuations carried no persuasion; -thy "nods and becks and wreathed smiles" were wasted on me; thy soft -assurances of the "certainty of my future brilliant fame" went past -my ears like the murmur of an idle wind. For a fame "assured" by thee -is nothing worth; and thy Polonius-like approbation of any piece of -work, literary or otherwise, is as a mark set on it to make it seem -ridiculous. For thou art destitute of humour save in wood-cutting; -and thou needest many a lesson from my dear friend Andrew Lang before -thou canst successfully comprehend the subtly critical art of proving -a goose to be a swan. And so, by monosyllables slipt in like frailest -wedges between thy florid bursts of ambiguity, I strove to entice thy -wandering wits back to the discussion of personal faith in matters -religious, wherein I found thee most divertingly inchoate, but my -feeble efforts were of small avail. For lo, while yet I strove to -understand whether thou wert in truth a Roman Papist, a Calvinist, a -Hindoo, a Theosophist, or a Special Advocate of the _War Cry_, the -subject of Creed, like a magic-lantern slide, disappeared from thy -mental view, and Divorce came up instead. Frightful and wonderful, -according to thee, goodman Gladstone, are the wicked ways of the -married! No sooner are they united than they move heaven and earth to -get parted--so it is at any rate very frequently in the free and happy -American Republic, where the disagreeing parties need not move heaven -and earth, but simply make a mutual assertion. Oh, of a truth here was -no smiling matter! No Deity in question, but a very positive Devil, -needing thy exhortation and exorcism; and thy jaws clacked on sternly, -strenuously, and with a resolute gravity and persistency that seemed -admirable. Not every man could be expected to find a Mrs. Gladstone, -but surely all were bound to try and discover such a paragon. If -all married society were composed of Mr. and Mrs. Gladstones, why, -married society would realise the fabled Elysium. And supposing there -continued to be only one Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, and all the rest were -quite a different set of hopelessly different temperaments, then, -naturally, it was impossible to state what disasters might ensue. -It would be a case of Noah and his wife over again--after them the -Deluge. In the interim, Divorce was shocking, abominable, sinful, -diabolical, ungodly--an upsetting of the most sacred foundations of -morality--and it was chiefly because Gladstonian domestic tastes were -not universal. This, at least, is what I seemed to gather from thee -in thine onslaughts against the large and melancholy mass of the -Miserably Married; I say I "seemed" to gather it, because it "seemed" -thy meaning, but as thy whole mode of speech and action is only -"seems," I cannot be absolutely sure either of myself or thyself. For -thou didst set out an attractive row of various learned propositions, -gently, and with the bland solicitude of a hen-wife setting out her -choicest eggs for sale, then suddenly and incontinently, and as one in -a fit of strangest madness, thou didst sweep them up and fling them -aside into airy nothingness without concern for the havoc wrought. -Thou didst calmly state what appeared to be a Fact, reasonable and -graspable; and with all the powers of my being I seized upon it as a -grateful thing and good for consideration; when suddenly thy senile -smile obscured the intellectual horizon, and thy equably modulated -voice murmured such words as these: "Not that I desire to imply by -any means that this is so, or should be so, but that it might (under -certain circumstances, and provided certain minds were at harmony upon -the point) probably become so." Ah, thou embodied Confusion worse -Confounded! Had it not been for this constant playing of thine at thy -favourite shuffling game of cross-purposes, I should have roused my -soul from its stupor of forced attention to demand of thee more of -thy profound Bible scholarship. Whether, for example, if Divorce, -thy bugbear, were ungodly, and the Bible true, a man should not have -two, three, nay, half-a-dozen wives at his pleasure for as long or as -short a time as he chose, and find situations for them afterwards as -servants, telegraph-clerks, and bookkeepers, when their beauty was gone -and snappishness of temper had taken the place of endearing docility. -Whether English harem-life, lately set in vogue by certain great and -distinguished "Upper" people, could not be easily proved pleasing unto -the Most High Jehovah? For did not God love His servant Abraham? and -did not Abraham bestow his affections on Sarai and Hagar? and when the -hoary old reprobate was "well stricken in years" and "the Lord had -blessed him in all things" did he not again take a wife named Keturah, -who presented him in his centenarian decrepitude with six sons?--all -"fine babies," no doubt. What sayest thou to these morals of Holy -Writ, thou "many-sounding" mouthpiece of opinion? Answer me on a -postcard, for with thee, more than with any other man, should brevity -be the soul of wit! - -Some of us younger and irreverent folk oft take to speculating why, -in the name of bodies politic, thy days, O Venerable, are so long in -the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee? The Lord thy God, friend -William Ewart, must have some excellent reason for allowing thee to -ruthlessly cut down so many growing oaks of English honour and walk -unscathed across the bare, disfigured country, with the wild dogs of -Democracy sneaking at thy heels. And I forgot, in speaking of the -holy Abraham, that late events have proved the high superiority of -thy tastes in morality to those of God's anciently-favoured servant. -For didst thou not disown thy sweetest nursling, thine own favourite -adopted son, Parnell, simply and solely to publicly clasp and kiss -the wrinkled, withering hand of Mrs. Grundy? And knowest thou not, -thou gray-haired Conundrum, that nothing has ever seemed more -preternaturally absurd to the impartial observer and student of social -life in all countries, than this making a public question out of -personal matter?--this desertion of a former friend, a man, too, of -immense intellectual capability, all because, as the old German ballad -goes, "he loved a, to him, temptingly-forbidden lady"? Just Heavens! I -could name dozens of men (but I will not), party men too, respectably -married likewise, who have their "temptingly-forbidden ladies" tucked -snugly away in the innermost recesses of their confidence, and who -avoid betraying themselves into such impulsiveness as might lead to a -fire-escape and political dissolution. As for Mrs. Grundy, the dear -old soul never sees anything now unless she is led up to it with her -spectacles on; she is more than half blind, and totally deaf--a poor, -frail creature very much on her last legs--and she must have been -vaguely flattered and surprised at thy voluntary Grand Old Hand-Shake, -given to her in the very face of all the staring world of intelligence -and fashion. It must have soothed her aching heart and comforted her -tottering limbs to find she still had left to her a pale vestige of -past power. Ah, it was a grand and edifying party-split!--almost as -exciting as if it had occurred on a question of Beer, which fateful -subject angrily discussed, did, I believe, on one occasion actually -effect a change of Ministry. And it is rather a notable proof of the -curious littleness of the age we live in, that of late, political -parties have seldom broken up on great questions--questions of -momentous and general interest affecting the welfare of the state and -people--but nearly always on petty, personal, nay almost vulgar and -childish disputes, such as might make Fox and Pitt turn and groan in -their graves. Is there no such thing as unadulterated patriotism left, -I wonder?--no real ardent love of the "Mother" England? or hast thou, -old Would-Be Despot, choked it all by thy pernicious gabble? - -And yet, whatever may be said of thee now or in after history as a -Man-Enigma, thy bitterest enemy, unless he be an idiot born, can hardly -be blind to thy numerous and extraordinary endowments. Jumbled as -they are together with so much confusion that it is difficult to tell -which savour most of vice or most of virtue, they are nevertheless -Endowments, rare enough to find in any other living composition of -mortal mould. And the mystic gift that keeps thee powerful to grasp -and retain thy dominance over the minds of the Majority, is simple -Genius--a gift of which there are many spurious imitations, but which -in itself is given to so few as to make it seem curious and remarkable, -aye, even a thing suggestive of downright madness to the men of mere -business talent and capacity who form the largest portion of the -governing body. Misguided, captious, flighty as caprice itself, it -is nevertheless a flash of the veritable Promethean fire which works -that busy, massive brain of thine--a kindling, restless heat which is -entirely deficient in the brains of nearly all thy fellow-statesmen of -the hour. This it is that fascinates the Public--the giant Public that -above all the whisperings and squealings of the Press, reserves its -own opinion, and only utters it when called upon to do so, with sundry -roarings and vociferations as of a hungry lion roused--a convincing -manner of eloquence which doth wake to speculative timorousness the -wandering penny-a-liner. For Genius is the only quality the Public -does in absolute truth admire, without being taught or forced into -admiration--and that Genius has ever in reality been despised or -neglected by the world, is, roughly speaking, a Lie. Everything noble -that deserves to live, lives; and Homer wrote as much for the England -of to-day as for the Greece of past time. The things that die, deserve -to die; the "genius" who deems himself ill-used, does by his childish -querulousness prove himself unworthy of appreciation. For no great soul -complains, inasmuch as all complaint is cowardice. - -Thus, when I bring the Public well into sympathetic view, and consider -thee in relation to it, O Grand Old Gladstone, I understand readily -enough what is meant by the feeling of the "majority" concerning thy -civic and personal qualifications for power. It is this--that the -people feel, that notwithstanding thy chameleon-like variableness, -and thy darkly cabalistic utterances on the political How, When, and -Why, thou art still the "only" man in the professed service of the -country possessing this talisman of Genius which from time immemorial -has carried its own peculiar triumph over the heads of all opposers. -For when thou shalt be gone the way of all flesh, who is left? Little -brilliancy of wit or good counsel is there now in the Commons, and the -Lords are but weary creatures, bent on maintaining their own interests -in the face of all change. Is there a man who can be truly said to -have the gift of eloquence save Thou? Wherefore the attention and -interest of the people still continue to revolve round thy charmed -pivot, thou Hawarden Thinker, with, as the Scotch say, "a bee" in thy -bonnet. And, whether Premier or Ex-Premier, all because thou _art_ a -Thinker in spite of the bee. Thy thoughts may be "long, long thoughts" -like the "thoughts of youth" in Longfellow's pretty poem--they may -be indeed without any definite end at all, but they are thoughts, -they are not mere business calculations of the State's expenses. -Only being ill-assorted and still worse defined, they are unfit to -blossom into words, which they generally do, to the perplexity and -anxiety of everybody concerned. And there is the mischief--a mischief -irremediable, for nothing will stop thy tongue, thou Grand Old Gabbler, -save a certain Grand Old Silence wearing only bones and carrying a -scythe, who is not so much interested in politics as in mould and -earthworms _à la_ Darwin. - -Nevertheless I, for one, shall be exceedingly sorry when this fleshless -"reaper whose name is Death" mows thee down, poor Gladdy, and turns -thee remorselessly into one more pinch of dust for his overflowing -granary. Remember me or not as thou mayest, do me good service or -bad, I care nothing either way. Thy visits to me were of thine own -seeking, and of conversation thou didst keep the absolute monopoly; but -what matter?--I at least was privileged to gaze upon thee freely and -mentally comment upon thy collar unreproved. 'Twas but thy unctuous -flattery that vexed my soul; for Gladstonian praise is but Art's -rebuke. Otherwise I bear thee no malice, though for sundry reasons -I might well do so.... Oh, venerable Twaddler! Didst thou but know -me as I am, would not the hairs upon thy scalp, aye "each particular -hair" rise one by one in anger and astonishment, and thou for once be -rendered speechless?... Nay, good Gladstone-Grundy, have no fear! I -will not blab upon thee; I am well covered, closely masked; and thou -shalt hear no more of me as I slip by, save ... a smothered laugh -behind my domino! - - - - -VIII. - -OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED. - - -I am very fond of journalists. I look upon them, young and old, fat and -lean, masculine and feminine, as the salt of the earth wherewith to -savour the marrow of the country. And I like to put them through their -paces. I am always devoured by an insatiable curiosity to fathom the -depths of their learning--depths which I feel are almost infinite; yet -despite this infinity I am always fain to plunge. Whenever I see a son -of the ink-pot I collar him, and demand of him information--information -on all things little and big, because he knows all things. I believe he -even knows why Shakespeare left his second-best bed to his wife, only -he won't tell. As for languages, he is everybody's own Ollendorf. He -knows French, he knows Russian, he knows Italian, he knows Spanish, he -knows Hindustani, he knows Chinese, he knows--oh divine Apollo! what -does he _not_ know! Let anybody write a book and try to introduce into -its pages one word of Cherokee, one wild unpronounceable word, and -the omniscient journalist is down upon him instantly with the bland -assertion that it is a wrong word, wrongly spelt, wrongly used. For -the journalist knows Cherokee; he spoke it when a gurgling infant in -his mother's arms, together with all the living and dead dialects of -all nations. So that when I get a journalist to dine with me, is it to -be wondered at that I am consumed by a desire to _know_? The thirst of -wisdom enters into me, and having plied my man with eatables and wine, -I hang on his lips entranced. For can he not tell me everything that -ever was, or ever shall be?--and shall I not also aspire to oracles? - -Once upon a time, to my unspeakable joy, I caught a fledgling -journalist; a fluttering creature, all eagle-wings and chuckles, and I -carried him home in a cab to dinner. He was a wild fowl, with plumage -unkempt, and beak, _i.e._, a Wellingtonian nose, that spoke volumes of -knowledge already. I discovered him hopping about a club, and seeing -he was hungry, I managed to coax him along to my "den." When I had him -there safe, I could have shouted with pure ecstasy! He became gentle; -he smoothed his ruffled feathers; he dipped his beak into my burgundy -wine and pronounced in a god-like way that "behold, it was very good." -Then, when his inner man was satisfied, he spoke; and information, -information, came rolling out with every brief and slangy sentence. Of -kings and queens, of princes and commoners, of he and she and we and -they, of fire, police, law, council, parliament, and my lady's chamber, -of all that whirls in the giddy circle of our time, my fledgling had -taken notes--yea, even on the very wheels of government, he had placed -his ink-stained finger. - -"O wondrous young man!" I muttered as I heard; "O marvel of the age! -Why do not the kings of the earth gather together to hear thy wisdom? -Why do not the councils of Europe wait to learn the arts of government -from thee? Wert thou at the right hand of Deity, I wonder, when worlds -were created and comets begotten?" ... Here, filled with ideas, I -poured more wine out for the moistening of the Wellingtonian beak, and -demanded feverishly--"Tell me, friend, of things that are unknown to -most men--tell me of the dark mysteries of time, which must be clear as -daylight to a brain like yours!--instruct me in faith and morals--show -me the paths of virtue--explain to me your theories of the future, of -creed--" - -I stopped, choked by my own emotion; I felt I was on the point of -comprehending the incomprehensible--of grasping great facts made clear -through the astute perception of this literary Gamaliel. And he arose -in response to my adjuration; he expanded his manly chest, and stood -in an attitude of "attention"; his nose was redder than when he first -sat down to dine, and the vacuous chuckle of his laugh was music to my -soul. - -"Creed!" said he. "Drop that! I'm not a church-goer. I've got one form -of faith though." And he chuckled once again. - -"And that is?" I questioned eagerly. - -"This!" - -And with proud unction he recited the following simple formula:-- - - - I believe in the _Times_. - - And in the _Morning Post_, Maker of news fashionable and - unfashionable. - - And in one _Truth_, the property of one Labby, the only-begotten - son of honesty in Journalism, - - Who for us men and our salvation, socially, legally, and - politically, - - Came down from Diplomacy into Bolt Court, Fleet Street, - - And was there self-incarnated Destroyer of Shams. Labby of Labby, - Truth of Truth, Very Rad of Very Rad, Born not made, Being one - with himself and answerable to nobody for his opinions. - - Member for Northampton, he suffered there, secured votes and was - left unburied, - - And he sitteth in the House, save when he ariseth and speaketh, - - And he will continue with triumph to judge all those that judge, - both the living and the dead, - - Whose "legal pillory" shall have no end. - - And I believe in one _Pall Mall Gazette_, Pure Giver of frequently - mistaken information, which proceedeth from pens feminine, - - And which with the soporific _St. James's_, together, exerteth the - lungs of the newsboys. - - I acknowledge one holy and absolute _Court Circular_. - - I confess one "_Saturday_" for the flaying of new authors, - - And I look for the death of the _Nineteenth Century_ - - And the life of a less dull magazine to come Amen. - - -With this, my journalistic fledgling gave way to Homeric laughter, and -helped himself anew to wine. And since that day, since that witching -hour, I have watched his wild career. I track him in the magazines; -I recognise the ebullitions of his wit in "society" paragraphs; I -discover his withering, blistering sarcasm in his reviews of the books -he never reads; in fact, I find him everywhere. As the air permeates -space, he permeates literature. He is the all-sure, the all-wise, the -all-conquering one. With such a faith as his, so firmly held, so nobly -uttered, he is born to authority. I only wish some one would make him -Prime Minister. Everything that is wrong would be righted, and with -a Journalist (and such a journalist!) at the head of affairs, all -questions of government would be as easy to settle as child's play. He -himself--the Journalist--implies as much, and with all the fibres of my -soul I believe him! - - - - -IX. - -OF WRITERS IN GROOVES. - - -There are a certain class of authors who remind me of a certain class -of gamblers--men who believe in a special "lucky number," and are -always staking their largest amounts upon it. To speak more plainly, -I should say that I mean the "groovy" men, who, as soon as they find -one particular sort of "style" that chances to hit the taste of the -public, keep on grinding away at it with the remorselessness of an -Italian street-organ player. I see lots of such fellows in the crowd -around me, and I know most of them personally. For instance, there -is William Black, a distinctly "groovy" man if ever there was one. -All his books are like brothers and sisters, bearing a strong family -resemblance one to another. If you have read "A Princess of Thule" and -"A Daughter of Heth" you have got the _crême de la crême_ of all that -was or is in him. The rest of his work is evolved from precisely the -same substance as is found in these two books, only it is drawn out -into various criss-cross threads of deft weaving; and, deft as it is, -it makes uncommonly thin material. In his latter novels, indeed, there -is so much of what may be justly termed "feminine twaddle," that one -has to look back to the title-page in order to convince one's self that -it is really one of the "virile" sex who is telling a story. Excellent -Willie! With his small head and inoffensive physiognomy, he suggests -an intellectual sort of pint-pot, out of which it would be absurd to -expect a quart of brain. Inasmuch as a pint-pot can only hold a pint; -so let us be grateful for small mercies. And let us admire, not for -the first time either, the persistent kindly confidence of the British -Public, who steadily take up Willie's novels, one after the other, in -the sanguine faith of finding something new therein. "Some day," says -the patient B.P. in its trot to and from Mudie's Library--"some day -Willie will give us a book without a sunset in it. Some day, by happy -chance, he will forget there exists such a thing as a yacht. And some -day--who knows?--he may even awaken to the fact that there are other -places on earth besides Scotland, and other men who are as interesting -as Scotchmen." - -Good B.P.! Excellent B.P.! What a heart you have! You deserve the -very best that can be given you for the sake of your tolerance -and cheerfulness of temper, which qualities in you seem truly -inexhaustible. Here followeth an anecdote: A certain flimsy scribbler -I wot of, who had just got himself into a loosely-fitting suit of -literary armour, and was handling his sword a bit awkwardly, as -beginners at warfare are apt to do, said to me one day, with a sort of -schoolboy vaunt, "The Public want _trash_!--and trash is what I'll give -them!" O wise judge! O learned judge! Out he went with his "trash," -his sword poking into everybody's eye, and his armour waggling -uncomfortably round him, and lo! the Public "took" his trash and threw -it into the gutter, broke his sword for him, gave him back the pieces, -and civilly recommended him to look after the loose places in his -armour. He went home, did that proud warrior, and sat thinking about -what had chanced--it may be he is thinking still. - -No, the B.P. don't want "trash"--they want the best of everything--but -they have an infinite kindness and patience in waiting for that -"best," and carefully looking out for it; and when it truly comes they -welcome it with honest enthusiasm. Thus did they welcome and applaud -the "Princess of Thule," because they found it good and charming and -unique, and ever since that time they have reposed quite a pathetic -trust in little Black, hoping against hope that he will give them -something else equally good again. Alas for the vanity of all such -human wishes! for William is a "groovy" man now, and in his groove -he evidently purposes to remain. I remember dining with, him on one -occasion, when, in the ordinary way of conversation, I asked him what -books he had been reading lately? Oh, what sublime amazement in his -rolling eye! - -"Read?" he drawled. "I never read. Reading spoils an author's own -style." - -Haw-haw! Weally! Good B.P., you see how matters stand? Willie's -"kail-yairdie," or little plot of garden-ground, is barren; its first -crop has been gathered, and no more seed sown by study, so don't expect -any other rich harvests, or look for wonders in such work as "Stand -fast, Craig Royston!" For even brain-soil wants cultivation, if it is -to produce something better than weeds. - -Another "groovy" man is William Clark Russell. The waves rule Britannia -in his opinion: The sea occupies his inventive faculty to the exclusion -of everything else. A pigmy Neptune sits on his bald pate, touching -it up with a trident. Sailors' "yarns," sailors' marriages, sailors' -shipwrecks--tales of mariners in every sort of painful and pleasant -situation--influence his mind and bring it into that "One-idea" -condition which is considered by gravely spectacled specialists as a -form of cerebral disease. Moreover, his books bristle with sailors' -jargon, sailors' slang, sailors' "lingo," which people, who are not -sailors and who never intend to be sailors, do not understand and -do not want to understand. However, this monomania of his produced -one good result--"The Wreck of the Grosvenor." He exhausted his best -energies in that book, and having found it a success (as it deserved to -be), settled into the Jack Tar line of writing, and became once for all -and evermore "groovy." The "Wreck of the Grosvenor" is his "Princess of -Thule." He is all there, and there is no more of him anywhere. - -At one time I feared, but it was only a passing shudder, that one of -the most brilliant novelists we have, Marion Crawford, was drifting -in the fatal direction of "groove." When the rather lengthy "Sant' -Ilario" came trailing along, after the equally lengthy "Saracinesca," -I thought, "Alas! and woe is me! Are we never to hear the last of the -beautiful and lovable Astrardente? A noble character, but somewhat too -much of her is here." And I was on the verge of uncomfortable doubt for -some time, for I had always judged Crawford to be of the true Protean -type of genius, capable of touching every string on the literary harp -he holds. And I was not mistaken, for "A Cigarette-maker's Romance," -that most delicate and delightful work, proves that he is anything -but "groovy"; and his "Witch of Prague" is a breaking of entirely new -soil. So that the more I read of him, the more I am confirmed in the -opinion I have previously ventured to express--namely, that he is our -best man-novelist. I use the term "man-novelist" because I know there -are women-novelists--ladies whom I should be very sorry to offend by -applying the adjective "best" to any member of the viler sex. For I -know also that those ladies, if affronted, have curious and unexpected -ways of revenging themselves, and though I am masked, my silver domino -is hardly proof against the green and glittering eye of a remorseless -literary female. So pray you be not wrathful, sweet ladies!--rather -join with me in gentle chorus, and say, as you know you must, that -the author of "Dr. Isaacs," "A Roman Singer," and "Marzio's Crucifix" -is indeed the least "groovy," and therefore the best "man-novelist" -living; be kind and condescending thus far, for of women-novelists you -shall have a word presently. - -Somewhere, once upon a time, I called George Meredith an Eccentricity. -I meant him no harm by this phrase or term--I mean none now, when -I repeat it. He _is_ an Eccentricity--of Genius! Ha! where are you -now, all you commentators and would-be clearers-up of the Mighty -Obscure? An Eccentricity--a bit of genius gone mad--an Intellectual -Faculty broken loose from the moorings of Common Sense, and therefore -a hopelessly obstinate fixture in the "groove" of literary delirium. -A Meredithian description of Meredith is found in his story of "One -of our Conquerors"--a description there applied to the character of -Dudley Sowerby, but fitting Meredith himself exactly. Here it is; "His -disordered deeper sentiments were a diver's wreck where an armoured -subtermarine, a monstrous puff-ball of man, wandered seriously light -in heaviness, trebling his hundred-weights to keep him from dancing -like a bladder-block of elastic lumber; thinking occasionally amid -the mournful spectacle, of the atmospheric pipe of communication -with the world above, whereby he was deafened yet sustained." Of -course it is difficult to grasp all this at once--but I seize upon -the words, "_a bladder-block of elastic lumber_"--I know, I feel -that "_bladder-block_" is Meredith, though I cannot precisely inform -myself or others what a "_bladder-block_" in its original sense may -mean. But meanings are not expected to be vulgarly apparent on the -surface of this "diver's wreck" or new school of prose--you have to -search for them; and you must hold fast to whatever "_atmospheric -pipe of communication_" you can find, in order to keep up with this -"_Monstrous puff-ball of man wandering seriously light in heaviness_." -It has been left to George Meredith to tell us about "the internal -state of a gentleman who detested intangible metaphor as heartily as -the vulgarest of our gobble-gobbets hate it"--and if we would not be -considered "_gobble-gobbets_" ourselves, we must strive to be grateful -for the light he throws on our intellectual darkness. He is supposed -to understand women in and out and all round, so we must take it for -granted that a woman can "breathe thunder." It sounds alarming--it is -alarming--but if Meredith says it, it must be true. And he does say -it. With the calm conviction of one who knows, he assures us that "the -lady breathed low thunder." She is a very remarkable person altogether, -this "lady," called Mrs. Marsett, and her modes of action are carried -on in positive defiance of all natural and physical law. For at one -time we are told "her eye-_lids_ (not her eyes) mildly sermonised," -and on another occasion she actually "caught at her slippery tongue -and carolled," quite a feat of _leger de langue_. Again, "her woman's -red mouth was shut fast on a fighting underlip." Till I read this, I -was fool enough to think that the underlip was part of the mouth, but -now I know that the underlip is quite a separate and distinct thing, -as it is able to go on "fighting" while the mouth is "shut fast" on -it. She does all sorts of curious things with this mouth of hers, does -Mrs. Marsett; in one scene of her career it is said that "she blushed, -blinked, frowned, _sweetened her lip-lines, bit at the under one_, and -passed in a discomposure." Moreover, this strange mouth was given to -the utterance of bad language, for with it and her "slippery tongue" -Mrs. Marsett said her own name was "Damnable!" and what was still -worse, "had the passion to repeat the epithet in shrieks and scratch -up male speech for a hatefuller," whatever that may mean. Of course, -it is all very grand and mixed and magnificent, if any one chooses to -think so; people can work themselves up into an epilepsy of enthusiasm -over prose run mad _à la_ Meredith, as over poetry gone a-woolgathering -_à la_ Browning. It is a harmless mania which is confined to the -few, and is of a distinctly non-spreading tendency; while those who -are not partakers in the craze can look on thereat and be amused -thereby--for Meredith is at all times and all seasons both personally -and in literature a real entertainment. Whether he be haranguing to -the verge of deafness some stray acquaintance in the Garrick Club; -whether he be met, a greybeard solitary, stalking up the slopes of -Box Hill, at the foot of which he resides; whether he be inveighing -against the "porkers," _i.e._, the Public, within the precincts of a -certain small and extortionate but rigidly pious bookseller's shop in -the town of Dorking; or whether he be visited in his own small literary -"châlet," which he built for himself in his own garden, away from his -house, what time he had a wife, (a very charming, kindly lady, whose -appreciative sense of humour enabled her to understand her husband's -gifts better than any of his wildest worshippers), in order to escape -from "domesticity" and the ways of the "women" he is supposed to -understand--in each and all of these positions he is distinctly -amusing--and never more so than when he thinks he is impressive. Yet -there can be no doubt whatever as to his natural cleverness, and the -original turn of mind which might have made him a distinctly great -writer, if he had not forced himself into the strained style of the -artificial "groove" he has adopted. Even now, if he would only leave -the first spontaneous output of his thought alone, instead of altering -it when it is on paper, and weighing it down with all the big words he -can find in the dictionary, he would probably write something above -the average of interest. However, it's no use being hard upon him, as -he has quite recently been Lynched.[1] I cannot endure his novels, it -is true--but still, I never wished him to meet such a frightful fate. -When we reflect on the barbarity of the institution known as Lynch-law, -we cannot but wonder how his admirers have tamely stood by and seen -him delivered over to so awful a punishment. Yet it is a positive fact -that they have made no defence. And he has been torn limb from limb, -and broken into explained pieces by a pitiless executioner self-elected -to the performance of the abhorrent deed. A woman too--yclept Hannah -as well as Lynch; and eke a spinster--mind cannot picture a more -formidable foe--a more fearful fate! Heaven save you, poor Meredith! -for man cannot. Lynched you are, and Lynched you must be by every word, -sentence and chapter, until you be dead, and may God have mercy on your -soul! - -Among other "groovy" men may be included Hall Caine (whose big -"bow-wow" style is utterly unchanged and unchangeable), W. E. -Norris, the pale, far-off, feeble imitator of Thackeray, and F. -C. Philips. This latter gentleman is evidently fast "set" in the -"groove" of naughty but interesting adventuresses. His tale of "As -in a Looking-glass" met with so much success, besides receiving the -extremely questionable honour of dramatisation, that he now indulges -in the error of imagining that all the world must for the future be -persistently eager to know the histories of a continuous succession -of conscienceless ladies like Lena Despard. One of his creations of -the kind, Margaret Byng, might be Lena's twin sister. (According to -the title-page, one P. Fendall would seem to have something to do -with Margaret Byng, but how and where it is impossible to discover.) -Adventuresses for breakfast, adventuresses for dinner, tea and -supper; adventuresses in all sorts of gowns, brand-new or shabby, and -adventuresses in all sorts of difficult situations at all sorts of -seasons--this is the "four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie" kind -of dish, which is what we must expect from Mr. Philips in the future. -This and no more, since he considers it enough. And among "groovy" men, -alas! must be reckoned one of the most delightful of writers, Bret -Harte. The "groove" he chose was at first so new and fresh that we -all felt as if we could never have enough of it; but even in excess of -love there is satiety, and such satiety is our sad experience with the -gifted author of "The Luck of Roaring Camp" and the pathetic "Outcasts -of Poker Flat." We know exactly the sort of thing he will write for us -now--and the charm is broken. - -I lay no claim to being possessed of any literary taste, so it will -matter to no one when I say I can see no beauty and no art in Mr. -Hardy's "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." It is an entirely hateful book -in my opinion. Neither can I endure Mrs. Ward's "David Grieve," and -as this lady has undoubted literary gifts, I hope she will for the -future avoid the religious "groove." It is extremely uninteresting, -and is enough to cramp any author's style. Mr. Gladstone, who "boomed" -"Robert Elsmere," apparently has nothing to say for "David Grieve," -though it seems he can admire such crude performances as "Mdlle. Ixe" -and "Some Emotions and a Moral." But it would never do for us to go by -the taste of the Grand Old Man in these things. He is as variable as -a chameleon. He might call our attention to the splendours of Dante on -one occasion, and directly afterwards assure us that nothing could be -finer in literature than the nursery rhyme of "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, -baker's man." Dear old Gladdy! He is the greatest "leader" ever born in -his quality of _mis_leading. - -It is difficult indeed to find a writer who is not more or less -"groovy"--that is, one who will not only give us different stories, but -different "styles." And as a rule the men writers are more "groovy" -than the women, though the women are bad enough in their own particular -way. Miss Braddon, for example, is, as every one knows, the "grooviest" -of novelists going--her canvas is always prepared in the same manner, -and the same familiar figures stand out upon it in only slightly -altered attitudes. Her books always remind me of a child's marionette -theatre, having the same set of puppets, who can be placed in position -to enact over and over again the same sort of play. And it is a play -that always amuses one for an hour, when one has nothing better to do. -"Ouida," though she tells all sorts of different stories (of which her -short ones are by far the best), has no difference of style--she is -always the same old "Ouida"--and so will be to the end of her life's -chapter. There are always the same wicked, but exquisitely lovely, -ladies, to whom the marriage tie is frailer and less to be considered -than a hair, and always the same good, pure, and _therefore_ (according -to "Ouida") stupid girls who are just sixteen. There are always the -bold, bad men with "mighty chests" and "Herculean limbs," who covet -their neighbour's wives, or play havoc with the hearts of trusting -maidens--and all these things are told with a gorgeousness of colour -and picturesqueness of description that is not only brilliant, but very -marvellously poetical. "Ouida" holds a pen such as many a man has good -secret reason to envy. There are rich suggestions for both poets and -painters in many of her books--but there is no convincing portrait -of life, except in "Friendship," which was a satirical _exposé_ of -the actual lives of some very questionable and unpleasant people. Yet -"Ouida's" gift was one which might have been turned to rare account had -she studied more arduously in her earlier years; but now, across her -little garden of genius, in which all the flowers have run wild, are -written the fatal words "Too Late." - -Another very "groovy" lady novelist is Rhoda Broughton. The -not-particularly-good-looking and "loose-jointed" young man (all Miss -Broughton's heroes are "loose-jointed"--I don't know why) puts in his -appearance in all her books without fail--and there is always the same -sort of distressing hitch in the love-business. The liberties she takes -with the English language are frequently vulgar and unpardonable. -Familiarity with "slang" is no doubt delightful, but some people would -prefer a familiarity with grammar. - -A very promising creature was the fair American, Amelie Rives. I say -"was" because she is married now, and I'm afraid she will not write so -well with a "worser half" looking over her "copy." Her story, "Virginia -of Virginia," was a delicious study--quite a little work of genius in -its way--though I must own her novel, "The Quick or the Dead," was a -mere boggle of wild sentiment and scarcely-repressed sensualism. Some -critics were very hard down upon her, because she threatened to be -"original" all the time, and critics hate that sort of thing. That -is why they invariably "go" for one of our newest inflictions, Marie -Corelli, of whom it may be truly said that she has written no two -books alike, either in plot or style; and the grave _Spectator_ on -one occasion forgot itself so far as to say that her romance entitled -"Ardath" had actually beaten Beckford's renowned "Vathek" out of the -field. But all the same, with every respect for the _Spectator's_ -opinion, I, personally speaking, find her a distinctly exasperating -writer, who is neither here, there, nor anywhere--a "will-o'-the-wisp" -sort of being, of whom it is devoutly to be wished that she would -settle into a "groove," as she would be less of a trial to the (in her -case) always savage reviewer. - -Nothing is more irritating to a critic than to have to chronicle -the reckless flights of this young woman's unbridled and fantastic -imagination. She tells us about heaven and hell as if she had been to -them both, and had rather enjoyed her experiences. Valiant attempts -to "quash" her have been made, but apparently in vain, and most of my -brethren in the critical faculty consider her a positive infliction. -Why does she not take the advice tendered her by the _World_, and other -sensible journals, and retire altogether from literature? I am sure she -would be much happier "picking geranium leaves" _à la_ Becky Sharp, -with a husband and two thousand a-year. As it is, her very name is, to -the men of the press, what a red rag is to a bull. They are down upon -it instantly with a fury that is almost laughable in its violence. But -I suppose she is like the rest of her sex--obstinate, and that she -will hold on her wild career, regardless of censure. Only, as I say, I -wish she would elect a "groove" to run in, for I, among many others, -shall be relieved as well as delighted when we are all quite certain -beyond a doubt as to what sort of book we are to expect from her. At -present she is a mere vexation to any well-ordered mind. - -Poor Mrs. Henry Wood! What a wonderfully "groovy" woman _she_ was! -always writing, as one of my brother-critics has aptly remarked, "in -the style of an educated upper housemaid." And yet her books sell -largely--partly because Bentley and Son advertise them perpetually, -and partly because they "will not bring a blush to the cheek of the -Young Person." This latter reason accounts for the popularity (in the -pious provinces) of that astoundingly dull writer, Edna Lyall. Patience -almost fails me when I think of that lady's closely-printed, bulky -volumes, all about nothing. "Groove"? ye gods! I should think it _was_ -a "groove"--a religious, goody-goody "groove," out of which there is -never the smallest possibility of an escape. But perhaps one of the -circumstances that surprises me most in the fate of all the mass of -fiction produced weekly, is the curious placidity with which the public -take it up, scan it, lay it aside, and forget it instantly. Scarce one -out of all the writers writing, male and female, has a book remembered -by Mudie's supporters after a year. If any novel is still thought of -and talked of after that period, you may be sure it is not "groovy," -but that it runs in a directly contrary current to all "grooves" of -preconceived opinion--that it has something vaguely irritating about -it as well as pleasing--hence its success. But on the whole I am -not sure that I do not prefer "groovy" writers after all. There is -a comfortable certainty in their literary manÅ“uvres. They are not -going to frighten you by exploding a big fiery bomb of Imagination or -Truth (both these things are abhorrent to me) on the reader unawares. -It is really quite a weird sensation to take up the latest book by -a writer who has the reputation of being able to tell you something -different each time, because, of course, you never know what he or she -may be at. You may have your very soul racked by painful or pathetic -surprises--and why should we have our souls racked? The persistently -"original" man may take us to the brink of a hell and force us to look -down when we would rather not; he may suddenly exert all his forces to -drag our leaden minds after him up to a heaven where we are not quite -ready to go. Then, again, he may give us descriptions of human passion -such as will make us grow quite hot and anon quite cold with the most -curious feelings; what have we done that we should be afflicted with -literary ague? No; it is better, it is safer, to have our novelists -all arranged in "grooves" or "sets" ready to hand, so that we shall -know exactly where to find the chroniclers of rural stories, sporting -stories, detective stories, ghost stories, every "male and female after -their kind," each in his or her own appointed place. To get a book by -an author who is recognised as a manufacturer of "racing novels," and -find him breaking out into a strain of sublimated philosophy, would be -indeed an alarming circumstance to most readers. Oh, yes, it is better -to be "groovy"; sometimes the public get tired and throw you over, but -that sort of thing happens more frequently in restless France and Italy -than in England. Had I been "groovy" I should have been famous--at -least, so I have been told by a lady skilled in the fashionable science -of palmistry. But being unable to play the mill-horse, and go round -and round in a recognised rut, here I am--the merest un-notorious -Nobody. What a pity! I cannot but heave an involuntary sigh over my -lost opportunities. If I had only had the necessary ambition, I could -have been made a "Celebrity at Home" for one of the leading journals. -"Fancy that!" to quote from the immortal Ibsen's "Hedda Gabler." And -then--proud thought!--I should have been a Somebody. Not because I -had achieved something--oh, no, that isn't required of a "Celebrity at -Home." Not at all. In fact, the less you do nowadays the more likely -you are to become a "celebrity" of the newspapers. So that as I have -done nothing, and moreover, as I have really nothing to do, I ought, by -all modern rule and plan, to be "interviewed" as--well, let me modestly -suggest, as a "Coming" person, perhaps? Lots of fellows are "Coming," -according to the press, who never arrive. I could be advertised as one -of those, without doing much harm to anybody? Won't some one back me -up? I am fully aware of the extent of my loss in literature in having -failed to find a "groove"--but it's never too late to mend, and perhaps -I shall discover it still and settle down in it. At present I am not -anxious, because, as far as my observations on the great literary -raree-show have gone, I find the chief object of the modern Pen is to -earn Money, not Fame. Now, of money I have enough, and of fame--well! I -am a friend of Gladstone's, and that assures fame to anybody! - -FOOTNOTE: - -[1] Miss Hannah Lynch has published a "Commentary" on the works of -George Meredith. - - - - -X. - -OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT. - - -Upon my word, the crowd is very dense just here! I find it more than -difficult to elbow a passage through. And I know how dangerous it is -to jostle literary men, even by accident--they are so touchy, that no -matter how politely you apologise for the inadvertency, they never -excuse it. And there is a little obstruction yonder in the person of -the tame Elephant, who is a sort of grotesque pet of ours; he moves -slowly on account of his bulk, and he has a big palanquin on his -back in which sits the Fairy who manages him. It's quite a charming -spectacle--especially the Fairy part of it--and although there is -such a crush in this particular corner, it is pleasant to see how -good-natured some of the people are, and how kindly they allow the -Elephant to get along in spite of increasing scarcity of room, and how -they all make light of his awkward size because he is such a nice, -mild, innocent, sagacious creature. - -What am I talking about?--who am I talking about? Nothing!--nobody! I -am only making an allegory. It is not called "The Sunlight Lay Across -my Bed," but "The Elephant Walked Across my Path." So he did on one -occasion. I wasn't a bit inconvenienced by his proceedings; he thought -I was, but I wasn't. - -When they are at home the Elephant and the Fairy live together. The -Elephant has a Trunk (or Intellectual Faculty) of the utmost delicacy -and sensitiveness at the tip, and with this exquisitely formed member -he is fond of picking up Pins. The Fairy watches him with a touch of -melancholy interest in her lovely eyes; pins are certainly useful, -and he does pick them up "beautifully." No one can be more bewitching -than the Fairy; no one can be blander or more aware of his own value -than the Elephant. Conscious of weight and ponderous movement, he -nevertheless manages to preserve a suggestion of something indefinable -that is "utter." He is not without malice--note the slyness of his -eye when he is at his graceful trick of Pin-lifting. He will, it is -true, wave his trunk to and fro with a majestic gentleness that seems -harmless, but a closer inspection of him will arouse in the timorous -observer a vague sense of danger. The chances are ten to one that he -will accept the sugared biscuit (or compliment) offered to him by the -unsuspecting beholder, and then that he will incontinently seize the -unsuspecting one suddenly round the body and dash him to bits on the -flat ground of some hard journalistic matter suitable for smashing -a man. But he never forgets himself so far as to trumpet forth this -secret capability of his; the only warning the visitor ever receives as -to his possible malicious intent is the solemn twinkle of his sly green -eye. Beware that eye! it means mischief. - -As for the Fairy, it is not too much to say that she is one of the -prettiest things alive. She does not seem to stand at all in awe of -her Elephant lord. She has her own little webs to weave--silvery -webs of gossamer-discussion on politics, in which, bless her heart -for a charming little Radical, she works neither good nor harm. Her -eyes would burn a hole through many a stern old Tory's waistcoat and -make him dizzily doubtful as to what party he really belonged to for -the moment. She has the prettiest hair, all loosely curling about -her face, and she has a very low voice, so modulated as to seem to -some folks affected in its intonation. But it isn't affected; it -is a natural music, and only repulsive old spinsters with cracked -vocal cords presume to cast aspersions on its dulcet sweetness. She -dresses "æsthetically"--in all sorts of strange tints, and rich -stuffs, made in a fashion which the masculine mind must describe -as "gathered-up-anyhow"--with large and wondrous sleeves and queer -mediæval adornments--it pleases her whim so to do, and it also -pleases the Elephant, who is apt to get excited on the subject of -Colour. We all know what a red rag is to a bull--so we should not -be surprised to find an Elephant who is calmed by some colours and -enraged by others. Colour, in fact, is the only rule of life accepted -by the Elephant--better to have no morality, according to him, than -no sense of Colour. And so the Fairy robes herself in curious and -cunningly-devised hues to soothe the Elephant's nerves (Elephants -have thick hides but excessively fragile nerves, as every naturalist -will tell you); and pranks herself out like a flower of grace set -in a queen's garden. She does not talk much, this quaint Fairy, but -she looks whole histories. Her gaze is softly wistful, and often -abstracted; at certain moments her spirit seems to have gone out of her -on invisible wings, miles away from the Elephant and literary Castle, -and it is in such moments that she looks her very prettiest. To me -she is infinitely more interesting than the Elephant himself, but as -it is the Elephant whom everybody goes to see, I must try to do him -justice--if I can! - -To begin with, I know him very well, and he knows me. I have fed him -many a time and oft with the sugared compliments he likes best--and -what is really a matter worth noting he has _allowed_ me to feed him. -This is very good of him. He is not so amiable to everybody. Few -indeed are permitted the high honour of holding out a dainty morsel of -flattery to that delicately-sniffing trunk which "smells a rat" too -swiftly to be easily cajoled. But it has pleased the Elephant to take -food from my hand, though while he ate, I noticed he never stopped -winking. So that I know perfectly well who it was that lifted me up -a while ago in a journal that shall be nameless, and did his utmost -to smash me utterly by the force with which he threw me down again. -Elephants have "nasty humours" now and then--it is their nature. -But for once this particular animal found his match. He didn't hurt -me though he tried; I got up from under his very feet, and--offered -him another Compliment. He took it--gracefully; swallowed it -"beautifully"--and does not wink quite so much now. Still, his eye is -always on me--and mine on him--and we begin to understand each other. - -His prettiest trick, and the one for which he is chiefly admired, is, -as I said before, the delicate way in which he picks up Pins. Pins -that any less sensitive creature would think worthless, he instantly -perceives, selects and classes as "distinctly precious." Minute points -of discussion having to do with vague subjects which (unless we could -live on an Island of Dreams like the Laureate's Lotus-eaters) no one -has any time to waste in considering, he (the Elephant) turns over and -over and disposes of in his own peculiar fashion. He has a low estimate -of man's moral responsibilities, he thinks that if the "masses" -could only be brought to appreciate Colour as keenly as he himself -appreciates it, the world would be both happy and wise, and would have -no further need of law. He considers Nature _au naturel_ a mistake. -Nature must be refined by Art. _Ergo_, a grand waterfall would not -appeal to him, unless properly illumined by electricity, or otherwise -got up for effect. He himself is got up for effect--if he were not, -according to his own showing, he would be hideous. An Elephant of -the jungle is unlovely, but an Elephant in civilian attire, decently -housed, with a Fairy to look after him and preside over his meals, is a -very different animal. Art has refined him. Nature has nothing more to -do with him. - -Sometimes the Elephant ruminates. Pins cease to interest him, and with -coiled-up trunk (_i.e._, Intellectual Faculty), and heavy limbs at -rest, he shuts his blinking emerald eyes to outer things, and thinks. -Then, rising with a mighty roar of trumpeting that blares across the -old world and the new, he tears up the ground beneath his feet, and -throws a Production--_i.e._, a novel, or a play--in the face of his -foes. And his foes momentarily shrink back from him, appalled at the -noise he makes; but anon they rise up boldly in their puny strength to -confront his ponderosity. Staves, darts, arrows and stones they get -together in haste and trembling, and, shielding themselves behind -different editor's desks, begin the wild affray. Lo, how the huge Trunk -sways and the green eyes glare! Trample the Production to pieces, ye -pigmy ruffians of reviewers, ye shall never crush what is "immortal!" -Howl, ye spitfires of the Press, ye shall never make the Elephant's -shadow diminish by one iota! For the fulminating truth of the -elephantine Production, from a literary point of view, is this: That -"as a work of art it is perfection, and perfection is what we artists -aim at." - -Thus the Elephant, with much pounding of feet, swinging of trunk, -lashing of tail, and scattering of dust in the eyes of bewildered -beholders. And truly he succeeds in attracting an infinite amount of -attention, as why should he not? He is a lordly animal; large enough to -be seen at a distance, and society pets him as it pets all creatures of -whom it is vaguely afraid. Shy, retiring souls have no chance whatever -of what is called "social success" nowadays. You must either be an -Elephant or a Gnat; you must rend or sting before society will take -any notice of you. And though critics curse the Elephant and wish he -were well out of their way, Society fondles him; and as long as he -is thus fondled, so long will he score certain victories in art and -literature. It is impossible to "quash" him, he is too big. Every one -is bound to look at him, and when he begins to move, albeit slowly, -every one is equally bound to get out of the way. - -There was once a time, however (when the Elephant was younger), in -which it seemed doubtful whether he would remain an Elephant. A -strange spell was upon him, a wizard-glow of the light that blinds -reviewers--Genius. He stood on the confines of a sort of magic -territory, wagging his delicate Trunk wistfully, and taking inquiring -sniffs at the world. He was then like one of those deeply interesting -animals we read about in the dear old fairy-books; he was waiting for -the proper person to come and cut off his head, or throw water over -him, or something, and say--"Quit thy present form and take that of -a ----" What? Well, let us say "Poet," for example. Yes, that would -have probably been the correct formula--"Quit thy present form and -take that of a Poet." And then, hey presto! he would have skipped out -of his hide, all dressed in dazzling blue and silver, a very Prince -of wit and wisdom. But the magician who could or might have worked -this change in him didn't turn up at the right moment, and so no one -would believe he was anything _but_ an Elephant at last. And when he -found that this was people's fixed opinion, and that nobody could be -persuaded to think otherwise, he showed a few very ugly humours. He -broke into the newspaper shops and went rampaging round among the pens -and the ink-pots. He knocked down a few unwary authors whom he imagined -stood in his way, and when they _were_ down, he stamped upon them. -This was not nice of him. But he ought to have known, if he had been -as wise as elephants are supposed to be, that authors, unless they -are very frail indeed, take a deal of killing before being killed. -And he might have foreseen the possibility of those trampled people -getting up and revenging themselves whenever they had the chance. His -"perfect" work was the very thing they had waited for ever so long. -And they did not spare the Elephant. Not they! They remembered the -weight of his feet on themselves, and not being able to tread on him -because he was so large and heavy and obstinate, they stuck things into -him instead. The "barbëd arrow," you know, that kind of disagreeable -small weapon that goes in deep and rankles. A whole shower of such -irritating little darts went into the Elephant--just in the delicate -fleshy places between the folds of his hide--and it was an amazing -sight to see how badly he took them. Never was such a roaring and -trumpeting heard before! In the unreasoning heat of rage he quite -forgot how matters really stood, and that he was only getting the _quid -pro quo_ he actually deserved. He never gave a thought to the authors -he had mangled and left for dead, and who had not been allowed to make -any outcry on the subject of their wounds. He had no recollection of -that Scriptural anecdote which tells how the "dry bones" came together -"bone by bone," and became a "great standing army." _His_ "dry bones" -were the poor poets and novelists he had stamped upon; indeed, not only -had he stamped upon them, but he had even filled his trunk with muddy -water, and squirted it over their seemingly lifeless remains. But the -"great army" was there, and not past fighting, and it marched straight -at and around the Elephant. On one occasion it encamped a force against -him in the _St. James's Gazette_, and alas, for the good Elephant's -vanity, he imagined he had foes there simply because he holds Radical -views. Ye gods! Who that is commonly sane, cares whether an elephant be -Radical, Whig, or Tory? Politics are the very last subject in the world -I should consult an Elephant about. The mere idea of such a thing is -enough to make a certain _St. James's Gazette_ reviewer I wot of, split -his sides with laughter in the evil secrecy of his literary den. - -As I hinted before, the Elephant while on the rampage in the -newspaper-shops once chanced on my humble self, sitting back in an -unobtrusive corner. One would have thought that to a lordly animal of -such a size, I might have seemed too microscopic to be noticed, but -not a bit of it. He "went" for me, with a good deal of unnecessary -vigour--a total waste of power on his part, I considered; however, -that was his look-out, not mine. He didn't know who I was then, and -he doesn't quite know now, though I believe if I threw off my domino -and showed him my features he would take to his old tricks again in -a minute. But I don't want to irritate him, because he is really a -good creature; I would much rather pet him than goad him. He can be -cruel, but he can also be kind, and it is in the latter mood that -everybody likes him and wants to give him sugar-candy. Moreover, as -Elephant he is the living Emblem of Wisdom--a sacred being; and, if one -is of an Eastern turn of mind, worthy of worship--and I never heard -of any one yet who would venture to cast a doubt on his sagacity. -He is wonderfully knowing; his opinion on some things is always -worth having, and when he picks up Pins his movements are graceful -and always worth watching. Moreover, one never gets tired of looking -at the lovely Fairy who guards and guides him. We could not spare -either of the twain from our midst--they form a picture "full of -Colour." When we view that picture the "moral sense" of Colour enters -into us--we feel twice born and twice alive. See how graceful is the -_cortége_! how quaint and pretty and Oriental! Through the eye-holes -of my domino I gaze admiringly upon the group--it makes a bright -reflection on the "tablets of my memory." Move on, gentle Elephant! -Move on! As slowly as you like, and at your own pleasure. Only don't -try to "smash" me any more--it's useless. I am formed of that hard -"virile" composition of literary ware "guaranteed unsmashable"--I am -neither glass nor porcelain. Have another biscuit? Another _bon-bon_ -of sugared praise? Well, then, you are a poet in disguise--a genius, -wrapped up and sealed down under a hopeless weight of circumstances. -I know your buried qualities well, and had some brave person cut off -your head--_i.e._ your Self-Esteem (as I previously suggested)--years -ago, we might have had a Prince, nay, even a King, among us. Yet on the -whole I think you are happy in your condition. The _dolce far niente_ -suits you very well, and the bovine repose of an almost Buddhistic -meditation entirely agrees with your constitution, while as long as -life lasts you may be sure you shall never lack Pins. Pass, good -Elephant! I salute you profoundly, and with a still more profound -reverence I kiss the hands of the Fairy! - - - - -XI. - -THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM. - - -Elephants and Fairies suggest the "Arabian Nights." The "Arabian -Nights" suggest, in their turn, the East, and the East suggests--ah! -what does the East not suggest? A. P. Sinnett with his eyeglass? -a vision of "Koot-Hoomi?" pretty Mrs. Besant, once atheist, now -theosophist? or the marvellous fat (now dematerialised) of the -marvellous Blavatsky? More, far more than these things! The very idea -of the East causes me to stand still where I am, in a corner among -all the literary folk, and "dream." The mood grows upon me; I am in -the humour for "dreams." I feel metaphysical; don't listen to me; -the fit will pass by and by. Nay, it _is_ passing, and I feel pious -instead--very pious; and I shall probably get blasphemous directly. -From piety to blasphemy is but a step; from the prayer of Moses to his -professing to see the Deity's "back parts" was but the hair's-breadth -of a line in Holy Writ. And as I find everything in a very bad state, -and as I think everybody wants reforming, I am going to tell a little -story. It is a beautiful little story, and if you ask the _Athenæum_ -about it, it will tell you that it is "like a picture by Watts"; that -"it has had no forerunners in literature and probably will have no -successors." So you must pay great attention to it, and you must think -it over for a long time. It requires thinking over for a long time, -because it is a Parable. The best people, and especially those who want -to "tickle the ears" of the _Pall Mall_ groundlings, are all going to -talk and live and write in Parables for the future. So listen! - - - "There was once a woman in South Africa. - She saw the sunlight lie across her bed. - When there is a window and no blind to it, the sunlight has a - way of pouring in, - And of falling in the direction which is most natural to itself. - - * * * * * - - The sunlight did not move, - So the woman covered her eyes. - And sleep came upon the woman and she dreamed. - - * * * * * - - Now in her dream the woman saw a hole. - It was a round hole, and it was red inside and very deep - And the woman looked down at the hole and said--'What hole is - this?' - And a loud voice answered her, saying-- - 'That hole is Hell!' - And the woman looked up, and, lo! there was God laughing at her. - - * * * * * - - And the woman looked down again at the hole, and saw how red it was - and how very deep. - And she knelt down, with both arms leaning on the brink of the - hole. - And she said to God: 'I like this place.' - And God answered: 'Ay, dost thou so?' - And God laughed again. - And the woman said again: 'I like this place. It seems warm.' - And God said: 'Ay, it _is_ warm.' - And the woman said: 'I think I will go in thither.' - And God said: 'Ay, go by all means!' - And the woman went. - - * * * * * - - The hole was very wide and red and deep. - And the woman had plenty of space to slide down. - She slid; and the hole got wider and redder and deeper, but still - she slid on. - And presently she caught a creature by the hair. - And she said to the creature: 'Who art thou?' - And the creature answered: 'I am X. Y. Z. of the _Athenæum_, - Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane. - And the woman said: 'Good, I like thee. Give me thy hand, and we - will go together.' - And the creature went with the woman. - - * * * * * - - The hole grew deeper, and it began to be more hot than warm. - And further on the woman saw another creature saying mock prayers. - And the woman asked: 'To whom dost thou say mock prayers?' - And the creature said: 'To God up there. I want him not to - laugh at me.' - Then the woman said: 'Who art thou that God should laugh?' - And the creature writhed, and answered: 'I am the religious Spirit - of the _Pall Mall_, abiding in the street called Northumberland, - off Strand.' - And the woman said again: 'And doth God laugh at thee?' - And the creature answered: 'Ay, he laugheth sore.' - And the woman said: 'Nay, he shall not laugh. I will tell him - to protect thee. Come with me.' - And the creature ceased praying mock prayers, and followed the - woman. - - * * * * * - - And presently the woman from South Africa grew weary. - She desired to get out of the hole. - And she called aloud to God: 'I wish to leave Hell.' - And God said: 'Leave it then.' - And she left it. - - * * * * * - - Outside the sun was shining. - There was no hole anywhere to be seen. - And the woman looked up, and lo! there was God laughing at her. - Then said the woman: 'There is no hole.' - And God gaily answered, 'No.' - Then the woman asked: 'Where is Hell?' - And God, very much amused, replied: 'I haven't the least idea!' - And the woman smiled right joyously, and said: 'I have had bad - Dreams.' - And God said: 'You have!' - - * * * * * - - The sunlight lay across the bed of the woman from South Africa. - She woke, and thought of the deep red hole she had seen. - And she reflected on her strange meeting with X. Y. Z. of the - _Athenæum_, and the 'Religious Spirit' of the _Pall Mall_. - And she also thought what a playful and hilarious personage God - was. - Then she remembered she had had late supper the previous evening. - Which accounted for 'Dreams.' - - * * * * * - - The sunlight still lies now and then across the bed of the woman - from South Africa. - It is a way the sunlight has. - And God laughs, as well He may." - - -Now I hope everybody sees what a "touching simplicity" there is, what -a child-like familiarity with the Deity pervades the whole of this -"prose poem." And yet there is a "subtlety," a candour, a strange -melancholy, a curious cynicism, and a weirdness of conception and -strong picturesqueness about its every line. It is unique in itself; it -wants no explanation, because it says everything in the fewest words. -It has a diction as innocent and unadorned as that of an infant's -first spelling-book. And all the best critics I know want authors -to let "brevity be the soul of wit," and to tell their stories as -concisely as possible. If I were a novel-maker and wished to please -the critics, I should write my "thrillers" in telegram form; twelve or -twenty-four words to a chapter. Then I am sure I should get very well -reviewed. Critics have no time to read any thoroughly finished and -careful work--they seldom can do more than scan the first page and the -last. I know this, being a Critic myself, and I think it is a thousand -pities authors should take any trouble to write a middle part to their -stories. An Ollendorf curtness of wording is always desirable, unless, -indeed, one happens to be a George Meredith, and can manage to get -cleverly involved in a long sentence which takes time to decipher, and -when deciphered has literally no meaning at all. Then of course one is -a genius at once; but such masterly art is rare. And so on the whole I -like the "allegory" style best, because it is both brief and obscure -at the same time. It has the surface appearance of simplicity, but its -depth--ah! it is surprising to what a depth you can go in an allegory. -You can fall down a regular well of thought and go fast asleep at -the bottom, and when you wake up you wonder what it was all about, -and you have to begin that allegory over again. That is what I call -"reading"--hard reading--sensible reading. I like a thing you can never -make head or tail of--the brain fattens on such provender. I am going -to write out several dozen "Dreams" by and by--some of the queer ones I -have had after a bout of champagne, for example--and I shall give them -_gratis_ to the _Pall Mall_ with my fondest blessing. If there is "one -bright particular star" in the sphere of journalism I worship more than -another it is the _Pall Mall_, and I feel I can never do too much for -it. And it likes "dreams" and little innocent religious allegories, -because it is so good itself, and, like the boy Washington, has "never -told a lie." I have always considered that the _Pall Mall_ and the -German Kaiser are the only two earthly institutions "God" can favour, -seeing that, according to the lady from South Africa, He has taken -to "laughing" at most things. It is a pleasant picture, that of God -laughing--one, too, not to be found in all the Bible. There the Deity -has been represented as angry, jealous, reproachful, or benignant, but -it has been left to South African literary skill to show us how He -"laughed." And as the _Pall Mall_ thinks it all right that He _should_ -laugh, why then we ought to coincide unanimously in the _Pall Mall's_ -opinion. Because just imagine what London would be without the _Pall -Mall_! Can mind conceive a more hideous desert?--a more wildly howling -desolation? We should be left friendless and all unguided without our -angel of reform; our clean, white-winged, heavenly, truthful Apostle -of Northumberland Street, who is always able to tell us what is good -and what is bad; who can inform us all, statesmen, clerics, authors, -artists, and day-labourers, exactly what we ought and what we ought -not to do. In the event of another Deluge (and some of the scientists -assure us we shall have it soon) I know of a way in which some few of -us might be saved; that is, some few with whom "God" is delighted, -such as myself and the German Kaiser. We should simply require to make -friends with the _Pall Mall_ staff, (several of the members are ladies, -and how charming to have their society!), and build an ark out of -planks from the _Pall Mall_ office floors. We should then paste it all -over with _Pall Mall_ placards of the latest accounts of the Flood up -to date of sailing, for the fishes to read, and then we should get into -it; we who were the elected ones (including the Kaiser of course), and -off we would go in smiling safety, secure from winds and waves, being -the only "just people" left on a corrupted earth. And if in the end we -found another Mount Ararat, and it were left to the governing body, -_i.e._, the _Pall Mall_ staff and the German Kaiser, to begin a new -world ... O ye gods and little fishes! What a world it would be! - - - - -XII. - -QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. - - -Standing still too long is rather monotonous work. How Socrates could -have managed to remain a whole night on his feet in meditation is one -of those strange historical circumstances that have always puzzled me. -Now here have I been only a few minutes at rest; only dreaming one -little "dream" of how I, together with the Kaiser and the _Pall Mall_, -am going to set to work in the general renovation and improvement of -mankind, and yet I am as tired and bored and disposed to yawn as any -of the gaping people in the crowd who have stopped a second to listen -to me. Let me pass on, good folk!--I will e'en resume my indolent, -aimless way, for truly there are many things to be seen both wise and -wonderful, which even a strolling player would not miss. Only I will, -with everybody's good leave, avoid that black and stagnant quagmire -of literary matter that stretches its unseemly length across the -social arena. 'Tis a veritable mud-trap, a dismal Slough of Despond, -into which I once fell heedlessly, all through the force of example. -I saw others (some of whom I respected) making for the Slough, and I -followed. When my friends ran to it straight and tumbled in, I did -likewise, and wallowed in the mud with those who were near and dear -to me. I stayed there heroically till I was nearly suffocated, then, -unable to bear it any longer, I made a strong effort and scrambled out, -melancholy and depressed, but--free. Free, and wise enough not to be -cajoled into those black depths again. You see I have not yet shaken -off my allegorical humour, and I am just now speaking allegorically. -For the benefit of those who are slow to perceive the "subtle" meaning -of an allegory I do not mind condescending to explain that by the -Slough of Despond I mean the great, sticky, woful, heterogeneous -mass of Magazine Literature. What is the use of it? Why is it with -us? Who wants such productions as the magazines of England, when the -magazines of America can be had? Americans know how to make their -magazines interesting; Englishmen do not. I beg some one who is well -instructed in these matters to tell me where I can find the abnormal -beings who derive any real intellectual benefit from the ponderous -pages of the _Nineteenth Century_, for example? Little Knowles sits in -his editorial chair even as an angler sits by a stream, assiduously -fishing for names and nothing more. He allows Gladstone to write -the purest nonsense about "Dante at Oxford," simply because he _is_ -Gladstone. He takes poorly-written articles on public questions from -lords and dukes simply because they _are_ lords and dukes. Genius -weighs as nothing with him--titles and passing notorieties that "draw" -are everything. Then we have the _Contemporary_, the _Fortnightly_, the -_New Review_, the _Quarterly_, all on the same "deadly lively" level. -The _Quarterly_ still boasts of its bygone villainous attack on Keats, -for not so very long ago it said that it considered that in-"famous" -criticism perfectly justifiable. Satisfied with itself in this regard, -it praises Hall Caine! O gods of Olympus! There is also the venerable -_Blackwood_, of whose mild chimney-corner prattle it were cruel to -take serious observation. And there is _Temple Bar_, _The Argosy_, -_London Society_, _Belgravia_, and hosts of mild imitations of these; -yet taken altogether the magazines published in London do not give in -their entirety half as much satisfaction or well-written information -to the reader as the American _Century_ magazine, or _Harper's_. This -fact helps to emphasize the general "behindhand" tendency of literary -things in Great Britain, as compared to those same things in America. -Even the children's magazines in the "States" are interesting, and -full of concise, simple, pleasantly-worded knowledge, but here, if -you want pure, undiluted literary drivel, buy a child's magazine. -However, it must be remembered that Americans generally, young and -old, like to acquire information; perhaps they feel they do not yet -know everything. The English, on the contrary, have a rooted aversion -to being instructed, inasmuch as every true-born Britisher considers -himself about equal to the Deity in omniscience. - -Most of us, I suppose, have heard of Charles Dickens and his immortal -novels, the most wholesome, humane, sympathetic, and heart-invigorating -books that ever, by happy fortune, were given to the public. And I -daresay we remember in "Little Dorrit" the lively young man connected -with the "Circumlocution Office," who very strenuously objected to the -existence of people who "wanted to know, you know." Now I am one of -those people. I want to know, you know, why we should have about us -all these little marshy literary mud-pools which make up the British -magazine Slough of Despond. I want those curiously-minded beings who -read (and buy) the magazines, and follow all the dreadful "serials" -therein, to "stand forth and deliver." I want to know, you know, -how they manage to do it? Whether they feel good after it? Whether -they ever read anything else? And what opinions they have formed on -literature by this means? Whether they accept the verse in _Temple -Bar_, for example, as actual poetry? Or the short stories and articles -as samples of good terse English style? Whether they find their -brains developing under the fine humour of _Belgravia_? Whether their -intellectual faculties are roused by a study of _The Strand Magazine_ -(which began well, but is now as monotonous as the rest) or _The -English Illustrated_? I want to know, you know. Who laugheth at _The -Idler_? Who rejoiceth in _Macmillan's_? And who on God's good earth -can stand _The Novel Review_? What happy saints peruse _The Leisure -Hour_?--what angels sit down to con the pages of _Cassell's Family -Magazine_? Who bothereth himself with _The Bookman_? Who conceiveth -it agreeable to read _Longman's_ or _The Gentleman's Magazine_? -There must be people who do these things; and, certainly, by a wild -stretch of imagination, I can picture a fat mamma glancing casually at -_Belgravia_, the while she watches her eldest girl's flirtation with -a "moneyed" suitor out of the corner of her eye; I can also deem it -possible that a paunchy paterfamilias might cut the pages of _Temple -Bar_ and hand it in as a delicate attention to his children's governess -in the schoolroom. But further than this I cannot go. It may be that -the magazines exist for the domestic circle only--the English domestic -circle, of course. For other countries' domestic circles they would not -serve. I think all those interesting females who are understood to be -"good mothers," ladies with high maternal foreheads and small chins, -very likely read the magazines. They do not want to study, they do -not want to learn, they never require to read anything but the tamest -stuff, just to pass away an hour between lunch and afternoon-tea. These -are the only individuals I can connect with magazine literature. But, -of course, I may be wrong. There may be intellectual persons who accept -the varied utterances of the _Nineteenth Century_ and _Fortnightly_ as -gospel. I can understand any one liking the _Review of Reviews_. That -serves a purpose, and is admirably done. Apart from its adoration of -the _Pall Mall Gazette_, it is really an excellently managed concern. -That and the _Century_ suffice me--the American _Century_ I mean, not -the Nineteenth Century, which will hardly enter the Twentieth. Quite -recently, one Edward Delille severely slated the American press and -American literature generally, with the hysterical passion of those -lady-writers who, to use reviewer's parlance, "let down their back hair -and scream." Rather unkind of Edward, considering that rumour asserts -him to be American himself. A man should stick up for his own country -or get re-nationalised. Does Delille find English magazine literature -superior to that of America? If he does, he deserves his fate! Let him -wallow, as I did, in the Slough of Despond, till he groweth weary, and -when he crieth, "Help! release me!" let no one answer. For the Slough -is the ruin of all originally-minded men; and any novelist who writes -magazine serials is simply committing literary suicide. His name grows -stale to the public ear, his stories lose point, his style lacks proper -warmth, and his very thoughts grow crippled. In a work of true art the -creator should be free as air and answerable to none, not even to that -Olympian god, a magazine editor. - -But because I now avoid the Slough of Despond I do not want others -to avoid it. On the contrary, I love to see a certain class of folk -stuck in the mud. I feel they could not be in a better plight, and -I enjoy the spectacle. Moreover, "by their magazines ye shall know -them." Their conversation, their ideas, their opinions, all are -taken out of the magazines. This is beautiful and edifying. The lady -who talks _Temple Bar_ has naturally a calmer view of life than the -gentleman who talks _Nineteenth Century_. The sweet thing who murmurs -_Chambers's Journal_ is not so worldly-wise as her friend who utters -_New Review_. The man at the club who converses _Quarterly_ may or may -not agree with him who pronounceth _Contemporary_. And so on. It is -like the Baths of Leuk, where every mud-bather has, if he likes, his -own private floating-table, with writing materials and cup of coffee. -But the mud is everywhere all the same, and every man is stuck in it -like a sort of civilised tadpole. And what is always a mystery to me -is how so many magazines manage to "pay." For of course they must pay, -or else they would not be kept going. However, there are various such -social mysteries, which not even the most astute person can fathom. -And I am not astute. I simply "notice" things. As for attempting to -take any sort of correct measure of the fancies and "fads" of the -British Public, that is impossible. Such humours are more "occult" -than theosophy itself. Frenchmen cannot understand "Madame Grundée." -Neither can I. She is always an incomprehensible old lady at the best -of times, but when she takes to reading all the magazines and liking -the literature therein contained, she becomes a spectacled Sphinx, -the riddle of whose social existence is not worth the solving. And in -its bovine tolerance of such an excess of stupid ephemeral literary -matter Great Britain proves for the millionth time how _un_-literary -and inartistic it is as a nation. But I am not going to be angry about -it. I always laugh at these things. They do not affect me personally, -as I am out of them. And I must never forget that I have reason to be -grateful to at least one magazine out of the mass--_The Fortnightly_. -It was lent to me by a friend as a cure for insomnia. It succeeded -perfectly. Three pages of a long political article sufficed; a gentle -drowsiness stole over me, a misty vagueness possessed my brain, and -I, who had been restless for many nights, now under the somnolent -spell of excellent Frank Harris, slept the sleep of the just. Others -have derived the same benefit by the same means, so I am told, -wherefore Harris is a benefactor to his kind. His magazine is the -one little oasis in the Slough where tired folks may find rest, if -not refreshment, and people who want a peaceful nap should go there -straight. As for me, I am out of the Slough altogether--I merely stand -near the brink and look on. And my observations are addressed to -nobody. I soliloquise for my own pleasure, like Hamlet, and, with that -psychological Dane, may assure everybody who is concerned about me that -"I am only mad nor-nor-east; when the wind blows southerly I know a -hawk from a heron-shaw." - - - - -XIII. - -DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER. - - -The pious publisher is a man who always says "God bless you!" to the -author he is cheating. "God bless you!" is easily said, sounds well, -and costs nothing, all of which is important. The more "profit" the -pious publisher can make out of the individual he blesses, the more -fervent is his benediction. Now, it is not pleasant to have to mistrust -a blessing, and yet, out of the vague interest I have always taken -in all human imps born of the ink-pot, I would advise them not to -bow with too much childlike humility and confidence to the blessing -of the pious publisher. If it is a particularly earnest and friendly -benediction,--well! it might be advisable to see how "royalties" -are getting on. The pious publisher does not bless you for nothing, -depend upon it. You are not his relative; he has no cause to love you -or ask the Almighty to look after you, unless he is making a "good -thing" out of you, in which case he is grateful, after a peculiar -manner of his own. Perhaps he feels he can order a few dozen extra -old brands of port; perhaps, too, he will find it possible to have -a certain improvement carried out in his dwelling which he has long -meditated, all through you--you, a successful author whose books have -had an extra large sale unknown to yourself. And, naturally, he looks -at you with a moist and kindly eye; his heart swells paternally, and -the blessing rises to his lips almost involuntarily. He surveys with -gentle complacency the modest arrangements of your house--the tact -by which worn-out furniture is concealed by "art" antimacassars, -the efforts to "make both ends meet" which are proudly visible in -every room, and he grows blander and blander. He admires the "art" -coverings--he admires the furniture--he admires everything. He does -not mind lunching with you--oh, not at all. And while at luncheon he -advises you, patronisingly, sagely, as to how you should write your -next book. You have your own ideas--yes, yes, that is right, that is -very good! it is proper for you to have your own ideas, but it is -also advisable for you to bring those ideas into keeping with the -ordinary public taste. Ordinary, mark you! not extraordinary. There -are certain subjects you should try to avoid, as being unpleasing to -the mind of the respectable middle classes. For example, new notions -with regard to religion are dangerous! yes, yes, dangerous and doubtful -too--doubtful as regards a "sale." Then, bigamy is not a pleasant -subject. It would cause eruptions to break out on the cheek of the -Young Person, and it would not secure any chance as a "gift-book." -Then, a murder is a painful thing!--exceedingly painful--you must -leave out murder. And, for Heaven's sake, do not enter into any -question of suicide--it is a morbid taste, and a book dealing with it -in any powerful or striking manner would be quite tabooed from the -middle-class family circle, especially in the provinces. A forgery -might be introduced, if the forger turned out to be a manly hero in the -end and properly repentant--and a little (the pious publisher would say -"a leetle") illicit love would not be objectionable--in fact, it might -be made highly saleable if a curate and a housemaid were the guilty -parties, and there were a child born who turned out to be the heir to -five millions, and the erring curate set things right in the usual -thirty-one-and-sixpenny way. But nothing should be drawn too strong; -you understand? no luscious colouring of any sort--keep the imagination -well in check--tint the canvas grey--and make the book one that will be -bought by stout, moral-minded parents, for slim, no-minded young women, -and it is sure of a sale--sure! And thus the pious publisher pleasantly -adviseth, the while the heart of the listening author sinks lower -and lower, and his soul sickens, gasping for the strong, broad eagle -freedom of flight, which while he works for a pious publisher never -will be his. - -It is a curious fact, but the pious publisher apparently possesses a -very naïve, innocent, and undefiled nature. He does not know the world -at all, or if he does, he has no idea of its wickedness. When he is -told of some dreadful social scandal he does not believe it--dear, dear -no! he cannot believe it. He is a round, paunchy man, is the pious -publisher, bald-headed, clean-shaven, with an eminently respectable -expression of countenance, and an ostentatious assertion of honesty in -the very set of his clothes. He has a soft voice and a conciliating -smile, and he gets on best with women authors. He tells them first how -well they are looking--his next step is to call them "my dear." They -are frequently much touched by this, and in the yielding softness of -their hearts, forget to nail him down to "terms." Even the fiercest, -ugliest "blue-stocking" that ever lived is conscious of a nervous quiver -through the iron fibres of her soul, when the fat, unctuous, kindly, -pious publisher, unawed by her stem features, says "My dear." There is -a delicate something in his tone which pleasantly persuades her that, -after all, it is possible she may be good-looking. Unconsciously she -relaxes in severity, and he drives his bargain home with such sweet -firmness as to entirely succeed in having his own way--a way which, -whether it lead to advantage or loss, she, poor "blue," is generally -too weak to dispute. "My dear" is a phrase that will not work on the -minds of men authors of course, so the pious publisher, when he has -to do with the "virile" sex, substitutes "My boy!" and accompanies -this epithet with a hearty, encouraging clap on the shoulder. When -the author in question is too old and frail (as well as too reduced -to misery by the machinations of pious publishers) to be impressed by -this jovial "My boy!" the pious publisher is not at a loss. No! He then -says "My dear fellow," in gentle, serious, sympathetic accents. This -frequently produces a good effect. It is indeed remarkable what an -impression these meaningless, apparently kindly, short phrases have on -the weary minds of authors when uttered by the pious publisher. It is -ridiculous in a way, but pitiful too. No consciousness of intellectual -supremacy will ever eradicate from the human heart the craving for -human sympathy, and the biggest author that ever wielded potent pen has -no proof-armour against the simple magic of a kindly word. And tired -out with long thinking and labour, it may be that sometimes the pious -publisher's "dear fellow" hits a sensitive little place in the author's -complex mechanism, somewhere about where the tears are (if any author -is permitted to have tears), and he becomes dimly soothed by the simple -phrase, so soothed as to actually fancy he has found--a friend! And in -the little "arrangement" made for his work the pious publisher scores -again--heavily, as usual. - -Needless to say the pious publisher is an exceedingly shrewd business -man. His piety distinctly "pays." His "God bless you!" has saved him -many an extra twenty or fifty pounds; his "my dear" and "dear fellow" -have helped to make suspicious novelists accept without a murmur his -statements of their royalties. He knows all this perfectly well. He -reads all the poor, pitiful, yet beautiful human weakness of men and -women thoroughly, and makes his capital out of it while he can. God, -we are told, compassionates human weakness; the pious publisher lives -by it. He uses the sad little vanities of the would-be "genius" as so -many channels of speculation. He has an agreeable way of reminding the -very small writer of the gloriously self-denying manner in which the -very great writers managed to exist--those writers of old historic time -who served Art for Art's sake, and were content to live upon a crust -of bread for the sake of future glory. That noble Crust! The pious -publisher wishes all authors would live upon it. "My dear boy," he -says, "it is the modern thirst of gold that kills Art. Now you are a -true 'artist.'" (Here probably the small writer thus addressed cannot -restrain a nervous wriggle of satisfaction.) "Yes, yes! a true artist! -I can see that at a glance. To you money weighs as nothing compared -with high ambition and attainment." (The small writer is perhaps not -quite sure about this, still he is unable to look stern, so he smiles -feebly.) "To grind out literature for the mere sake of accumulating -cash would be distasteful to a man of your lofty spirit. You were made -for better things. The notorieties of the day who allow themselves to -be paragraphed and 'boomed' and all the rest of it, and command for the -moment large sales, are really mere ephemera. Now, my dear boy, let -me advise you not to hamper your evident genius by over-anxiety about -money. Do your work, the great work that is in you to do; and if the -rewards come slowly, never mind! in your old age you will look back -to these days of effort as the sweetest of your life! Yes!" and the -pious publisher's eyes moisten at his own eloquence, "in the sunset of -your career, when you have made an assured name, and, let us hope, an -assured fortune also, you will remember this time of grand struggle -and endeavour! God bless you!" - -The benediction is here uttered abruptly, as if the pious publisher -couldn't help it. It bursts from his manly bosom like a bomb-shell. -His pent-up emotion finds vent in it; his swelling liberality of -disposition is relieved by it. Meanwhile, the small author sits silent, -curiously disconcerted, and uncomfortably conscious that his face wears -a somewhat foolish expression. He doesn't want to look foolish, but -he knows he does. He is aware that the pious publisher has flattered -him, but somehow he does not like to admit that the flattery is more -than kindly and judicious praise. But, all the same, he ponders in a -dismal sort of way on those phrases "in your old age" and "the sunset -of your career." What! Is he, then, not to experience any of the joys -or luxuries of life till he is such a doddering old idiot as to be -only fit to jabber "reminiscences"? Is he to have no rest or physical -comfort in existence till his strength fails and his mental faculties -decay? Is his fortune only to be "assured" at a time when his chief -needs are a bed, an armchair, and a basin of gruel or "infant's food"? -The pious publisher implies as much. It is strange, and perhaps -wickedly ungrateful of the poor small author, but he does not care -about the "sunset" prospect in the least. He would rather be happy and -well fed while it is full day. And for the life of him he cannot help -thinking how very excellently the pious publisher himself is housed. -Pictures, books, statuary, horses--even a yacht--all these things have -come to the pious publisher long before "sunset." And yet what can he, -the poor small author, do? Nothing. He must consider himself lucky if -he gets his work accepted on any terms. He can't afford to be his own -publisher (not because of the expenses incurred in actually printing -and binding, for these are slight), but because he would be considered -an intruder and would have all the "publishers' rings" against him; and -not only the publishers' rings, but the Circulating Library Ring and -the Bookstall Ring; for England is a "free" country, and as a first -consequence of its glorious liberty, every one that does honest work -and seeks honest pay for the same, is the veriest slave that ever wore -chains and manacles. - -There are many publishers, of course, who are not pious, and these -are generally among the most honest of their class. They do not -pretend to be anything but tradesmen, with an eye to business, and no -taste whatever for literature _as_ literature. They would as soon be -cheesemongers if the book-trade failed. They affect nothing; they are -brusque, commonplace men, and they often play a losing game by their -lack of proper urbanity. The pious publisher never loses a farthing. -He is always lining and re-lining his nest. He issues a larger number -of works by women than by men, for the reason that women are more -unbusinesslike than their lords, and more easily persuaded to accept -starvation prices. It may be said, and rightly, that women's work is -not frequently worth much, but there are, at the present time, two or -three women in literature whose success is indubitable and whose names -alone are of market value. These are they whom the pious publisher -loves to secure. The more gifted they are, the more unpractical; the -more engrossed in imaginative conception, the more unconscious of -treachery. They perhaps feel the pious publisher is even as a father -to them. He is invariably kind and courteous, and is always able -to "explain" troublesome things with the involved eloquence of a -Gladstone. Indeed, it can never be said that either to man or woman at -any time has the pious publisher been dictatorial or unfriendly. He -is too bland, too conscious of rectitude, too innocent of the world's -evil to be capable of anything but the truest Christian behaviour. If -a long-suffering author were to quarrel with him, he would only mildly -"regret the rupture of friendly terms," while quietly letting all his -particular "ring" know of the "rupture," and warning them against -having to do with the quarrelsome author in question; for the pious -publisher has no scruple in "boycotting" an author who deserts him for -a rival house. He can do so if he likes, and he frequently does like. -Did you not know this before, O ye unworldly, simple-minded Pensters? -Then know it now on the faith of a wandering truth-teller, and beware -of getting twisted in the pious publisher's silken coils. Stand firm -without yielding under his friendly shoulder-blow; turn his terms of -endearment into terms of ready cash, and if you succeed in making a -good bargain you may be sure he will _not_ say, "God bless you!" He -will probably sigh and tell you he is a poor man. This is a promising -sign for you, and you can bless _him_ if you like. But, unless you are -willing to be "done," never under any circumstances allow him to bless -_you_. Most casual benedictions are of doubtful value, but the blessing -of the pious publisher is, financially speaking, an author's damnation. -Beware it therefore; go on unblessed, and prosper! - - - - -XIV. - -OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS. - - -Stop, stop, my dear Lord Tennyson! Whither away so fast? Why turn -your back churlishly upon me?--why spoil dignity by hastening your -steps?--why hide that venerable and honoured head in a hermit's cowl -of distrust for all human kind? I am not the "ubiquitous interviewer"; -I do not want a lock of your hair or your autograph, for the autograph -I have in your own letters, and certainly you cannot spare any hair -just now. Fear me not, then, O great but crusty Poet; my silver domino -conceals the features of a friend; I will do no more than render you -distant but most absolute homage. I would not pry into your garden -solitudes at Haslemere--no, not for the '_World_.' I would not -force my way into your little kingdom at Freshwater for anything an -enterprising editor might offer me; for I love you as all England -loves you, and the utmost I can wish is that you would be friends with -both me and England. What have we done to you, my dear Lord--peer of -the realm and Peer of Poets--that you should disdain us, every one, -and take so much precaution to avoid our company? Have we not, as it -were, fallen at your feet in worship?--marked you out in our hearts and -histories as the greatest poet of the Victorian Era, and taken pride -in the splendour of your fame? Despise us not, noble Singer of sweet -idylls, for remember we have never despised _you_. In our troubles and -losses we have dropped soft tears over "In Memoriam"; in our loves -and hopes we have wandered among the woods and fields, singing in -thought the songs of "Maud" and "The Princess"; in our dreamy moods we -have pored over "The Lotus-Eaters," "The Palace of Art," "Tithonus," -or "Ænone"; in our passionate moments we have felt all the scorn -and burning sorrow pent up in "Locksley Hall." You are the divine -melodist who has set our deep-hidden English romance and sentiment -to most tenderly expressed music; we are grateful, and we have shown -our gratitude. We have given you such fond hearing as few poets ever -win; we have lodged you in fair domains, and guarded you as a precious -jewel of the realm. What can we do more to satisfy you? Is there any -grander guerdon for a poet's labour than the whole English-speaking -people's honour? And that you have; and yet you manifest a soured -discontent that sadly misfits your calling. What is it all about? You -do not want to be looked at--"stared at" is your own way of expressing -it--you do not wish to be spoken to--you desire to ignore those who -most reverence you, and you treat with ill-mannered, "touch-me-not" -disdain the very people whose faithful admiration gives you all the -good things of this life which you enjoy. Oh, petulant Poet-peer! Do -no memories of the great dead bards (greater in genius than yourself, -but less fortunate in their reward) sometimes flit like ghosts across -the horizon of your dreams? Of Chatterton, self-slain through biting -poverty; of Keats, dying before he reached his prime, while on the -very verge of the promised land of Fame; of Byron, self-exiled, his -splendid muse embittered by private woes; of Shelley, piteously drowned -before he had time to measure his own vast intellectual forces?--while -you, my good Lord, fostered by a nation's love and recognition, have -experienced no such cutting cruelties at the hand of destiny. Perhaps, -indeed, you have been too fortunate, and continuous prosperity has made -you careless and over-easily satisfied with the lightest trifle of -verse that suggests itself to your fancy. But if you are careless, you -need not be crusty. The British Public has been likened unto an Ass by -many, but to my thinking it is more like a dog--an honest, good-natured -dog who never bites except under the severest and most repeated -provocation. As a dog it has fawned at your footstool, looked up in -your eyes affectionately and wagged its tail persistently--have you no -other response to such fidelity save a kick or a blow? Oh, fie on such -ill-humour--such uncalled-for cantankerousness! Why should you seek -to be "protected" from those who would fain do you honour? We should -all like to see you sometimes, in society, at theatre or opera, at -flower-show and harmless festival; we should like to say to one another -on beholding you, "There is our Laureate--our grand old Tennyson, one -of the glories of England!" We should not harm you by our affection. We -have no design upon your life, save to pray that it may be guarded and -prolonged. Believe me, it would be far more natural, and, let me add, -more Christian (for I knew by your noble lines "Across the Bar" that -you have not smirched your white flag of song with the ugly blot of -atheism) if you could persuade the world to understand that a journey -or a sea-voyage in the company of England's Laureate, were it possible -to devise such an out-of-the-way form of pleasure, would be one of the -most cheery, prosperous, and ideal trips ever made; that the heart of -the great poet-thinker was so expansive and warm, that even the tiny, -toddling children adored him; that his sympathy was so vast that the -poorest and most unhappy scribbler alive was sure to have a genial -word from the "singing lips that speak no guile"--in brief, that every -soul on board the good ship sailing sunwards, must needs be better, -happier, wiser, and more full of the milk of human kindness for those -few days passed in the near presence of the golden-voiced Minstrel of -the legended Arthur's court. Why, good my Lord Alfred, should you, of -all people in the world, preach and not practise? You, whose majestic -figure seems already receding from us through the opening portals of -the Unknown--why should you not stretch out hands of benediction on us -ere you go? You are leaving us for other lands, dear Poet, and we all -stand gazing after you sorrowfully, waving "farewell!" while the fond -and foolish women we love, waft you kisses amid their tears; praise and -thanks and blessings to the last from us, my Lord--and will you give us -nothing better at parting than a frown? Of a truth there are countless -worlds in the universe beside this one; only we cannot follow you where -you are going, and so we know not whether you may find a kingdom in -the stars better than Shakespeare's England. But whatsoever is deemed -the highest reward among high Immortals, that reward we desire may be -yours; for all the happiness which pure thoughts, sweet music, and -tender song can give, you have given to the little country you are soon -to see the last of. The end is not yet indeed, but it is nigh. - -It is not the people, my Lord, the people on whom you have bestowed -the life-long fruits of your genius, who are to blame for the grossly -ill-judged and indelicate speculations that have lately been rife as -to who shall occupy your throne and wear your crown, when you shall -have resigned both for larger labours. It is the Press, with which the -people have really nothing to do. And as to the Laureateship, I, like -every one else, have my ideas, not of putting in a claim for the post, -(though I could, at a push, write blank verse, quite as prettily and -inanely as Lewis Morris), but of making it of wider application. After -yourself I consider that no one should be permitted to hold it as you -have done for an entire lifetime. It should be given to the deserving -bard for five or seven years, no longer; and at each expiration of the -appointed period there should be a brisk competition for the right -of succession. Such an arrangement would give a great impetus to -literature generally, and the recurring competitions would waken up -society to a sense of artistic feeling and excitement. Moreover, to -keep pace with the demands of the time, when the people are supposed to -be worthy of having a voice in everything, the election of England's -Laureate should be voted for by England's Public, and not left to the -decision of a Clique. Cliquism would put an end to all possibility of -fair play or justice, as it always does. To keep this public judgment -up to a certain intellectual standard, every householder paying rent -and taxes amounting together to not less than £200 per annum, should -have a vote; and, because women are frequently the best readers and -judges of poetry, one woman in every such household should also be -entitled to a vote. The result of the plan would be that by degrees -society would become interested in Poetry, which by tradition and -heritage is distinctly the first of the Fine Arts--and would take pains -to understand it, by which piece of additional education nothing would -be lost to civilisation, but rather much might be gained in gentleness, -quick perception, and fine feeling. It would be a safer and more -respectable line of study at any rate than turf speculations. But, like -all good ideas, it will, I suppose, have no chance of acceptance, in -which case, rather than see inferior men, like Morris or Edwin Arnold, -in the position which you, my Lord, have so greatly dignified, I would -say with others whom I know, "Abolish the post, and let Tennyson be -our last Laureate." For there is no one fitted to occupy it after -you, unless it be some singer unknown to the Log-rolling community. -Therefore, it would be best for England, in losing you, to also lose -the very name of Laureate, save as a noble and unsullied memory. - -You see how truly my devotion turns towards you, my dear Lord, though -you will have none of it, nor of any such "outside vulgar" sympathy. -A recent letter of yours to me contains the following sentence: "_I -sometimes wish I had never written a line_." Alas, good Nestor among -modern bards, has Fame brought no happier end than this? No more than -spleen and peevishness? Suppose, for sake of argument, this curious -wish of yours had been granted, and you had never "_written a line_." -Well? What of the glory of renown?--what of the peerage which descends, -a poet's mantle, on your heirs? what of the creature comforts of -Haslemere and Freshwater?--what of the good honest cash that is paid -for every airy rhyme that is blown from your imagination as lightly -as the winged pine-seed from its cone? If you had "_never written a -line_," would you have gained anything? Nay, surely you would have lost -much. Therefore, why carp and cavil in the radiant face of Fortune, -the smiling goddess who has never deserted you since the publication -of your first volume? Cheerly, cheerly, good heart! Lift up your head -and look frank kindness on the world! It is not a bad world after all, -and whatever its faults, it loves you. Let it see you at your best and -friendliest before you say "Good-bye!" - -When I was very youthful and imaginative, I used to believe implicitly -in that old fairy legend (known to Shakespeare as well as myself) which -declares that toads "ugly and venomous" have precious jewels in their -heads. And I had a special partiality for toads in consequence. I used -to assist them respectfully with a stick when they came panting out -under the leaves in hot weather in search of water, and guide them -gently towards the object of their desires. When a toad stared at me -fixedly with his peculiarly bright eyes, I felt vaguely flattered. -I had an idea that perhaps he might be intellectually capable of -making a will and leaving me his brain-jewel. Needless to say I was -disappointed; no toad ever fulfilled the hopes I had of him. But -since those green and happy days I have gained an insight into the -hidden meaning of the fable--which is, of course, that unfascinating -and personally disappointing individuals may possess the greatest -intellectual powers. Now there is one man who is distinctly inimical -to me, personally speaking, and yet I am fain to do his "brain-jewel" -justice. I allude to Algernon Charles Swinburne, whom, to meet on his -way to and from "The Pines," Putney, serves as a revelation. The first -impression one gets is of a small man with large feet, walking as if -for a wager, arms swinging hither and thither, and fingers briskly -playing imaginary tunes in the air as he goes. Then, as the eccentric -shape comes nearer, one is aware of a stubbly beard, and peeping eyes -expressive of mingled distrust and aversion; a hideous hat is clapped -down over the broad brow, which hat when lifted displays a bald expanse -of skull bearing no sort of resemblance whatever to the counterfeit -presentments of Apollo, and yet, incongruous though it seem, this -little, nervous, impatient, querulous being is no other than the author -of the "Triumph of Time," one of the finest poems in the English -language; and these twiddling restless fingers penned the majestic, -burning, beautiful "Tristram of Lyonesse," a book which, like an -imperial jewel-casket, is literally piled with gems. To look at the man -and to think of his poems at the same time is enough to make one gasp -for breath. It appears quite impossible to realise that this solitary -biped trotting full speed to Wimbledon should have written such lines -as these:-- - - - "I shall never be friends again with roses, - I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong - Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, - _As a wave of the sea turned back by song_." - - -One can, however, easily believe that he wrote of himself in the -following passage:-- - - - "_But who now on earth need care how I live?_ - Have the high gods anything left to give - Save dust and laurels and gold and sand? - Which gifts are goodly; but I will none." - - -Swinburne, like Tennyson, manifests a great abhorrence for the -society of his fellow-creatures, but his shrinking churlishness is -more accountable to the world than that of the elder bard. Tennyson's -muse is pure, refined, and ever persuasive to good; while at times -Swinburne seems possessed of a very devil of lewdness and atheism; and -lewdness and atheism are not yet openly accepted as desirable parts -of a liberal education. Of his former rank and rampant republicanism -nothing need be said; the politics of a poet are always the most absurd -and shifty part of him. And though lewdness of the pen is beginning -to be more tolerated than once it was, thanks to the importation of -such foreign trash as the "Kreutzer Sonata" and other publications of -a like free-and-easy pruriency, the love of moral filth is not yet -universal. We are dabbling in mire, but we do not willingly wallow in -it--at least, not at present. The honest British guffaw of laughter -that greets crazy old Ibsen's contemptible delineations of women, -has a jovial wholesome music in it which the caterwauling of cliques -cannot silence. And there is a strong under-current of feeling in -the peoples of nearly all countries, that whatever prose-writers may -choose to do by way of degrading themselves and their profession, poets -should draw the line somewhere. Poor paralytic old Mrs. Grundy still -pretends, in the most ridiculously senile way, to be quite shocked at -the idea of reading "Don Juan," when, as a matter of fact, she has put -on strong spectacles over her blear eyes in order to gloat upon far -worse literary provender. There is not a line that Byron ever wrote -approaching to the revolting indecency of Swinburne's "Faustine"--a -most disgusting set of bad verses, let me tell Algernon, with my -frankest compliments. The only excuse that can be offered for such -a sickening affront to the very name of poetry, is that the writer -must have been suffering at the time he wrote it from a sort of moral -disease. - -From moral disease no moral health can come--and in spite of -Swinburne's unquestioned and unquestionable genius, I believe his fame -will perish as utterly and hopelessly as a brilliant torch plunged -suddenly in the sea. There is no stamina in him--nothing to hold or -to keep in all this meteor-like shower of words upon words, thoughts -upon thoughts, similes upon similes; there lacks steadiness in the -music; none of the vast eternal underthrobbings of nature give truth or -grandeur to the strain. It is the harsh raving and shrill chanting of a -man in fever and delirium; not the rich pulsing rhythm of a singer in -noble accord with life, love, and labour. - -One of the most unpleasant characteristics of Swinburne's muse is the -idea conveyed therein of the sex feminine. Women are no better (and -rather worse) than wild animals according to this poet's standard; or -if not animals, passive creatures, to be "bitten" and "sucked" and -"pressed" and "crushed" as though they were a peculiar species of grape -for man's special eating. Their hair is "woven and unwoven" recklessly -till one feels it must surely be plucked out by the roots; their -"flanks" are supposed to "shine," their "eyelids" are "as sweet savour -issuing;" and the following vaguely comic lines occur in "Anactoria":-- - - - "Ah, ah, thy beauty! _like a beast it bites_, - Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. - Ah, sweet, and sweet again, and _seven times sweet - The paces and the pauses of thy feet_!" - - -More preposterously insane nonsense than this it would be difficult to -find on any printed page extant. - -It will be chiefly on account of his utterly false conception of life -and the higher emotions of the human heart, that Swinburne will not -leave the great name he might have left had he recognised the full -dignity of his calling. He had the power, but not the will. I say he -"had" advisedly, because he has it no longer. His last productions are -positively puerile as compared with his first, and each new thing he -writes shows the falling-off in his skill more and more perceptibly. -His similes are heavy and confused; his strained efforts at impossible -paradox almost ludicrous. This is the kind of thing he revels in:-- - - - The formless form of a mouthless mouth, - And the biteless bite of a tooth that has gone. - - -We are, perforce, thrown back on the "Poems and Ballads" and "Tristram -of Lyonesse," compelled to realise that in these two books we have -got all of Swinburne that we shall ever get worth reading--all the -concentrated fire of that genius which is dying out day by day into -dull ashes. Theodore Watts, practical, friendly Watts, something of a -poet himself in a grave and lumbersome way, can do nothing to revive -that once brilliant if lurid glow that animated Algernon's formerly -reckless spirit. It is all over--the lamp is quenched, and the harp -is broken. It would have been almost better for Swinburne's fame had -he died in his youth, consumed, like the fabled PhÅ“nix, by the fierce -glare of the poetic hell-flames he had kindled about himself, rather -than have lived till now to drivel into a silly dotage of roundels -concerning babies' toes and noses and fingers, which are assuredly -the most uninteresting subject-matter to the lover of true poesy. His -attempts, too, in the "Border-Ballad" style are the weakest and most -unsatisfactory imitations of the rough but vigorous original models. -And while on the subject of imitation, it is rather interesting to the -careful student of poetic "style" to read the admirable translations -made from the earlier Italian poets by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and -compare them with some of Swinburne's earlier pieces. It will be -remembered that Swinburne was at one time of his life much in the -company of Rossetti, and he would most probably have heard many -of these translations read before they were published; anyway, the -similitude of measure and rhythm between Rossetti's "renderings" and -Swinburne's "originals" is somewhat striking. - -Personally, I am inclined to think that the worthy Algernon Charles -caught his particular trick of rhyming and rounding his verse in the -fashion now known as "Swinburnian" entirely from the Italian school -of Guido Cavalcanti, Rinaldo D'Aquino, and others of their time, as -well as from a few old French models of the François Villon type. His -actual masterpiece, a work which contains no such borrowed juggleries -of rhyme, is "Tristram of Lyonesse." This great poem is not half so -well known as it ought to be--most people appear never to have heard -of it, much less to have read it. In perusing its pages, one scarcely -thinks of the author save as the merest human phonograph through which -Inspiration speaks--in fact, it is rather curious to realise how little -we really do take the personal Swinburne into our consideration while -reading his works, or for that matter the personal anybody who has -ever done anything. Personalities are very seldom really interesting. -It is only when we have a wild, wicked Byron that we are fascinated by -"personality"; a man who turns upon us, saying that he is-- - - - "only not to desperation driven, - _Because not altogether of such clay - As rots into the souls of those whom I survey_." - - -Well, well! And what of Browning? Why, Browning is dead. Moreover, he -is buried in damp, dirty, evil-smelling Westminster Abbey. What more -would you have for him? Fame? Let be, let be; he had Notoriety. That -must suffice, and that being done, why, all is done, and there is no -more to be said. Notoriety is not Fame. Fame is not Notoriety. No man -can have both, though he may cheat himself into taking the lesser for -the greater, and die happy in the pleasing delusion. Even so Browning -died; even so was he honourably interred. May he rest in peace. Amen. - - - - -XV. - -OF MORE POETS. - - -Are there no other poets in the crowd save Tennyson and Swinburne? God -bless my soul, you don't suppose I am going to offend a whole mob of -verse-writers--no other poets? Of course there are others! no end of -others. Poets over-run our land even as the locusts over-ran Egypt, and -they are all "as good, and a darned sight better," as the Yankees say, -than either the Laureate or Algernon Charles, in their own opinion. -Mark that last clause, please; it is important. The number of "poets" -so styled by themselves is legion; only I, who am a rudely-opiniated -and fastidious masquer, decline to recognise their clamorous claims -to the deathless laurel. But this does not matter. Who cares what -I either decline or accept? My opinions are "nothing to nobody." I -only express them for my own satisfaction and amusement; I have no -other good to gain thereby. As for the chance of offending the "poets" -alluded to, I certainly care not a jot. I have no desire to please them -in any way, as I consider most of them an offence and an obstruction -in literature. Some people run away with the notion that Edwin Arnold -(I give him the full glory of his "Sir" and C.S.I. elsewhere) is a -poet. Certainly his books sell. The "Light of Asia," with all its best -bits taken out of the original "Mahabhârata," is a perfect triumph of -verse-making. All the religious ladies read it because it is so very -unexciting and heavenly and harmless, and because, like all pious -poetry, it preaches virtue that no one ever dreams of practising. It -is a capital book for school prizes, too; it will not hurt any boy or -girl to read it, and it may providentially check them in time from -trying to write verse themselves. As for the "Light of the World," -it will probably meet with the same success among the same class of -readers, though it is much inferior to the "Light of Asia," owing to -having no "Mahabhârata" in it. But Lewis Morris is quite as great a -favourite with the "goodys" of society as Sir Edwin. The "goodys" don't -know, and don't want to know, anything about Dante's "Inferno," and are -therefore quite satisfied to accept "The Epic of Hades" as _bonâ fide_ -"original" matter,--and there are some "sweetly pretty" lines in "A -Vision of Saints." Both productions are well adapted for gift-books, -and will suit the taste of the demure provincial "misses" who wish to -be discovered reading poetry under a shady tree what time the bachelor -curate of the parish passeth by. All the same, I, who am a Nobody, -decline to consider either Morris or Arnold poets. They are excellent -verse-compilers though, and suit the tastes of those who do not care -about either originality or inspiration. - -I am nothing if not eccentric, and so I am disposed to place one -Alfred C. Calmour among the poets. He has published no poems--he has -only produced "poetical" plays, failures all, save "The Amber Heart," -and he has been generally "sent to the right about" by persons with -infinitely less brain than himself. It is curious to observe what spite -and meanness waken in the manly breasts of certain of his fellows at -the mere mention of his name. I spoke in praise of "The Amber Heart" on -one occasion to a critical brother, and he at once said--"All filched -out of Wills's waste-paper basket; he was Wills's secretary." "What -of 'Cyrene'?" I asked. "Oh, I don't know anything about 'Cyrene'; but -if there's anything good in it, depend upon it, it is stolen from -Wills." I relapsed into silence, for I never thought and never shall -think anything of Wills, whereas I do think something of Calmour. He -is writing a drama, I hear, on "Dante and Beatrice," and I confess to -anticipating it with intense interest. I want him to do as my dear -friend Oscar Wilde has done--pulverise his enemies by a big success. -And why? Because I hate to see a hard-working man "sat upon." And -Calmour does work hard, lives hard too, and never complains or "girds" -at fate, wherefore I venture to prophecy fame for him one of these -days. I have been assured he is conceited. I have never found him -so. Suppose he were, is conceit a singular fault in authors? Are we -to believe that they are more boastfully disposed than actors, for -instance? - -"What do you think of Calmour?" I asked E. S. Willard on one occasion, -when, in all the grave consciousness of "looking" _Judah_ to the -life, he stood beside me sipping convivial tea in Wilson Barrett's -drawing-room. - -"Think of Calmour?" he replied, with an inimitable air of -self-sufficiency. "I never think of Calmour!" - -Magnificent wind-bag assertiveness! but hopelessly unreasonable. -Calmour is more worth thinking about than Willard, only Willard -doesn't see it. The creator of a part merits greater consideration -than the mime who performs it. I confess to being a lover of fair -play, and when a lot of people try to "hustle" a man, I am disposed -to fight for him. Anyway, Calmour has a clean and delicate pen, and -does not pander to vulgar vice like that wretched old Scandinavian -humbug, Ibsen. Why we should abuse Calmour and praise Ibsen passes my -comprehension. Except that "foreign" scribblers are all "geniuses" with -us at once--they must be, you know, simply because they _are_ foreign; -they have a "subtlety," a "flavour," an "ardour," a "naturalism," -and--a Nastiness which is not the legitimate inheritance of the English -School. Had any one of our own men dared to offer us a "Hedda Gabler," -or a "Rosmersholm," or Maeterlinck's piece of bathos, "L'Intruse," he -would have been shrieked and howled down with derisive laughter. - -I often wonder what on earth the faddists of the poor old doddering, -doting _Athenæum_ mean by poking and prodding about for sparks of -genius in their new "heavy man," William Watson? It is very funny -to call him a poet--very funny, indeed. He is a sort of fifth-rate -Wordsworth--and while we can just stand the sonnets and shorter poems -of Wordsworth at first-hand, a diluted example of his pattern in these -days is too much for our patience. I know a good many people--in fact, -I meet in social intercourse nearly everybody worth knowing--but as yet -I have come upon nobody who reads Watson's poems, or who appear to know -anything about Watson. Curious, isn't it? The _Athenæum_ seems to carry -no conviction whatever to the Ass-public. - -Messrs. Trübner sent to me some time ago a book of poems, which first -surprised and then fascinated me into the belief that I had discovered -an English Petrarch. I think I have, too. If absolute music, perfect -rhythm, and exquisite wording of love-thoughts are Petrarchian, then -my man is a Petrarch. His book is called "A Lover's Litanies," and the -"litanies" are the poems. There are ten of them, and each one has a -title borrowed from the old church missal--rather a quaint idea. It -would be difficult to match the one called "Vox Amoris" among all the -love-poems of the world. Does the dear old purblind _Athenæum_ know -anything about this real poet, who has perhaps not been "discovered" by -Mr. Grant Allen or Andrew Lang? Cheer up, old _Athenæum_, put on thy -spectacles, and look about for the author of these "Litanies," lest the -outer world should say thou art napping! People are reading "A Lover's -Litanies"--those people who do not know anything about William Watson. - -Robert Louis Stevenson started as a "poet," I believe. Now he has -become the "Thucydides of literature"--_vide Pall Mall Gazette_. -Such nice, pretty classical names the _Pall Mall_ discovers for its -particular darlings. Has the _Pall Mall_ read Thucydides? I rather -doubt it. I have, and find no resemblance to Mr. Stevenson. And, truth -to tell, I preferred Mr. Stevenson's past poetry to his present prose. -Yet why should I murmur, remembering the sweet, sound slumber into -which I fell over "The Wrecker"--that trying mixture of Marryat and -Clark Russell. I think it is a capital story for schoolboys though, and -that is why the _Pall Mall_ admires it. I am not a schoolboy; the _Pall -Mall_ is; a dear, bright, gamesome, peg-top-and-marble creature, who -thinks the greatest joke in life is to break a neighbour's window or -ring a neighbour's bell, and then run away laughing. Its animal spirits -are too delightfully boisterous for it to appreciate any sort of deep -sentiment; a story of strong human passions, or a romance in which -love has the most prevailing share, would not appeal to its unlessoned -fancy. And, very naturally, it appreciates Stevenson, because he gives -it no hard, uncomfortable life-problems to think about. - -Another "poet" who calls himself so is Hall Caine. He says the -"Scapegoat" is not so much a novel as a drama, and not so much a drama -as a "poem." Very good indeed! Excellent fooling, upon my life. Hall -Caine can be very funny if he likes, though you wouldn't think it to -look at him. When he called his story of the "Bondman" a "New Saga," -it was only his fun. His wit is quite irrepressible. Among other -humorous things, he has had his portrait taken in a loose shirt and -knickers, seated facing the bust of Shakespeare, like a day-labourer -fronting the Sphynx. It is altogether refreshing to find a Lilliputian -literary ephemera so entirely delighted with himself as Hall Caine. -He is much more convinced of the intrinsic value of his own genius -than Oscar Wilde, with less reason than Oscar for his conviction. -Oscar is a really clever man; Hall Caine tries to be clever and does -not succeed. Oscar is a born wit, moreover, and though he does crib a -few _bon-mots_ from Molière and a few paradoxes from Rochefoucauld, -what does it matter for the English who do not understand French, and -have to get "books of the words" in order to "follow" Sarah Bernhardt. -Besides, Hall Caine borrows from the French also; the plot of his -"Scapegoat" is taken from the French, so one of my critical friends -assures me, and critics are always right. Francis Adams (also a "poet") -"went" for Hall Caine not long ago in the _Fortnightly_--a regular good -knock-down thrust it was, too. But Adams's prowess is of no avail in -these things. The more you abuse a fellow, the more his books sell. -The best way to utterly damn an author is to say that his novels are -"nicely written," "prettily told," "harmless fiction," or "innocuous -literature." If these phrases do not finish him off, nothing will. An -original, powerful, passionate writer is always "slated," and always -"sells." Witness the career of one Emile Zola. With all his faults, -the man is a great poet; realism and romance unite in strange colours -on his literary palette, and with his forceful brush he paints life -in all its varied aspects fearlessly and without any regard for -outside opinions. His one blemish is the blemish of the whole French -nation--moral Nastiness. But if we talk of "poets" who, though making -their bread-and-butter out of the writing of prose, still insist on -belonging to the gods of Parnassus, none of the stringers of rhyme and -jinglers of ballads, and weavers of "sagas" and the like, that afflict -this enlightened and imaginative nation, could write such a true poem -from end to end as "Le Rêve." Such consummate art, such unravelling of -exquisite romance out of commonplace material, is not to be discovered -in the English literary brain. The English literary brain is dull, -lumpish, and heavy--the English literary worker is dominated by one -idea, and that is, how much hard cash shall he get for his work? And -thus it is that poets, real poets, are rarer than swallows in snow; so -that is why I am slightly exercised in my mind respecting the Petrarch -sort of minstrel I spoke of a while ago. He is unquestionably a poet, -and seems to get on without any "booming." This strikes me as very -odd. However, most of the "best" men go unboomed. No occasion to puff -a good article. As for the pretended poets, countless as the sands of -the sea, there is a great consolation in the reflection that in a few -more years they will all be as though they never had been. Good old -Posterity will know nothing about them, and herein Posterity is to be -heartily congratulated. Poetical gnats must live like other gnats, I -suppose--they are rather troublesome, and make a buzzing noise in one's -ears, but as their whole existence lasts no more than a day, we must -have patience till the sun sets. - - - - -XVI. - -TO A MIGHTY GENIUS. - - - "O Rudyard Kipling! PhÅ“bus! What a name, - To fill the speaking trump of future Fame!" - - -This, with apologies to the shade of the "loose ungrammatical" Byron, -as the perfectly grammatical Gosse calls him. Dear Gosse! He has -cause to be somewhat irritated with his own career as a poet, for he -has not yet "set the Thames on fire," as he expected to do with the -torch of his inspiration. Hence he was compelled to vent his pent-up -spleen somehow, and what better dead giant to fall upon and beat with -pigmy blows of pigmy personal vexation than Byron, whose Apollo-like -renown (with scarce an effort on his own part) sent thunders through -Europe. Oh, grammatical Gosse!--but never mind him just now; I -must concentrate my soul on Kip; on Rudyard; on the glory of this -literary age. Let me look at you, you blessed baby! treasure of -its own Grandmother Journalism's heart! There you are, crowing and -chuckling, small but "virile," every inch of you, though you are not -overstocked with hair on the top of that high head of yours, and it -is hard to begin life by viewing it through spectacles. But _as_ you -are, there you are! and my pulses leap at the sight of you. Fielding, -Sterne, Thackeray, Dickens, all these parted spirits have, as it -were, distilled themselves into a fiery fluid wherewith to animate -your miniature form; was ever such a thrilling wonder? Hear we good -Uncle _Blackwood_, the while he dances you upon his gouty knee:--"If -her Majesty's Ministers will be guided by us (which perhaps is not -extremely probable; yet we confess we should like the command of a -Minister's ear for several shrewd suggestions) they will bestow a Star -of India without more ado upon this young man of genius who has shown -us all what the Indian Empire means." - -No doubt, good 'nuncle! no doubt the Ministry will listen to thy -"shrewd suggestions" what time the moon is made of ripe green cheese. -Go on, old man, go on, in thy cracked and aged pipe, growing wheezy -with emotion. "The battle in the 'Main Guard' is like Homer or Sir -Walter.... If her Majesty herself, who knows so much, desires a fuller -knowledge of her Indian Empire, we desire respectfully to recommend to -the Secretary for India that he should place no sheaves of despatches -in the royal hands, but Mr. Rudyard Kipling's books.... What Mr. -Rudyard Kipling has done is an imperial work, and worthy of an imperial -reward!" - -Bravo, worthy 'nuncle! Homer begged his bread, but the pen-and-ink -sketcher of "Mrs. Hauksbee" shall have rewards imperial! To it again, -garrulous 'nuncle--to it and cease not! "Here, by the dignified hand of -Maga the ever young, we bid the young genius All hail! and more power -to his elbow, to relapse into vernacular speech, which is always more -convincing than the high-flown." Should it not have been written "to -relapse into bathos," good 'nuncle? And beware of declaring thyself -to be "ever young," for nothing lives that shall not grow old, and -the younger generation already profanely dub thee "antiquated." Wipe -thine eyes, Uncle _Blackwood_, polish thy spectacles, and set down our -precious baby for an instant the while his other nurses, godfathers and -godmothers, look at him, and speculate upon his probable growth. - -Let us listen to the hysterical _D. T._ the while it raveth in strophes -of gin-and-water:--"Mr. Rudyard Kipling is, and seems likely to -remain, a literary enigma. Who can deny his strength, his virility, -his dramatic sense, his imaginative wealth, his masterful genius? -He is like a young and sportive Titan, piling Pelion on Ossa in his -reckless ambition to scale Olympus; he is always renewing his strength -like an eagle, and rejoicing like a giant to run his course. Nothing -comes amiss to him; he will produce out of his boundless stores -things new and old--tragedies, comedies, farces, epics, ballads, or -lyrical odes. His earliest Anglo-Indian stories revealed a new world -to the astonished West; his "Soldiers Three" have attained almost the -reputation of the "Three Musketeers"; his Learoyd, his Ortheris, his -Mulvaney, his Mrs. Hauksbee, his Torpenhow are household words; while -his barrack-room ditties, and his ballads of East and West have not -only startled by their daring frankness, but conquered all criticism by -their picturesqueness and truth." - -All this, an' so please you, on two or three volumes of small magazine -stories and rhymed doggerel! That "Soldiers Three" should have attained -the reputation of the "Three Musketeers" is of course only the -delirious frenzy of the _D. T._ asserting itself in gasping shrieks -of illiterate mindlessness--Europe knows better than to place the -intellect of a smart newspaper man like Kipling on the same level with -that of Dumas. Kipling is the Jumbo of the _D. T._ for the present, -and journalists would not be what they are if they could not get up a -"boom" somehow. Now hark we to the fond maudlin murmur of an evening -journal! - -"Where did Kipling get his ideas about Art from?" This is indeed a -pathetic question. It crops up in a paragraph-ecstasy over "The Light -that Failed." It is as if one should ask, "Where did Shakespeare get -his knowledge of the human soul from?" Where, oh where? We cannot, we -will not believe he has any imagination, this dear Kipling of ours, -because imagination is a thing we abhor. The triumphal and eternal -books of the world have all been purely imaginative, but this does -not matter to us. We, in this modern day, refuse to accept the idea -that anybody can describe a thing they have not seen and felt and -turned over and over under a microscope; we are so exact. And oh, -where then did Shakespeare (to revert to him again, because his is -the only name we can conscientiously compare with Kipling), where did -Shakespeare find Ariel and Caliban, and Puck and Titania, and Julius -Cæsar, and Antony and Cleopatra? He could not have seen these people? -No. Then, alas! he had that fatal gift, that monstrous blemish of -the brain which spoils true genius, Imagination--the grossest form -of cerebral disease. In this he was inferior to our Rudyard, our -hop-skip-and-a-jump Rudyard, who is actually going bald in his youth -from the strain of his minute observation of life, and the profundity -of his meditations thereon. Our "delectable one!" Our precious Kip! -Who would not join in the chorus of the paragraph-men when they -propound the fond, almost maternally-admiring query, "Where did he -get his ideas about Art from?" And then, when we find out that he -has "artistic" relations; that his papa is, or has been, painting a -ceiling or a wall in Windsor Castle, we naturally feel almost beside -ourselves with delight, because we find our baby's ideas are the result -of heritage, and have nothing to do with that curse of literature, -Imagination. As for me, I weep whenever I turn the sacred leaves of -"Plain Tales from the Hills," because I know I have in its pages all -that ever was or will be excellent in the way of fiction. There is -nothing more to be said--nothing more to come after. It is a sad -thought that fiction should have culminated here--it is always sad -to think that anything should have an end--but when the end is so -glorious, who shall complain? And so I have sold my set of Waverley -novels (the real Abbotsford edition); I have put my Shakespeare on an -almost unreachable top shelf (I only keep him for reference); I have -sent my Dickens volumes to a hospital, and my Thackeray to a "home for -incurables." I shall not want these things any more. The only natural -reflex of life as it is lived nowadays is to be found in the works of -Rudyard; on Rudyard I mentally feed and thrive. To Kip I cling as the -drowning sailor to a rope; all difficulties and perplexities in Art, -Literature, Science, Politics, Manners and Morals vanish at the touch -of his mighty pen--he is the one, the only Kip;--the crowning splendour -of our time. Why should we make any parliamentary pother over the -preservation of old buildings at Stratford-on-Avon? What do we want -with Stratford-on-Avon? since our Kip was born in India, or we believe -he was. Now, India is something like a place for a Genius to be born -in--big, vast, legendary, historical--and yet the American Interviewer, -conscious of Kipling's might, thinks it possible he may have already -exhausted its capabilities for literary treatment; swallowed it off at -one gulp as it were, like the precious pearl Hafiz consumed in his cup -of wine. - -"Do you consider Mr. Kipling has exhausted India?" anxiously inquired -the American Interviewer of Rider Haggard, when the weary author of -"She" landed in New York. - -"India is a big place," was the simple answer, given with a patient -gentleness for which Haggard deserves great credit, seeing how he has -lately been despitefully used and persecuted by the very reviewers who -once flattered him. - -Yes, India _is_ a big place; not too big for our Kip though. He -requires to take life in Gargantuan gulps in order to support the -giant forces of his mind. But Stratford-on-Avon! A mere English -country town--hardly more than a village--what do we care about -it now? Shakespeare, after all, was perhaps only Bacon--but Kip is -Kip--there's no doubt about him--he is his own noble _bonâ-fide_ self, -whose bootlaces we are not worthy to untie. There is "stern strength," -there is "virility," there is a "strong strain of humour," there is -"masculine vigour" in everything he writes. Mark the following passage -from "Watches of the Night":-- - -"Platte, the subaltern, being poor, had a Waterbury watch and a plain -leather guard. - -"The Colonel had a Waterbury watch also, and for guard the lip-strap of -a curb chain." - -Now, note that carefully--"_The lip-strap of a curb chain._" - -What a luscious flowing sound there is in those few exquisitively -chosen words! "_The lip-strap of a curb chain!_" It is positively -fascinating. One could dream of it all day and all night too, for that -matter, like Mark Twain's famous refrain of "Punch in the presence -of the passenjare." But going on from this delicious line, which is -almost poetry, one finds instant practical information. - -"Lip-straps make the best watch-guards. They are strong and short. -Between a lip-strap and an ordinary leather guard there is no great -difference; between one Waterbury watch and another, none at all." - -Now, there we have the "strain of humour." No difference between one -Waterbury watch and another, "none at all." Ha, ha, ha! No difference -between one--ha, ha, ha!--Waterbury, ha, ha!--watch--ha, ha, ha!--and -another--ha, ha, ha!--none at all. Ha, ha! That "none at all" is so -exquisitely facetious! It comes in so well! Was ever such a delightful -little bit of sly, dry, brilliant, sparkling Wit, with a big W, as this -peculiar manner of our Kip! Turning over the leaves of this glorious, -this immortal "Plain Tales," you cannot help coming upon humour, -spontaneous, rollicking humour everywhere. It bristles out of each -particular page "like quills upon the fretful porcupine." Take this, -for example-- - -"One of the Three men had a cut on his nose, caused by the kick of a -gun. _Twelve-bores kick rather curiously._" - -So they do. The remarkable part of this is that twelve-bores _do_ -kick--it is a positive fact--a fact that every one has been dying to -have made public, and "rather curiously" is the exact expression that -suits their mode of behaviour. So true, so quaint is Kip. And here -is another charming bit of expression--a descriptive picture, finely -painted. It is from "The Arrest of Lieutenant Golightly." - -"His boots and breeches were plastered with mud and beer stains. He -wore a muddy-white, dunghill sort of thing on his head, and it hung -down in slips on his shoulders, which were a good deal scratched. He -was half in and half out of a shirt, as nearly in two pieces as it -could be, and he was begging the guard to look at the name on the tail -of it." - -Now this requires thinking over, because it is so subtle. -The "muddy-white, dunghill sort of thing" is really a new -expression--quite new--and beautiful. It suggests so much! But you must -come to the humour--you must remember there was a shirt mentioned, and -that the hero was "begging the guard to look at the name on the tail of -it." I went off into positive convulsions of mirth when I first read -that passage. Falstaff's coarse witticisms seemed unbearable after -it. "To look at the name on the tail of it!" It is simply inimitable. -There is a jovial sound in the very swing of the sentence. And Private -Mulvaney! What a creation! Just listen to him-- - -"I'm a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army's mate and dhrink to -me, bekase I'm wan av the few that can't quit ut. I've put in sivinteen -years an' the pipeclay's in the marrow av me. Av I wud have kept out -av wan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon'ry Lift'nint by -this time--a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin' stock to my equils -an' a curse to meself. Bein 'fwhat I am, I'm Privit Mulvaney wid no -good-conduc' pay an' a devourin' thirst. Always barrin' me little -frind Bob Bahadur, I know as much about the Army as most men." - -No wonder, after this, that the ever-watchful purveyors of "Literary -Gossip" rouse themselves up from lachrymose tenderness to positive -passion _in re_ this marvellous Rudyard, and speak of him as "the -stronger Dickens going forth conquering and to conquer." - -The phrase, "the stronger Dickens," is coming it very strong indeed, -but--it's only the paragraph-men. These chroniclers of the time have -pathetically informed us how on one occasion Kip ran away from the -"clamour" (of the paragraph-men) to India to fetch his papa, and how -his papa came back with him, to look after him, I suppose, and protect -him from all the naughty, vicious people who wanted to blow his skin -out into the size of a bull when Nature meant him to keep to the -strict proportions of the other figure in the fable. Good Rudyard! -Already the bloom is off the rye, just slightly, for if we are to -believe the _Athenæum_, an Eden Phillpotts is "the new Kipling." "O -Eden Phillpotts! Phoebus! What a name! To fill the speaking-trump of -future Fame!" The "loose ungrammatical" Byron's lines fit Phillpotts as -excellent well as Kipling. Phillpotts is really a fine name in every -way--splendidly hideous, and available for all sorts of Savile Club and -_Saturday Review_ witticisms, such as-- - - - "Phill the Pott and fill the can - Eden is our Coming Man!" - - -Or this, sung slowly with religious nasal intonation to the well-known -hymeneal melody-- - - - "The voice that breathed o'er _Eden_, - From _Athenæum_ bowers, - Said 'Phillpotts' stories must be praised, - He is a friend of ours!'" - - -Think of it, Rudyard! think of it! Art ready to cope with Phill? Wilt -meet Potts on his own ground? Deem not thyself Eden's superior, for -he "understands," according to the _Athenæum_, "proportion, contrast, -balance, and the value of unhalting movement," things that inferior -persons like Scott, Thackeray, Balzac, and others had to study all -their lives long. Moreover, another journal dictatorially announces -that "novel-readers must prepare to welcome" Phillpotts. Mark that -"must"! That "must" would fain seize the Ass-public by the throat, -and make it eat Phillpotts like a turnip. But the Ass is a fastidious -ass sometimes--it likes to nose its food before devouring; it will -nose Phillpotts at its pleasure. Meantime, it is nosing thee, friend -Kipling, dubiously and with a faint touch of derision. Ridicule kills; -beware of it, my boy. And to avoid ridicule and secure dignity, -hist!--a side-whisper, meant kindly--_Put down your Boom business!_ -Stamp it out. Hush it up. If you don't take my advice you'll regret it. -The thing has been over-done. You have had more friends than are good -for you; a few stanch foes would have brought you much more benefit -in the long run. When your ill-advised flatterers quote your jingly -"Barrack-Room Ballads" as though they were things immortal--when good -Frank Harris, of _Fortnightly_ prowess, imposes a growling recital of -scraps of your doggerel, "Fuzzy-wuz," on patiently-bored people sitting -at a social meal, with the air of one considering it a finer production -than "The Isles of Greece," or Shelley's "Cloud"--we say with Hamlet, -"Somewhat too much of this." In the year of grace 1900 "Barrack-Boom -Ballads" will have gone the way of all "occasional verse," and not a -line will remain in the memory of the public. The English people know -perfectly well what poetry is, and no critic will ever persuade them -that you can write it. At the same time no one wishes to deny your -surface cleverness or your literary ability. You are on the same rank -with Bret Harte, Frank Harris, Frank Stockton, Anstey, and a host of -others, and there is no objection taken to your standing along with -these; but there is objection, honest objection, made to your being -forced higher aloft than your compeers, by means of a ridiculously -exaggerated, aggressively ubiquitous "boom." When Walter of the -_Times_ rushed frantically into a court of law about his copyright in -a Kipling article (he having taken no such heed of any other author's -article till then), the outside public laughed and shrugged their -shoulders at the absurdity of the thing. From the fuss made, one would -have imagined that God Himself read the _Times_ every morning, and was -particularly interested in Kipling. This sort of nonsense never lasts. -The reaction infallibly sets in. Never was a name sent up sky-high -like a rocket, but it did not fall plump down like a stick. And so, -excellent Rudyard, beware! You are not "the greatest English author" by -a long way. In weak moments I admit that the newspaper-gushers work me -into a delirium-tremens of ecstasy about you, and, like my friend Frank -Harris, my hand trembles and my voice takes on a rich growl as I quote -"Fuzzy-wuz" and the "immortal" (alas!) "Tomlinson"--but in these fits -I am not answerable for my words or actions. When I put away "Plain -Tales" and "Life's Handicap," and forget all your press notices, I -can think of you calmly and quite dispassionately, as one literary -labourer among hundreds of others, who are all striving to put their -little brick into the building of the Palace of Art, and I perceive -that yours is a very small brick indeed! I fear it will scarcely be -perceived in the wall twenty years hence. And my present opinion of you -is--would you care to know it? Of course not, but you shall have it all -the same. I consider you, then, to be a talented little fellow with a -good deal of newspaper-reporter "smartness" about you, and an immense -idea of your own cleverness, an idea fostered to a regrettable extent -by the overplus of "beans" which gentle Edmund Yates, among others, is -sorry to have given you. You have some literary skill, and you use a -rough brevity of language which passes for originality in these days -of decadence, but you are shallow, Rudyard; as shallow as the small -mountain brook that makes a great noise in the rapidity of its descent, -but can neither turn a mill-wheel or bear a boat on its surface. Your -men characters are mostly coarse bears--unmannerly ruffians in their -speech at least--your women are, on the average, either trifling or -despicable. Though unlovable, they are, however, interesting for the -moment, but only for the moment. Because a good many of us know fellows -who are brave and "virile" and all the rest of it, and yet who are not -obliged to use a slang word in every sentence; and we also know women -who are not solely occupied with the subjugation of the "masculine -persuasion"; and we prefer these decent folk as a rule. But, whatever -your literary failings or attainments, and however you may display -them _in futuro_, be wise in time and put down your "boom." No man can -live up to a "boom"; it is not humanly possible. As for your "strong -strain of humour," I am disposed to accept that as a fact. It _is_ a -strain--your humour. Your hydraulic pump is for ever going, and if the -result is not always witty, it is flippant enough. And flippancy passes -for wit nowadays. "Chaff" has replaced epigram, except when one finds -a _bon mot_ in an old forgotten French play or novel, and passes it off -in English as one's own "to set the table in a roar." As a matter of -fact though, human life is tragic; and the comedy part of it is only -invented hurriedly and inserted by the clowns of the piece. - -And now Kip--though I perceive you are staring at me, wondering who -the d----l I am--I will e'en leave you to your own devices, and, as the -police say, "move on." Not even with the aid of your spectacles can you -peer through the folds of my domino--not till I choose. I am not going -about masked always--oh no! You shall see me face to face one day. And -if, when these attractive features of mine are unveiled to your ken, -you find yourself at all put out by the familiar manner of my speech -to you, why, we will cross the Channel to some convenient scene of -action, and you shall order (if you like) pistols for two and coffee -for one. I am really one of the best of your friends, because I do not -flatter you. The only place on which my observations may hurt you is a -soft spot in every man's composition called Conceit. It is a spot that -bruises easily and keeps sore for a long period. But the true artist -requires to have this spot taken out of him if possible. It is as bad -as a cancer, and needs instant cutting. Again I say, I do not flatter -you. And if I had more time, I think I should possibly warn you against -one of _your_ "boomers," and _my_ dear friends, Daddy _Lang_-legs. He -has the caprices of a fine lady, has Daddy--you can never be sure when -he is going to be pleased or displeased. He may discontinue a promising -young "boom" quite suddenly, or on the other hand he may go on with it -for an indefinite period. Of course he is an adorable creature, only it -is not prudent to judge the position of all Literature by the phases of -his humour. - -And so, ta-ta Rudyard! See you again by and by! Don't inflate that -little literary personality of yours too much, lest it should burst. -Don't you believe you are a "stronger Dickens"; it won't do. It's bad -for you. A little modesty will not hurt you; it is an old-fashioned -manner, but is still considered good form. Read and compare the greater -authors who never were "boomed"; who starved and died, some of them, -to win greatness; they who are the positive "Immortals," and whom -neither you nor any of us will ever distance; mistrust your own powers -and "go slow." If there is anything very exceptional in you, time will -prove it; if not, why, Time will sweep you away, my good fellow, as -remorselessly as it has swept away many another pampered and petted -"Press" baby out of the very shadow of remembrance. Don't swallow _all_ -the "beans" my boy! Leave a few. Better die of starvation than surfeit! - - - - -XVII. - -CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY. - - -Ha! I spy a Critic. Hail fellow, well met! Whether you have a -strawberry mark on your left arm or not, you are my own, my long, my -never-lost brother. I love you as the very apple of mine eye! And to -speak truly, I love all critics, from the loftiest oracle to the lowest -half-crown paragraphist; they are dear to me as the fibres of my heart, -and I am never so happy as in their company. And why? Why, because I -am a critic myself; one of the mystic band; and, moreover, one of the -joyous throng wearing (for the present moment) the safety-badge marked -"Anonymous"; one of the pleasant personal friend-detectives who watch -the unsuspicious author playing his game of literary "baccarat," -and, on the merest hint, decide that he is cheating. I shake the -unsuspicious author's hand, I break his bread, I drink his wine, I -smoke his best havanas; I tell him verbally that he is a first-rate -fellow, almost a genius, in fact, and then?--well, then I sneak -cautiously behind the sheltering sidewall of a leading journal with the -rest of my jolly compeers, and at the first convenient opportunity I -stab him in the back!--"dead for a ducat." And how we all laugh when -he falls, his foolish face turned up in dumb appeal to the callous -stars; he was a star-gazer from the first, we say, chucklingly--these -ambitious dunderheads always are! - -By Heaven! there is nothing in all the length and breadth of literature -so thoroughly enjoyable as the life of a critic, if one were only -better paid. One is member of a sort of "_Vehmgericht_," or secret -inquisition, where great intellects are broken on the wheel, and small -ones escape scot free, not being dangerous. The only unfortunate thing -about it is that we are losing power a little. The public read too many -books, and begin to know too much about us and our ways, which is very -regrettable. We like to toss together our own style of literary forage -and force it down the gaping throat of the public, because somehow -we have always considered the public an Ass, whose best food was hay -and thistles. But our Ass has lately turned restive and frequently -refuses to accept our proferred nourishment. It snorts dubiously at our -George Meredith Eccentricity, it kicks at the phonographic utterances -of Browning, and it positively bolts at Ibsen. A disgusting Ass, this -public! It actually devours volumes we have decided to ignore--it -relishes poems which We pretend never to have heard of--it tosses its -head at novels which We recommend, and hangs fondly over those We -abuse; and it even goes and fawns at the feet of certain authors who -show unrestrained passion and idealism in their writings, and whom, -on account of that very passion and idealism, we have determined to -send to Coventry. My heart sank to zero on a recent occasion when the -editor of the _Academy_ said to me, despondently, "The time is past, my -friend, when criticism can either make or mar an author's reputation." -Good God! I mentally ejaculated; then what am _I_--what are _we_--to -do? What becomes of our occupation? If we may neither stuff nor flay -authors, where is our fun? And how are we to get our bread-and-butter? -The selling of three-volume novels alone will not keep us, though we -always add a little to our incomes by that business. - -This is how we generally manage. A Three-volumer comes in "for review," -nicely bound, well got up; we look at the title-page, and if it is -by some individual whom we know to be a power in one or other of -the cliques, we pay strict attention to it, cover its faults, and -quote platitudes as epigrams. But if it is by some one we personally -dislike, or if it is by a woman, we never read it. We simply glance -through it in search of a stray ungrammatical sentence, a misprint, -or a hasty slip of the pen. (The misprints we invariably set down -to the author, as though he had personally worked the printing-press -and muddled the type out of sheer malice.) We obtain a vague idea of -the story by this means, and if we find the ungrammatical sentence -or the slip of the pen we are happy--we have quite enough to go -upon. We tuck our Three-volumer under our arm and make straight for -a secondhand book-store (where we are known), and there we sell it, -after somewhat undignified bargaining, for three or five shillings, -perhaps more, if its author has any reputation with the public. Then -we go home and write half a column of "smart" abuse about it, or what -is worse, luke-warm praise, for which we are paid from about five -shillings to half a guinea, which, added to what we have wrested -out of our secondhand bookseller, makes a respectable little sum, -particularly when we get many Three-volumers, and effect many sales. -(Poverty-stricken editors who write all their "reviews" themselves, -or get their young sons and daughters at home to do it to save their -pockets, and who sell for their own advantage all the "books received," -naturally make quite a decent thing out of it.) And we can take our -money always with the holy consciousness of having done more than our -duty. - -Yet, considering the earnestness with which we go to work, we are -really very miserably rewarded. We do not make half such big incomes -as the authors we judge and condemn. I say this advisedly, because, -as a positive fact, the men and women writers whom we most hold up to -opprobrium are the wretches who make the most money. The very devil -is in it! The poets we go out of our way to praise, our Oxford and -Cambridge pets and our heavy men, don't "sell"; not as they ought -to (in our opinion), by any manner of means. And then they come to -us--these children of the Muse--and complain bitterly that certain -Press-ignored fellows, who never had a "boom" in their lives, _do_ -sell. And it is all the fault of the Ass-public, and we are supposed to -be responsible for the humours of the Ass. It is too bad. We cannot -help it if the Ass persists in remaining idiotically ignorant of the -astounding wisdom contained behind the thick skull and solemn brow of -a certain dear and choice morsel of mannerism we know, who dwelleth at -Oxford, and who is called by some of his disciples "A Marvel." Aye, -a marvel so marvellous that he hath grown weighty with the burden of -his own wonder. And the phrase "I wonder!" is a frequent and favourite -murmur of this impassive phenomenon; this "leader" of an excessively -narrow literary "set"--this true "heavy father" of the little low -comedy of Clique. For the rest, his voice is mild and dreamy, his -eyes reserved and bilious, his step as of one in doubt, who deems the -morning come when it is yet but night. Of a truth he is a good and -simple goose, well stuffed with savoury learning; but whether the -world will ever benefit by the dish is a matter which only the world -itself can decide. Personally, I like the "Marvel"; I know him for a -harmless soul, a gentlemanly dull _poseur_, whose posing vexes no one -and amuses many. Only I have ceased to try and "write him up," because -I have read his classic novel, and having accomplished that daring and -difficult feat I consider I have done enough. - -Among the minor entertaining experiences in the life of a critic are -the appeals made to one's "quality of mercy" by the tender green -goslings in authorship, who fondly imagine that by a coaxing word, or -a flattery delicately turned, they can persuade Us to praise them. I -saw a young woman striving to beguile my friend Lang in this way on -one occasion, using sundry bewitchments of eye and gesture for the -accomplishment of her fell purpose, and I caught a fragment of her soft -yet desperate petition. "I am sure you will say a good word for my -poems, Mr. Lang!" Her poems! ye gods and goddesses! A woman's poems, -and--Andrew Lang! Surely a Mephistophelian "ha, ha, ha!" rang out in -the infernal regions of log-rolling at such a ridiculous combination, -for when ever did the "Sign of the Ship" wave hopeful encouragement -to a female rhymester? No, no; Lang, like myself, must know better -than to give any foothold to the "vapid" feminine climber who wantonly -attempts to scale Parnassus (a mountain exclusively set apart for the -masculine gender), and threatens to overcome our "intensely moving, -intensely virile stern strength;" _vide_ publisher's advertisements of -our ever-glorious Kipling. - -Another curious feature of the critical disposition is our rooted -dislike to be known as critics. In this we somewhat resemble those dear -old robbers of legendary lore who went out pillaging and murdering -merrily by night, and were the most perfect fine gentlemen in the -daytime. Such altogether fascinating fellows they were! But we play -our parts almost as cleverly, and I am sure with quite as much ease -and charm. In polite society we claim to be "literary men"; the term -is delightfully vague and may imply anything or everything. Some of -us, however, say boldly out and out that we are not critics, but -poets--_i.e._, not judges, but criminals. We feel quite proud and glad -when we have said this sort of thing. Take my amiable acquaintance, -William Sharp, for instance. _He_ says he is a poet, and he has a -most refreshingly ingenuous and positive faith in his own statement. -Few agree with him, but what does that matter, provided he is happy? -Then there is Edmund Gosse; he also says he is a poet, and so he is, -in a pretty daff-a-down-dilly, lady-like fashion. Only he sits as -critic on other poets occasionally, and, strange to say, is never -able to find anything in their productions quite equal to the sounds -once evoked from "Lute and Viol." "Young" McCarthy, Justin Huntly (he -is only called "young" lest he should be mistaken for "old"), he who -uttereth oracles concerning plays and playwrights, he not only says -he is a poet, but he once went so far as to call himself Hafiz--Hafiz -in London. Yes; very much in London. Between the real Hafiz and the -sham is a "great gulf fixed," and the ghost of the Persian singer is -more valuable to literature than all the McCarthy substance. Now as to -Edwin Arnold--Sir Edwin Arnold, C.S.I. (it never does to forget his -C.S.I.), the admirer of those pretty ladies whose portraits appear on -tea-trays--is he a poet?--is he a critic? Well, some of his own verses -were described in the journal with which he is, or used to be, chiefly -connected, _i.e._ the _Daily Telegraph_, as "the finest things that had -appeared since the New Testament." Now, I consider this pretty strong, -and I don't wish to comment upon it. If such an eulogy had been uttered -by some other newspaper we should have said that the reviewer was some -unduly excited personal friend who wanted to "use" Edwin afterwards for -his own private purposes, but in the _Daily Telegraph_, C.S.I.'s own -pulpit, it suggested--no matter what! Anyway, I am quite sure Edwin was -not in Japan at the time. - -I come now to another point in our careers as critics, and not such a -very pleasant point either. We are the victims of toadyism. The little -men of the Press, the dwarfs of journalism, toady us to the verge of -distraction, as soon as we attain to Half-a-Guinea-a-Column power. Of -course we are really somebodies then, and we have to pay the penalty of -greatness. Still it is a bore. We are told all sorts of things that we -know are not true, concerning our "fine literary abilities," our "keen -discrimination," and our "quiet humour," but we are perfectly aware -all the time that such "flattering unction" is merely the distilled -essence of the most strongly concentrated humbug. No sane man, unless -he has some private end in view which he hopes to gain by blandishment, -would dream of giving us credit for "fine literary abilities," because -if we had such abilities we should be doing something more paying than -criticism. But our pigmy flatterers think we can swallow anything. Here -is a small specimen of what I call Press-toadyism, which was bestowed -on my dearest Andrew in _Galignani's Messenger_ by somebody calling -himself a _London Correspondent_. It purported to be a "review" of that -amazingly dreary production, "The World's Desire," which, whatever its -faults, had at least the effect of showing the joint authors thereof -exactly what position they occupied as compared to Homer. Otherwise -they might possibly have made some mistake about precedence. And thus -ran the glib remarks of the _London Correspondent_:-- - -"That some parts are well written (Mr. Lang's) and some badly written -(Mr. Haggard's), and that fights are many and blood is plentiful, -and that there are many bits of delightful verse (Mr. Lang's, of -course), and a cackling old person (the invention of Mr. Haggard -evidently);" but there! I need not go on. The inquisitive individual -who yearns to read the whole so-called "critique" can refer back -to _Galignani_ of December 8, 1890. The gratuitous and unnecessary -insolence to Mr. Haggard, and the equally unnecessary and gratuitous -licking-of-the-boots of Mr. Lang must have been decidedly offensive -to both authors. This _London Correspondent_ may be a man, but he -certainly is not a brother. - -_Apropos_ of the subject of Press-toadyism, _in re_ my friend Andrew, -I must not forget here to chronicle my boundless admiration for that -elaborate and beautiful witticism once contained in the _Saturday -Review_. Criticising Andrew's "Essays in Little," the _Saturday_ -said:--"The public may like Little, but they certainly prefer it Lang!" -_O mirabile dictu!_ Shade of Joe Miller, retire discomfited! Was ever -heard the like? What are the quips and cranks of a Yorick compared -to this? Poor and feeble are the epigrammatic sentences of Molière; -miserable to the verge of bathos every "happy thought" beside this -sparkling production of the _Saturday_; this scintillating firework of -atticism, launched with so much delicacy! Let me wipe my fevered brow, -moist with the dews of ecstasy; I had always hoped the _Saturday_ might -one day be witty, but I never thought to see the fond anticipation -realised. "Moribund," quotha? Never was the Jumbo of Reviews so frisky -or so full of life before! Glorious old _Saturday Slasher_! As our -American cousins say, "_Lang_ may you wave!" Whoever perpetrated that -delicious conceit on Andrew--Andrew, the very Pythias of my Damon -worship--let him look me up at the Savile Club, and if I am there when -he chances to call, he shall have such wine and welcome as can only be -offered by a Critic with cash to a Critic of humour! - - - - -XVIII. - -EULOGISETH ANDREW. - - -In speaking of Andrew I wish it to be very distinctly understood that -there is only one Andrew; and he is "the" Andrew as pronouncedly and -positively as "the" Mactavish or "the" Mackintosh. He is, to use the -words of the old Scottish song, "Lang, Lang, Lang a'comin'," always -"a'comin'" it in every English printed journal and newspaper under the -sun. His finger is in every literary pie. His shrill piping utterance -is even as the voice of Delphic oracles, pronouncing judgment on all -men and all things. He is the Author's Own Patent Incubator. His -artificial warmth hatches all sorts of small literary fledglings -who might otherwise have perished in the shell; and out they come -chirping, all fuss and feathers, with as much good stamina as though -they had been nursed into being under the wings of that despised old -hen, Art. Andrew is better than Art, because he is the imitation of -Art, and he comes cheaper than the real article. The way in which -the old hen hatches her chicks is slow and infinitely laborious; the -Lang Patent Incubator does the work in half the time and ever so much -less worry. If you can only manage to place a literary egg close -enough to the Incubator for him to "take notice" as it were, why -there you are; out comes a chuckling author immediately and begins to -pick his food from the paragraph-men with quite an appetite. He is -quite a curious and wonderful institution in literature, is my dear -Andrew. The pensters have had all sorts of things "occur" to them in -their profession, such as "booms," "blackmail," "puffs," "burkings," -"cliques," "literary societies," and the like, but I believe it has -been left to our time to produce a literary Incubator. Of course -Art goes on hatching strange birds in her own tedious and trying -way--birds that soar sky-high and refuse paragraph-crumbs--but then -they are a special breed that would have died of suffocation in the -Lang Incubator. And they are a troublesome sort of fowl at best; they -will never fly where they are told, never sing when they are bidden, -and are never to be found scratching up dust in the press-yard by -any manner of means. Now the Incubator produces no wild brood of -this kind. He hatches excellent tame chicks, who make the prettiest -little clucking noise imaginable, and scratch among the press-dust -with grateful and satisfied claws, the while they prune each other's -feathers occasionally with the tenderest "Savile" solicitude. Even -timid spinsters could take up such pretty poultry in their aprons -without harm. There are no horrible, snapping, strong-winged eagles -among them? Lord bless you, no! Andrew would never be bothered with -an eagle. It might bite his nose off! Eagles--_i.e._, geniuses--are -detestable creatures; you never know where to have them. And the -Incubator must know where to have his chicks, else how could he look -after them? Besides, geniuses always cause disaster and confusion -in the press-yard--they find fault with the food there, and object -to roost on the critically appointed perches. Fortunately, however, -they are rare; and when Art does let loose such big troublesome -chickabiddies the world generally lets them forage for themselves. -Andrew certainly never troubles his head about them--indeed, he does -his best to forget the unpleasant fact that they are flying about and -might at any moment pounce on his "yairdie" and make havoc of his own -carefully-incubated little literary brood. - -Needless to say I am devoted to Andrew. He has done me the greatest -kindness in the world. He does not know how kind he has been; in fact, -he has such an open, guileless disposition that I believe he is quite -unconscious of the heavy debt of gratitude I owe him. I have often -thought I would try to express my sentiments towards him in some way, -but my emotions have choked me, and I have refrained. Besides, great -souls do not require to be thanked, and Andrew has a great soul. A -great soul and "brindled hair." These qualities make him what he is, -worthy of the admiration of all true Scots and inferior men. And of -the "inferior" I will stand second to none in Lang-worship. Have I -not followed him at a respectful distance when he has started off to -rummage old bookstalls in search of literary provender? And have I -not always admired the "pawkie" manner in which he has fathomed the -childlike ignorance of the British public? For are not the contents of -the books he picks up secondhand, forgotten, or unknown by the British -public? and is it not well and seemly that he, Andrew, should revive -them once more as specimens of pure Lang wit and wisdom? Certainly. -No one would do the Incubator the hideous injustice of imagining him -to be capable of any new ideas. New ideas have from time immemorial -been an affront and an offence to the reviewer, and Andrew is not -only a reviewer himself but the friend of reviewers. New ideas are -therefore very properly tabooed from his list. But for old ideas, -carefully selected and re-worded, no one can beat Andrew. He is a -wandering "complete edition" of ideas taken from "dead" as well as -living authors. As for poetry, I don't suppose any one will dispute the -right he has to the Laureateship. The stamp of immortality rests on -"Ballads in Blue China"--that same immortality which attends Kipling's -"Barrack-Room" marvels. These things will be read what time future -generations ask vaguely, "Who was Tennyson?" - -Yes, Andrew, it is even so. You are a great creature, and a -useful creature too, because you can turn your hand to anything. -You are not dominated by any cerebral monomania. You are a Press -jack-of-all-trades, and, like G. A. S., could write as smartly about -a pin as about a creed. It is very clever of you, and I appreciate -your cleverness thoroughly. I have had the patience to listen to some -lectures of yours, sitting at your feet as at the feet of another -Gamaliel, drinking in the wisdom of the secondhand bookstalls without -a murmur. Only the most intense admiration of your qualities could -have made me do that. I have even managed to spell out some of your -calligraphy, which resembles nothing so much as the casual pattern -which might be made by a spider crawling on the paper after having -previously fallen into the ink. That was a feat performed in your -honour--a feat of which I am justly proud. Then again I shall always -love you for your frankly-open detestation of literary females. Females -who presume to take up our writing weapons--and use them almost as well -as we do ourselves--these are our pet aversion. We hate scribblers in -petticoats, don't we, good Andrew? Yea, verily! We loathe their verses, -we abominate their novels; we would kick them if we dared. We do kick -them, metaphorically, whenever we can, in whatever journals we command; -but that is not half as much as we would like to do. Almost we envy -Hodge who can (and does) give an interfering woman a good dig in the -ribs with his heavy hob-nailed boot whenever she provokes him; and in -the close competition for literary honours we would fain be Hodges too, -every man-jack of us. It is an absurdity that should not be tolerated -in any civilised nation, this admission of women into the literary -profession. What has she done there? What will she ever do? Ask Walter -of the _Times_ (he is a great authority) what he thinks of women who -write. He will tell you that they are merely the weak imitators of men, -and that they are absolutely incapable of humour or epigram. And I am -convinced he is right. Mrs. Browning, Charlotte Bronté, Georges Sand, -George Eliot, and others whose names assume to be "celebrated," are -really nobodies after all. Walter of the _Times_ could himself beat -them out of the field--if he liked. But he is too mercifully disposed -for this: he reserves his genius. Sparkling all over with witticism, he -only permits occasional flashes of it to appear in the columns of his -magnificent journal, lest the public should be too much dizzied and -dazzled. No wonder the _Times_ costs threepence; you could not expect -to get even a glimpse of a man like Walter for less. We ought to be -glad and grateful for his opinions at any price. - -And these epithets "glad" and "grateful" occur to me as the only -suitable terms to apply to you, most super-excellent Andrew; my good -friend to whom I owe so much. I am glad and grateful to know that your -"lang" personality is a familiar object at so many newspaper offices. -I am delighted to feel that English literature would come to a dead -halt without your pleasantly long finger to push it on. It rejoices my -heart to realise what a power you are. I am lost in astonishment at -the extraordinary collection of Lilliputian authors you have hatched -by your incubating process. They are the prettiest little brood -imaginable, and what is so charming about them is that they are all so -tame and well-behaved that they will never fly. This is such a comfort. -Just a little scurrying and flopping through the press-yard is all -they are capable of, and quite enough too. Comfortable hencoop sanity -in literature is the thing; we don't want any of Professor Lombroso's -maniacs in the way of geniuses about. They are dangerous. They do -strange things and break out in strange places, and often succeed in -stopping all the world on its way to look at them. Nothing would alarm -you so much, I assure you, my dear Andrew, as the involuntary hatching -of a genius. In fact, I believe it would be all over with you. You -could not survive. - -But, thanks to a merciful Providence, you run no risk of this. The -old hen Art is a savage bird and lays her eggs among wild thorns and -bracken out in the open, where no man can find them to bring to you -for the artificial bursting heat of a "boom." You only get the dwarf -product of the domestic poultry of the press-yard. And these are -easily incubated by your patent process--in fact, they almost hatch -themselves, they are in such a hurry to chirp forth their claims to -literary distinction. But being fragile of constitution they need -constantly looking after, which I should imagine must be rather a bore. -Relays of paragraph-men have to come and throw corn and savouries all -the while lest your little chicks should die of inanition, they having -no stamina in themselves. Some will die, some are dying, some are -dead; yet weep not, gentle Incubator, for their fate. It better suits -thy purpose that such should perish, so long as thou dost remain to -hatch fresh fowl upon demand. The press-yard relies upon thee for its -stock of guaranteed male birds--its gifted "virile" roosters, whose -"cocksure" literary crowings may wake old Granny Journalism at stated -hours from too-prolonged and loudly-snoring slumbers; but produce no -hens, Andrew, for if thou dost, thou art a mistaken patent and workest -by a wrong process! Continue in the path of wisdom, therefore, and -faithfully incubate only masculine fledglings for the literary coops. -More we do not expect of thee, save that thou continue to be the king -of compilers and the enemy of blue stockings. For myself, personally -speaking, admiring thee as I am fain to do, I naturally implore thee to -go on in all the magazines and journals telling me the things I knew -before--the old stories I read when I was a thoughtless child, the -scraps of information familiar to me as copybook maxims, the ancient -jokes at which my elders laughed, the snatches of French romance and -fable I picked up casually at school. For being always a book-lover -it is but natural I should have learned the things wherewith thou -instructest the ignorant world; but thou shalt tell me of them again -and yet again, good Andrew, and yet I will not murmur nor ask of thee -one thought original. Aware of all thou canst say, I still entreat -thee, say it! Say it (to quote the jovial old _Saturday_ once more) in -"little," that I may have it "lang." - -And now, ever famous and beloved Andrew, I must for the moment take -my leave of thee. The glory of thy reputation is as a band of light -around the foggy isles of Britain, and that benighted Europe knows -thee not at all is but a trifle to us, though a loss to Europe. When -Hall Caine recently found out that he was not celebrated in Germany -he wondered thereat and said the Germans had no taste for English -literature. No--not though they are the finest Shakesperian scholars -in the world and the most ardent lovers of Byron's poesy. "Benighted -Fatherland!" inwardly moaned the writer of "Sagas"--"Benighted -country that knoweth not my works! Benighted people that have never -heard--ye gods, imagine it!--have never heard the name of Kipling!" -Oh, dull, beer-drinking, Wagner-ridden disciples of Goethe, Schiller, -and Heine! To be ignorant of Kipling! To be only capable of a bovine -questioning stare at Caine! To be impervious to the electric name of -Lang! To know nothing about the new "Thucydides," R. L. Stevenson! -Heaven forgive them, for I cannot. I abjure the Rhineland till it has -been to school with Lang's text-books under its arm. Drop Heine, ye -besotted slaves of "lager-bier," and read Kipling. _Try_ to read him, -anyway. If you can't, my friend Andrew will show you how. Andrew -will show you anything that can be shown in English journals and -newspapers. But beyond these he cannot go. You must not expect him -to expand farther. His incubating work belongs solely to the English -Press Poultry-yard--his name, his power, his influence avail, alas! as -Nothing, out in the wide, wide world! - - - - -XIX. - -BYRON LOQUITUR. - - -If I did not believe, or pretend to believe, in Spiritualism, -Theosophism, Buddhism, or some other fashionable "ism" which is totally -opposed to Christianity, I should not be "in the swim" of things. And -of course I would rather perish than not be in the swim of things. -I cannot, if I wish to "go" with my time, admit to any belief in -God; like Zola's Jean Bearnat, I say, "Rien, rien, rien! Quand on -souffle sur le soleil ça sera fini," or, with the reckless Corelli, -I propound to myself the startling question, "Suppose God were dead? -We see that the works of men live ages after their death--why not the -works of God?" The exclamation of "Rien, rien!" is _la mode_, and -those who are loudest in its utterance generally take to a belief in -bogies--Blavatsky bogies, Annie Besant bogies, Sinnett bogies, Florence -Marryat bogies, many of which disembodied spirits, by the by, talk -bad grammar and lose control over their H's. My jovial acquaintance, -Captain Andrew Haggard (brother of Rider), and I, have rejoiced in -the society of bogies very frequently. We have called "spirits from -the vasty deep," and sometimes, if all the "influences" have been -in working order, they have come. We know all about them. Haggard, -perhaps, knows more than I do, for I believe he confesses to being -enamoured of a rather pretty bogie--feminine, of course. She has no -substance, so the little flirtation is quite harmless. I regret to -say the "spirits" do not flirt with me. They don't seem to like me, -especially since the Tomkins episode. The Tomkins episode occurred -in this wise. At a certain _séance_ in which I took a somewhat too -obtrusive part a "bogie" appeared who announced himself as Tomkins. -Some one asked for his baptismal name, and he said "George." A devil -of mischief prompted me to hazard the remark that I once knew a John -Tomkins, but he was dead. - -"That's me!" said the bogie, hurriedly. "I'm John." - -"How did you come to be George?" I demanded. - -"My second name was George," replied the prompt bogie. - -"That's odd!" I said. "I never knew it." - -"You can't expect to know everything," remarked the bogie, -sententiously. - -"No, I can't," I agreed. "And, what is more, I never knew a Tomkins at -all, John or George, living or dead! You are a fraud, my friend!" - -Confusion ensued, and I was promptly expelled as an "unbeliever" who -disturbed the "influences." And since that affair the "spirits" are shy -of me. - -Whether the memory of the Tompkins episode haunted me, or whether -it was the effect of an excellent dinner enjoyed with "Labby" -just previously, I do not know, but certain it is that on one -never-to-be-forgotten evening I saw a ghost--a _bonâ-fide_ ghost, -who entered my sleeping apartment without permission, and addressed -me without the assistance of a "medium." He was a ghost of average -height and build, and I observed that he kept one foot very carefully -concealed beneath his long, cloudy draperies, which were disposed -about him in the fashion of the classic Greek. Upon his head, which -was covered with clustering curls fit to adorn the brows of Apollo, he -wore a wreath of laurels whose leaves were traced in light, and these -cast a brilliant circle of supernatural radiance around him. In one -hand he grasped a scroll, and as he turned his face upon me he beckoned -with this scroll, slowly and majestically, after the style of Hamlet's -father on the battlements of Elsinore. I trembled, but had no power to -move. Again he beckoned, and his eyes flashed fire. - -"My lord----!" I stammered, shrinking beneath his indignant gaze, and -fervently hoping that I was not the object of his evident wrath. - -"Lord me no lords!" said a deep voice that seemed to quiver with -disdain. "Speak, puny mortal! Knowest thou me?" - -Know him! I should think I did. There was no mistaking him. He was -BYRON all over--Byron, more thoroughly Byronic of aspect than any -portrait has ever made him. Involuntarily I thought of the present Lord -Wentworth and his occasionally flabby allusions to his "Grandfather," -and smiled at the comparison between ancestor and descendant. My -ghostly visitant had a sense of humour, and, reading my thoughts, -smiled too. - -"I see thou hast wit," he was good enough to observe in more pacific -accents. "Hear me, therefore, and mark my every word! There are such -follies in this age--such literary rascals, such damned rogues of -rhymesters--oh, don't be startled! every one swears in Hades--that I -have writ some lines and remodelled others, to suit the exigencies -of the modern school of Shams. Never did Art stand at a premium in -England, but God knows it should not fall to zero as it is rapidly -doing. Listen! and move not while I speak; my lines shall burn -themselves upon thy brain till thou inscribe and print them for the -world to read; then, and then only, having done my bidding, shalt thou -again be free!" - -I bowed my head submissively and begged the noble Ghost to proceed, -whereupon he unfolded his scroll, and read, with infinite gusto, the -following:-- - -"ENGLISH SCRIBES AND SMALL REVIEWERS. - - - "Still must I hear? Shall SWINBURNE mouth and scream - His wordy couplets in a drunken dream, - And I not sing, lest haply small reviews - Should dub me 'dead' and forthwith damn my muse? - No! My proud spirit shall not suffer wrong; - 'Booms' are my theme--let satire be my song. - - "Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill, - My soul obeys an influential Will, - And I from Hades rise to life again - To wield once more mine own especial pen, - Which none have rivalled in these sickly days - Of tawdry epics and translated plays, - When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail, - And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale. - The petty vices of the time demand - Another scourging from my fearless hand; - Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase, - Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place. - Who dare to pile detraction on my name, - Let such beware, for scribblers are my game! - Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small, - WATTS, BRYDGES, MORRIS, ARNOLD, have at you all! - Remember well how once upon a time - I poured along the town a flood of rhyme - So strong and scathing that the little fry - Of rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die! - Moved by that triumph past, I still pursue - The self-same road, despite the _New Review_ - And _Quarterly_, and other journals silly, - That take dull articles by Mr. LILLY. - - "Most men serve out their time to every trade - Save book-reviewers--these are ready-made. - Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote, - With just enough of memory to misquote; - Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault; - Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt'; - Then to the '_Speaker_' or to HENLEY go - (The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low); - Fear not to lie--'twill seem a ready hit; - Shrink not from blasphemy--'twill pass for wit; - Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest, - And be a critic with the very best! - - "Will any own such judgment? No, as soon - Trust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon, - Hope that a 'promised' critique will be done - By bland O'Connor of the _Sunday Sun_, - Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase, - Believe in GLADSTONE'S schemes for Ireland's peace, - Or any other thing that's false, before - You trust reviewers, who themselves are sore. - Never let thought or fancy be misled - By LANG'S cold heart or ALFRED AUSTIN'S head; - While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare; - While such are critics, why should I forbear? - And yet so near these modern writers run - 'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun, - Nor know we when to spare or where to strike, - The bards and critics are so much alike! - - "To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast; - Good taste and reason with those times are past! - Look round and turn each trifling printed page; - Survey the precious works that please the age; - This truth at least let satire's self allow, - No dearth of pens can be complained of now. - The loaded press beneath its labour groans, - And printers' devils shake their weary bones, - While ARNOLD'S epics cram the creaking shelves, - And KIPLING'S ballads shine in hot-pressed twelves - 'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise, - Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize, - And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail; - Each public 'library' assists their sale, - And, hurling lawful genius from its throne, - Takes up some puny idol of its own, - And judges Poesy as just a cross - 'Twixt ASHBY STERRY, LANG, and EDMUND GOSSE. - - "Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, - For notice eager, pass in long review; - Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace: - Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race. - The Grand Old Paradox of Hawarden - Seizes in haste his too prolific pen, - And, heedless how the reading world is bored, - Thrusts to the front a MRS. HUMPHRY WARD, - With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith, - And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death; - Next trumpets CAINE'S 'integrity of aim,' - And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name. - O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strong - Boomers may 'boom' too often and too long! - If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare! - More vapid authors were too much to bear; - But if, in spite of all thy friends can say, - Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way, - And in long articles to stupid papers - Thou still wilt cut thy literary capers, - Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue; - God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'! - - "Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school, - The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule, - The simple ARNOLD, with his 'Asia's Light,' - Who wins attention by translation-right; - And both by precept and example shows - That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, - Convinced himself, by demonstration plain, - There never will be such a book again, - And never such a 'marvellous proper' man - To charm the hearts of ladies in Japan! - - "Who out at Putney on the common strays, - Unsocial in his converse and his ways? - 'Tis SWINBURNE, the Catullus of his day, - As sweet but as immoral in his lay. - Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, - Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. - Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; - From grosser incense with disgust she turns. - Mend, SWINBURNE, mend thy morals and thy taste; - Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste; - Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore, - And use old Scripture similes no more! - - "Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text! - HALL CAINE'S last work, and worst--until his next! - Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays, - Or damns his brother authors with faint praise, - His elephantine style is still the same, - Forever turgid, and forever tame. - Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writ - To suit the measure of the critics' wit; - 'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes, - And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose, - Taking himself and all his books on trust, - And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust! - - "Another book of verses? Who again - Inflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men? - 'Tis Orient KIPLING, the reviewers' boast, - The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast, - Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent, - Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent, - And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' here - And 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere-- - 'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy! - The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I! - For RUDYARD'S verse, despite his 'boom,' is flat, - Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat-- - O RUDYARD KIPLING! Phoebus! What a name - To fill the speaking-trump of future fame! - O RUDYARD KIPLING, for a moment think - What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink! - Thy name already tires the public ear, - One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear; - For though they make a decent show of print - The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'. - O RUDYARD KIPLING! cease to scribble rhymes, - And stick to ARTHUR WALTER of the _Times_; - As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,' - But for God's sake leave Poesy alone; - Scratch not the surface of the mystic East - With flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast, - For India's riddle is a riddle still - In spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,' - The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nations - Are not explained in military flirtations, - Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style, - (Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;) - As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run, - Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done! - - "Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isle - Relieves his inspiration and his bile, - And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deep - Sends the _chef-d'Å“uvres_ that make his readers sleep. - The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heaves - O'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves, - And those who never knew that joy before - Yield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore, - And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day, - Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.' - Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the pen - That writes him up above all other men; - For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hap - His works ensure a harmless, perfect nap. - - "Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaim - The rival candidates for Attic fame; - In grim array though HAGGARD'S Zulus rise, - Yet 'Q' and dull GRANT ALLEN share the prize; - Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'-- - A set of female faddists full of whims-- - Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town, - Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down; - Next see good BENTLEY'S list of writers small: - I wonder where the deuce he finds them all? - Some 'novel new' he issues every week, - A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek-- - Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please, - Sure only geese would purchase books like these! - Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories, - And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories; - Here Madam TROLLOPE whirls her small 'Wild Wheel,' - There Mistress HENNIKER unwinds her reel, - And silly 'fictionists' of no repute - Spring up like weeds to wither at the root. - Excellent BENTLEY! stay thy lavish hand, - Continuous trash were more than we could stand; - Give us good authors who deserve their name, - And save thy once distinguished firm from shame; - Give prominence to Genius--publish less, - Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess, - In spite of folks who think the works of Shelley - Inferior to romances by CORELLI. - - "GRANT ALLEN hath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell, - But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell' - Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash, - He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash; - Practical ALLEN! Noble, manly heart! - Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,-- - To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reach - To feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech, - All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence! - God bless thee, ALLEN, for thy common sense! - - "Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life - To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife! - Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train - Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain; - Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot - In double portion swell thy glorious lot! - As long as Albion's silly sons submit - To Scottish censorship on English wit, - So long shall last thy unmolested rule, - And authors, under thee, shall go to school; - Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan - And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. - KIPLING shall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes - Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes, - And HAGGARD, too, thy eulogies shall seek, - And for his book another 'boom' bespeak; - And various magazines their aid will lend - To damn thy foe or deify thy friend. - Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career, - Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer, - Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway, - And may all editors increase thy 'pay'-- - Yet mark one caution ere thy next review - Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.' - Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire' - Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair - And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin - With nothing more important than a pin-- - A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit'; - Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit! - - "What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose? - A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose, - Writ by a MISTRESS SCHREINER, who elects - A Universal Nothing as her text; - Whereat the _Athenæum_, doddering soul! - Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,' - And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise, - How such a work all nations should amaze: - 'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be - Like Dreams'--produced by the blasphemous She; - So writes the _Athenæum_ to the few - Who still pay threepence for a bad review, - And watch the hatching of the little plots - Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts. - CHARLES DILKE! Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban, - And show thyself to be the 'leading' man, - With one strong effort snap thy social fetter - And get thy prosy journal managed better! - - "Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde! - Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child! - Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays, - Sole object of thine own unceasing praise, - None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass, - And thou dost shine supreme in native brass. - Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead Molière - With all the _mots_ of _Lady Windermere_; - Thou hast swept other novelists away - With the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.' - Thine enemies must fly before thy face, - Thou bulky glory of the Irish race! - Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not, - Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got, - Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle, - Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile, - Still let thy dwelling in our centre be; - England would lose all splendour, losing thee! - Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance! - We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France! - - "Wise HARDY! Thou dost gauge the modern taste: - Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based-- - A story of Seduction wins success, - Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.' - Pure morals are old-fashioned--Virtue's name - Is a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame, - But novels that defy all codes and laws - Of honest cleanness, win the world's applause, - And so thy venture sails with favouring winds, - Blest with approval from all prurient minds. - - "See where at HORSHAM, Shelley's muse is crown'd! - Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground! - What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!-- - Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin, - Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wake - At such tame honours for the dead bard's sake; - An EDMUND GOSSE doth make the day's oration, - Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation! - And WILLIAM SHARP, face-buried in his beard, - Thinks his own works should be as much rever'd - As Shelley's, if the world were only wise - And viewed him with his own admiring eyes; - And LITTLE (Stanley) doth with GOSSE combine - To judge the perish'd Poet line by line, - Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done, - (Though they could match him easily, each one,) - But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well; - 'Agreed!' says CHAIRMAN HURST, J.P., D.L.! - - "O Shelley! my companion and my friend, - Brother in golden song, is this the end? - Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought, - Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught? - No larger honours from the world's chief city, - Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'? - Where Names appear upon the muster-roll - But only Names that lack all visible soul; - Conspicuous by his absence, TENNYSON, - The HORSHAM 'In Memoriam' doth shun; - Next, HENRY IRVING'S name doth much attract - (That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act) - But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away - From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,-- - And not one 'notable' the eye perceives, - Save the Methusaleh of song, SIMS REEVES; - Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low? - And must thy Genius such dishonour know? - Is this the way thy Centenary's kept? - Better go unremembered and unwept - Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry, - And get 'recited' by an ALMA MURRAY! - - "Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell - The public what they all should know full well; - Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage - The host of idiots that infest the age - And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire, - Libelling genius if it dare aspire. - Let harmless BARRIE scrawl a Scottish tale - And English ears with 'dialect' assail, - Let WILLIAM ARCHER judge, and bearded SHARP - Condemn his betters, enviously carp - At living bards (if any), one and all, - Such is the way of versifiers small; - Let MORRIS whine and steal from Tennyson, - The poet King, whose race is nearly run, - Let ARNOLD drivel on, and SWINBURNE rave, - And godly PATMORE chant a stupid stave, - Let KIPLING, CAINE, and HARDY, and the rest, - And all the women-writers unrepressed, - Scrawl on till death release us from the strain, - Or Art assume her highest rights again; - Let HENLEY, to assert his tawdry muse, - Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews, - Feeding with rancour his congenial mind, - Himself the most cantankerous of his kind; - Let ANDREW LANG undaunted, take his stand - Beside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand; - Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs, - Let careful STANNARD sell her 'Winter' wares, - Let WATTS 'puff' SWINBURNE, SWINBURNE bow to WATTS, - And Shakespeare be disproved by MRS. POTTS; - Let all the brawling folly of the time - Find vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme; - Let scribblers rush into the common mart - With all their mutilated blocks of art, - And take their share of this ephemeral day - With COLLINS and her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay'; - And what their end shall be, let others tell; - My time is up and I must say farewell, - Content at least that I have once agen - Poured scorn upon the puny writing men - That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame, - And think their trash deserves a lasting name. - Immortal, I behold the passing show - Of little witlings ruling things below, - And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er, - The literary tricks I lash'd before, - And lash again, with satisfaction deep; - And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep - For those who on my memory slanders fling, - Envying the songs they have no power to sing! - - "Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought, - Where is the fire that once Prometheus brought - To light the world? It warmed _my_ ardent veins, - And still the nations echo forth my strains; - Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dear - And decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier-- - ENGLAND forgets--but England is no more - The England that our fathers loved of yore-- - A huckster's stall--a swarming noisy den - Of bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men-- - England, historic England! She is dead, - And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread, - Crowning with shameful glory on her grave, - Some greasy Jew or speculating knave; - While blundering GLADSTONE, double-tongued and sly, - Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2] who will never die! - - "Thus far I've held my undisturbed career - Prepared for rancour--spirits know not fear! - Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way? - Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay; - Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll-- - I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul-- - Careless of LANG'S resentment, GOSSE'S spite, - SWINBURNE'S small envy, ARNOLD'S judgment trite, - HENLEY'S weak scratch, or _Pall Mall_ petty rage, - Or the dull _Saturday's_ unlessoned page-- - Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough, - And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,' - And by stern Compensation's law shall be - Racked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me! - - "Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sail - That wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale, - And many a starry coast and glistening height - And fairy paradise will greet my sight, - And I shall stray through many a golden clime - Where angels wander, crowned with light sublime; - When I am gone away into that land - Publish at once this ghostly reprimand, - And tell the puling scribblers of the town - I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down! - Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss, - Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss, - And though I vanish into finer air - The spirit of my Muse is everywhere; - Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know - BYRON still lives--their dauntless, stubborn Foe!" - - -Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble -Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading -he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an -already published world-famous Satire; and I ventured to say as much -in a mild _sotto voce_. - -"What does that matter?" he demanded angrily. "Do not the names of the -New school of literary goslings fit into my lines as well as the Old?" - -I made haste to admit that they did, with really startling accuracy of -rhythm. - -"Well, then, don't criticise," he continued; "any ass can do that! -Write down what I have read and publish it--or----" - -What fearful alternative he had in store for me I never knew, for just -then he began to dissolve. Slowly, like a melting mist, he grew more -and more transparent, till he completely disappeared into nothingness, -though for some minutes I fancied I still saw the reflection of his -glittering laurel wreath playing in a lambent circle on the floor. -Awed and much troubled in mind, I went to bed and tried to forget my -spectral visitor. In vain! I could not sleep. The lines recited by the -disembodied Poet burned themselves into my memory as he had said they -would, and I had to get up again and write them down. Then, and not -till then, did I feel relieved; and though I thought I heard a muttered -"Swear!" from some a "fellow in the cellarage," I knew I had done my -duty too thoroughly to yield to coward fear. And I can only say that -if any of the highly distinguished celebrities mentioned by the ghost -in his wrathful outburst feel sore concerning his expressed opinion of -them, they had better at once look up a good "medium," call forth the -noble lord, and have it out with him themselves. I am not to blame. I -cannot possibly hold myself responsible for "spiritual" manifestations. -No one can. When "spooks" clutch your hand and make you write things, -what are you to do? You must yield. It is no good fighting the air. Ask -people who are qualified to know about "influences" and "astral bodies" -and other uncanny bits of supernatural business, and they will tell -you that when the spirits seize you you must resign yourself. Even so -I have resigned myself. Only I do not consider I am answerable for a -ghost's estimate of the various literary lustres of the age:-- - - - "Byron's opinions these, in every line; - For God's sake, reader, take them not for mine!" - - -FOOTNOTE: - -[2] The "Struldbrugs" were a race of beings who inhabited the "Island -of Laputa," and were born with a spot on the forehead, a sign which -indicated their total exemption from death. (See Dean Swift's -"Gulliver's Travels.") - - - - -XX. - -MAKETH EXIT. - - -The hour grows late, dear friends, and I am getting bored. So are you, -no doubt. But though, as I said in the beginning, I take delight in -boring you because I think the majority of you deserve it, I have an -objection to boring myself. Besides, I notice that some of you have -begun to hate me; I can see a few biliously-rolling eyes, angry frowns, -and threatening hands directed towards my masked figure, as I leisurely -begin to make my way out of your noisy, tumultuous, malodorous social -throng. Spare yourselves, good people! Keep cool! I am going. I have -had enough of you, just as you have had enough of me. I told you, -when I first started these "remarks aside," that I did not wish to -offend any of you; but it is quite probable that, considering the -overweening opinion you have of your own virtues and excellencies, you -are somewhat thin-skinned, and apt to take merely general observations -as personal ones. Do not err in this respect, I beseech you! If any -fool finds a fool's cap that fits him, I do not ask him to put it on. -I assure you that for Persons I have neither liking nor disliking, -and one of you is no more and no less than t'other. Loathe me an' you -choose, I shall care little; love me, I shall care less. Both your -loathing and your love are sentiments that can only be awakened by -questions of self-interest; and you will gain nothing and lose nothing -by me, as I am the very last person in the world to be "of use" to -anybody. I do not intend to be of use. A useful person is one who is -willing to lie down in the mud for others to walk dryshod over him, or -who will amiably carry a great hulking sluggard across a difficulty -pick-a-back. Now, I object to being "walked over," and if any one -wanted to try "pick-a-back" with me, he would find himself flung in -the nearest gutter. Wherefore, you observe, I am not "Christianly" -disposed, and should not be an advantageous acquaintance. Though, if -I were to tell you all the full extent of my income, I dare say you -would offer me many delicate testimonies of affectionate esteem. Sweet -women's eyes might smile upon me, and manly hands might grip mine in -that warm grasp of true friendship which is the result of a fat balance -at the banker's. But, all the same, these attentions would not affect -me. I am not one to be relied upon for "dinner invitations" or "good -introductions," and I never "lend out" my horses. I keep my opera-box -to myself too, with an absolutely heartless disregard of other people's -desires. I learned the gospel of "looking after Number One" when I -was poor; rich folks taught it me. They never did anything for me or -for anybody else without a leading personal motive, and I now follow -their wise example. I live my life as I choose, thinking the thoughts -that come naturally to me, my mind not being the humble reflex of any -one morning or evening newspaper; so I am not surprised that some of -you, whose opinions are the mere mirror of journalism, hang back and -look askance at me, the while I pass by and take amused observation of -your cautious attitudes through the eye-holes of my domino. Certes, -by all the codes of social "sets" you ought to respect me. I am the -member of a House, the adherent of a Party, and the promoter of a -Cause, and your biggest men, both in politics and literature, know me -well enough. I might even claim to have a "mission," if I were only -properly "boomed"--that is, of course, if the Grand Old _Struldbrug_, -as the irreverent ghost of Lord Byron calls him, Gladdy, were to rub -his noddle against that of Knowles, and emit intellectual sparks about -me in the _Nineteenth Century_. But I don't suppose I could ever live -"up" to such a dazzling height of fame as this. It would be a wild -jump to the topmost peak of Parnassus, such as few mortals would have -strength to endure. So on the whole I think I am better and safer where -I am, as an "unboomed" nobody. And where am I? Dear literary brothers -and sisters, dear "society" friends, I am just now in your very midst; -but I am retiring from among you because--well, because I do not feel -at home in a human menagerie. The noise is as great, the ferocity is as -general, the greed is as unsatisfied, and the odour is as bad as in any -den of the lower animals. I want air and freedom. I would like to see -a few real men and women just by way of a change--men who are manly, -women who are womanly. Such ideal beings may be found in Mars perhaps. -Some scientists assure us there are great discoveries pending there. -Let us hope so. We really require a new planet, for we have almost -exhausted this. - -And now adieu! Who is this that clutches me and says, will I unmask? -What, Labby? Now, Labby, you know very well I would do anything to -please you; but on this occasion I must, for the first time in my -life, refuse a request of yours. Presently, my dear fellow, presently! -The domino I wear shall be flung off in your pleasant study in Old -Palace Yard on the earliest possible occasion. Believe it! It would -be worse than useless to try to hide myself from your eagle ken. The -"lady with the lamp" on the cover of _Truth_ shall flash her glittering -searchlight into my eyes, and discover there a friendly smile enough. -Meanwhile, permit me to pass. That's kind of you! A thousand thanks! -And now, with a few steps more, I leave the crowd behind me, and, -loitering on its outskirts, look back and pause. I note its wild -confusion with a smile; I hear its frantic uproar with a sigh. And with -the smile still on my lips, and the sigh still in my heart, I slowly -glide away from the social and literary treadmill where the prisoners -curse each other and groan--away and back to whence I came, out into -the wide open spaces of unfettered thought, the "glorious liberty -of the free." I wave my hand to you, dear friends and enemies, in -valediction. I have often laughed at you, but upon my soul, when I -come to think of the lives you lead, full of small effronteries and -shams, I cannot choose but pity you all the same. I would not change -my estate with yours for millions of money. Many of you have secured -what in these trifling days is called fame; many others rejoice in -what are pleasantly termed "world-wide" reputations; but I doubt if -there is any one among you who is as thoroughly happy, as careless, as -independent, and as indifferent to opinion, fate, and fortune, as the -idle masquerader who has strolled casually through your midst, seeking -no favours at your hands, and making no apologies for existence, and -who now leaves you without regret, bidding you a civil "Farewell!" - -Remaining in unabashed candour and good faith, one who is neither your -friend nor enemy, - -THE SILVER DOMINO. - - -The Gresham Press, - -UNWIN BROTHERS, - -CHILWORTH AND LONDON. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER DOMINO*** - - -******* This file should be named 63446-0.txt or 63446-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/4/4/63446 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Silver Domino</p> -<p> Or, Side Whispers, Social and Literary</p> -<p>Author: Marie Corelli</p> -<p>Release Date: October 12, 2020 [eBook #63446]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER DOMINO***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images digitized by<br /> - the Google Books Library Project<br /> - (<a href="https://books.google.com">https://books.google.com</a>)<br /> - and generously made available by<br /> - HathiTrust Digital Library<br /> - (<a href="https://www.hathitrust.org/">https://www.hathitrust.org/</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://hdl.handle.net/2027/mdp.39015063547536"> - https://hdl.handle.net/2027/mdp.39015063547536</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/front.jpg" alt="front" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p> - -<h2><i>OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.</i></h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>"The 'Silver Domino' can handle words and phrases in a manner which -either proves an extraordinary original gift or a good deal of -practice.... The parody of Miss Olive Schreiner is one of the best and -severest parodies we have seen for years.... The book is one to read -and laugh over."—<i>Daily Chronicle, Oct. 14th.</i></p> - -<p>"All unexpectedly one finds one's self in the midst of a most -up-to-date literary satire.... I am bound to say the 'thwackings' [in -the 'Silver Domino'] are entertaining."—<i>Star, Oct. 10th.</i></p> - -<p>"The unknown author of the 'Silver Domino' has been good enough to send -me his book, which is very bright and amusing and outspoken. He has his -knife into a great many people."—<i>The World, Oct. 10th.</i></p> - -<p>"An audacious little book called the 'Silver Domino' is causing a great -deal of amusement in literary circles.... There are some delightful -parodies; also a capital literary creed, which takes liberties with the -<i>Saturday Review</i>, which, by the way, is again for sale."—<i>Western -Daily Mercury, Oct. 15th.</i></p> - -<p>"The 'Silver Domino' consists of truculently candid sallies at the -expense of men eminent in politics, literature, and journalism."—<i>The -Times, Oct. 15th.</i></p> - -<p>"I must confess to have chuckled hugely over some of his [the 'Silver -Domino's'] diatribes."—<i>News of the World, Oct. 23rd.</i></p> - -<p>"Pungent, mordant satire went out with Grenville Murray, but his mantle -has fallen upon the anonymous author of the 'Silver<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span> Domino,' who has -issued some intensely amusing social and literary side-whispers.... All -that he has to tell us is told with wonderful <i>verve</i> and in an easy -flowing style which has a great charm for all who can appreciate such -satire.... I could dwell upon the 'Silver Domino' with great benefit -to my readers and satisfaction to myself, but space forbids; so I -will only say that the book is the most valuable contribution to our -satirical literature that has appeared for many, many years. Our advice -is: 'Get it; read it; and re-read it.'"—<i>Society, Oct, 19th.</i></p> - -<p>"The 'Silver Domino' is a volume of essays.... There are pungency and -freshness about many of the writer's observations."—<i>Sunday Sun, Oct. -23rd.</i></p> - -<p>"The 'Silver Domino' is suggestive of the gentle Malayan exercise of -running a-muck or the emancipated young person having a fling to its -own obvious enjoyment."—<i>Saturday Review, Oct. 29th.</i></p> - -<p>"If it is to Mr. Lang's generosity that we owe the hatching of this -book, that gentleman must assuredly stand aghast."—<i>Vanity Fair, Oct. -29th.</i></p> - -<p>"The literary puzzle of the hour is—Who wrote the 'Silver Domino'?... -The question of authorship apart, nothing at once so bitter and so -clever has appeared since the days of Lord Byron."—<i>The Literary -World, Nov. 4th.</i></p> - -<p>"'Who is the author of the "Silver Domino"?' That is the question I am -asked wherever I go. Whoever it is, he is the author of an extremely -clever book.... Were I to make one single quotation from the 'Silver -Domino' you would be angry with me, yet there is not one of you but -will read it speedily."—<i>The Queen, Oct. 29th.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> - -<h1>THE <br /><br />SILVER DOMINO;</h1> - -<p class="bold">OR</p> - -<p class="bold">Side Whispers, Social and Literary.</p> - -<p class="bold space-above">EIGHTH EDITION.</p> - -<p class="bold">WITH AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THIS ISSUE.</p> - -<p class="bold space-above">LONDON:<br /> -LAMLEY AND CO., <span class="smcap">Exhibition Road</span>.<br />1893.</p> - -<p class="bold">[<i>All rights reserved.</i>]</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">To<br /><br />ANDREW LANG,<br /><br />WHOSE LITERARY GENEROSITY TOWARDS ME<br /> -<br />IS PAST ALL PRAISE,<br /><br />I,<br /><br />WITH THE UTMOST RECOGNITION,<br /><br />DEDICATE THIS BOOK.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> - -<h2>AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>Since the first edition of this book was published, some three weeks -ago, a grave event has occurred, which may be said to have closed an -epoch in the history of Literature. Tennyson, Poet and Laureate, the -last, perhaps, of the exponents of a pure, refined, and musical school -of English poesy, has left us. I will not say he has "crossed the -bar," because I consider that phrase has been overdone. He has passed -away in the fulness of years and honours, amid the sorrowing regret -of all those thousands to whom his melodious muse was as a part of -home and country. No poet ever lived a more easy and amply rewarded -life,—no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span> poet ever died a more easy and enviable death. And I have -nothing to recant in what I have said of him in my chapter entitled -"Of Certain Great Poets." I am only sorry that he did not live to -read my lines, as I know he would have readily understood the sincere -spirit of admiration for his great qualities that moved me to my candid -speech. My "reviewers" have not elected to quote any word of mine on -the subject of the late Laureate, they generally preferring to save -time and trouble by an all-round but rash declaration that there is no -good said of any one in my book. I therefore challenge my readers to -the perusal of "Certain Great Poets," for I will yield to no one in my -admiration of Tennyson, no, not even to Lewis Morris, who calls him -"Master," whereas I was privileged to call him "Friend." I have praised -his genius with as much fervour and possibly more sincerity than any of -the versifiers who have written rhymes to his memory while squabbling -for his vacant post; and, as regards his Diogenes-like unsociability -and distaste for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> "outside vulgar," I have only said what every one -admits to be true. I transcribe here the copy of a letter received from -the great Poet not long before his death:—</p> - -<blockquote><p class="right">"<span class="smcap">Aldworth, Haslemere, Surrey.</span><br /></p> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">My dear</span> ——,—I thank you heartily for your kind letter -and welcome gift. You do well not to care for fame. Modern fame is -too often a mere crown of thorns, and brings all the vulgarity of -the world upon you. I sometimes wish I had never written a line.</p> - -<p class="right">"Your friend,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -"<span class="smcap">Tennyson</span>."</p></blockquote> - -<p>The "vulgarity of the world" and the "outside vulgar" are phrases -by which the literary folk designate the vast Public, without whose -substantial appreciation, they, the inside elect, would starve. The -"outside vulgar," however, with unerring good taste, have purchased -Tennyson's work for the past fifty years, and in the rich<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> harvest -of thoughts they have thus gathered, they can smile with a tender -indulgence at their Kingly Minstrel's shrinking aversion to the -"crowd" who loved him. He was the greatest poet of the Victorian era; -and, draped in the flag of England, as befits his sturdy and splendid -patriotism, he sleeps the sleep of the just and pure-minded who have -served their Art, as worthy subjects serve their Queen, loyally and -unflinchingly to the end. It was "fitting," I suppose, that he should -be laid to rest in dismal "Poet's Corner"—(beside Browning, too! the -Real singer beside the Sham!)—but many would rather have seen him -placed in a shrine of his own,—a warm grassy grave under the "talking" -English oaks whose forest language he so well translated, than thus -pent up among the crumbling ashes of inferior and almost forgotten men.</p> - -<p>Another change has come "o'er the spirit of my dream" since, in the -language of the <i>Daily Chronicle</i>, I flung back the curtain and made -my bow to the public "in a breezy, not to say slap-bang, manner." The -<i>Pall Mall Gazette</i> has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span> changed hands and politics. Once, as will -be seen in the ensuing pages, I adored the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>. Its -fads, its whimsies, its prize "booms," and above all its religious -notions, were my delight. It was, as I said, a "bright particular star" -in the sphere of journalism, but I doubt whether it will continue to -shine on. I much fear that its days of Whimsicality and Boom are over, -though it now has a serious and gentlemanly Scot for an editor, who -does not find his chief amusement in levelling cheap sneers at Crown -and Constitution, and advocating a dangerous and (at heart) unpopular -Democracy. However, we shall see. In the interim, though I may not now -"adore" the <i>Pall Mall</i>, I mournfully respect it.</p> - -<p>I fancy I have made a slight error in that harmless, but Grundy-scaring -jest of mine entitled "The Journalist's Creed." I have alluded to the -excellent and brilliant Henry Labouchere, as "very Rad of very Rad." It -should have been "very Tory of very Tory." This is absurd? Incongruous? -Impossible? Well! Events will prove<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span> whether I am right or wrong. And -I beg to assure all whom it may concern, that I consider there is no -more "irreverence" in the "Journalist's Creed" than is displayed by the -respectable church-goer who murmurs an address or prayer to God in the -hollow of his stove-pipe hat, rather than spoil the set of his trousers -by kneeling down.</p> - -<p>I very earnestly desire to thank my critics one and all for the -attention they have bestowed upon me. They have taken me very -seriously; much more seriously than I have taken myself. I am so -little "peculiar," that I confess to have copied the phraseology of -my diatribes on certain poets and novelists from the language of the -"reviews" in divers journals, and I am truly surprised to hear such -phraseology termed "vulgar." When I was a "known" author (I was, once!) -reviewers "reviewed" <i>me</i> with a profuseness of vituperative force that -struck me as singular; but I did not presume to call their well-rounded -terms of abuse "vulgar" or "scurrilous." Now I see I might very well -have done so, as they all agree in a condemnation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span> of their own -literary vernacular. One lives and learns (this is a platitude), and -when an author anonymously "slates" those who anonymously "slate" him, -it is curious and instructive to observe what a different view is taken -of his case! It is a strange world (platitude number two).</p> - -<p>In conclusion I would fain express my gratitude for the diverting -entertainment which I have had out of the various "guesses" as to my -identity. They are guesses as wild and strange and erroneous as any -that ever followed the track of a "domino noir" through the mazes of -Carnival. I can, however, only repeat that I am not what I seem, and -that up to the present, so far as my personality has been hinted at, or -even boldly asserted, such supposititious "clues" are all random shots -and fall wide of the mark. With the utmost civility, I beg to inform -you, dear friends and enemies alike, that in this trivial matter of -"guessing," you are all, every one of you,—wrong!</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">The Silver Domino.</span></p> - -<p><i>Nov. 9th, 1892.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td colspan="2"></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>I. </td> - <td class="left">OPENETH DISCOURSE</td> - <td><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>II. </td> - <td class="left">SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>III. </td> - <td class="left">PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IV. </td> - <td class="left">OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>V. </td> - <td class="left">HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VI. </td> - <td class="left">CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY</td> - <td><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VII. </td> - <td class="left">CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN</td> - <td><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VIII. </td> - <td class="left">OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED</td> - <td><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IX. </td> - <td class="left">OF WRITERS IN GROOVES</td> - <td><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>X. </td> - <td class="left">OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT</td> - <td><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XI. </td> - <td class="left">THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM</td> - <td><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XII. </td> - <td class="left">QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND</td> - <td><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XIII. </td> - <td class="left">DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER</td> - <td><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XIV. </td> - <td class="left">OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</a></span>XV. </td> - <td class="left">OF MORE POETS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XVI. </td> - <td class="left">TO A MIGHTY GENIUS</td> - <td><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XVII. </td> - <td class="left">CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY</td> - <td><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XVIII. </td> - <td class="left">EULOGISETH ANDREW</td> - <td><a href="#Page_311">311</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XIX. </td> - <td class="left">BYRON LOQUITUR</td> - <td><a href="#Page_327">327</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XX. </td> - <td class="left">MAKETH EXIT</td> - <td><a href="#Page_359">359</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">I.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OPENETH DISCOURSE.</i> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>I.</span> <span class="smaller">OPENETH DISCOURSE.</span></h2> - -<p>Well, old musty, dusty, time-trodden arena of Literature and Society, -what now? Are your doors wide open, and may a stranger enter? A -perpetual dance is going on, so your outside advertisements proclaim; -and truly a dance is good so long as it is suggestive of wholesome -mirth. But is yours a dance of Death or of Life? A fandango of mockery, -a rigadoon of sham, or a waltzing-game at "beggar my neighbour"? -Moreover, is the fun worth paying for? Let me look in and judge.</p> - -<p>Nay, by the gods of Homer, what a dire confusion of sight and sense -and sound is all this "mortal coil" and whirligig of humanity! What<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> -noise and laughter, interspersed with sundry groanings, as of fiends -in Hell! Listening, I catch the echoes of many voices I know; now -and again I have glimpses of faces that in their beauty or ugliness, -their smiling or sneering, are perfectly familiar to me. Friends? No, -not precisely. No man who has lived long enough to be wise in social -wisdom can be certain that he has a friend anywhere; besides, I do not -pretend to have found what Socrates himself could not discover. Enemies -then? Truly that is probable! Enemies are more than luxuries: they are -necessities; one cannot live strongly or self-reliantly without them. -One does not forgive them (such pure Christianity has never yet been in -vogue); one fights them, and fighting is excellent exercise. So, have -at you all, good braggarts of work done and undone! I am as ready to -give and take the "passado" as any Mercutio on a hot Italian day. Note -or disregard me, I care naught; it is solely for my own diversion, not -for yours, that I come amongst you. I want my amusement as others want -theirs, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> nothing amuses me quite so much as the strange customs and -behaviour of the men and women of my time. I love them—in a way; but I -cannot, help laughing at them—occasionally. Sentiment would be wasted -on them; one does not "grieve" over folly and vice any more, unless -one is an ill-paid (and therefore ill-used) cleric, because folly and -vice assume such pettifogging and ludicrous aspects that one's risible -faculties are at once excited, and pity dries up at its fountain-head. -For we live in a little age, and nothing great can breathe in the -stifling atmosphere of our languid, listless indifference to God and -man.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, there is a curious touch of fantastic buffoonery in -everything that temporarily stirs our inertia nowadays. Consider -our Browning-mania! Our Stanley-measles! With what dubious and -half-bewildered enthusiasm we laid the mortal remains of our -incomprehensible "Sordello" to rest in Westminster Abbey! With what -vulgar staring and ridiculous parade we gathered together to see the -"cute" Welsh trader in ivory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> wedded to his "Tennant for life" in the -same wrongfully-used sacred edifice! Has not our "world of fashion" -metaphorically kissed the cow-boots of Buffalo Bill? and "once upon a -time," as the fairy-tales say, did not the great true heart of England -pour itself out on—Jumbo? A mere elephant, vast of trunk and small of -tail—a living representative of our Indian and African possessions; -sure 'twas an innocent beast-worship that became us well! What matter -if giddy France held her sides with hilarious laughter at us, and Spain -and Italy giggled decorously at us behind their fans and mantillas, -and Germany broke into a huge guffaw at our "goings-on" over the brim -of her beer-mug,—let those laugh who win! And have we not always -won? yea, though (in an absent-minded moment) we allowed Barnum, of -ever-blessed memory, to buy for vulgar dollars that which we once so -loved!</p> - -<p>Ah, we are a marvellous and motley crowd at this huge gathering called -Life, dear gossips all!—gossips in society and out of society—a -motley,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> lying, hypocritical, crack-brained crowd! I glide in among -you, masked for the nonce; I hold my silver draperies well up to my -eyes that the smile of derision I now and then indulge in may not -show itself too openly. I am not wishful to offend, albeit I am oft -offended. Yet it is well-nigh impossible to avoid giving offence in -these days. We are like hedgehogs: we bristle at a touch, out of the -excess of our hog-like self-consciousness, and the finger of Truth -laid on a hair of our skins makes us start with feeble irritability -and tetchy nervousness. Christ's command to "bless them that curse -you, and pray for them which despitefully use you," is to us the -merest feeble paradox; for our detestation of all persons who presume -to interfere with our business, and who say unpleasant things about -us, is too burningly sincere to admit of discussion. I, for my part, -frankly confess to entertaining the liveliest animosity towards -certain individuals of my acquaintance, people who shake my hand with -the utmost cordiality, smile ingenuously in my eyes, and then go off -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> write a lying paragraph about me in order to pocket a nefarious -half-crown. I never feel disposed to "bless" such folk, and certes, I -should be made of flabbier matter than a jelly-fish if I prayed for -them.</p> - -<p>But then I am not a Christian; please understand that at once. I am a -Jew, a Gentile, a Pharisee, and—a devil! I may be all four if I like -and yet be Pope of Rome. Why not? since these are the days of free -thought, and one's private religious opinions are not made the subject -of inquisitorial examination. Moreover, all classes aid and abet the -truly pious hypocrite, provided his hypocrisy be strictly consistent. -With equal delightsomeness, all creeds, no matter how absurd, just now -obtain some kind of a hearing. We are at perfect liberty to worship any -sort of fetish we like, without interference. We can grovel before our -Divine Self, and sink to the lowest possible level of degradation in -ministering to its greedy wants, and yet we shall not for this cause be -ostracised from society or excommunicated from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> any sacred pale. With -clerics and with laymen alike, our Divine Self needs more care than our -soul's salvation; for our Divine Self, in its splendid egoism, is a -breathing, eating, drinking, digesting Necessity; our soul's salvation -is a hazy, far-off, dubious concern wherein we are but vaguely -interested, a sort of dream at night which we now and then remember -languidly in the course of the day.</p> - -<p>Talking of dreams, one cannot but consider them with a certain respect. -They are such very powerful "factors," as the useful penny-a-liner -would say, in the world's history. We affect to despise them; and yet -how large a portion of the community are at this moment getting their -daily bread-and-butter out of nothing more substantial than the "airy -fabric" of a vision, which in this particular instance has proved -solid enough to establish itself as one of the foundations of European -civilisation.</p> - -<p>"<i>The angel of the Lord appeared unto Joseph in a dream.</i>" </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> - -<p>It is all there. That dream of the good Joseph was the strange -nutshell in which lay the germ of all the multitudinous Churches, -Popes, Cardinals, Archbishops, bishops, confessors, priests, parsons, -and last (not least), curates. One wonders (when one is a doomed and -damned "masquer" like myself) what would have happened if Joseph had -dreamed a different dream? or, as might have chanced, if he had slept -so profoundly as not to have dreamed at all? We should have perhaps -been under the sway of Mahomet (another dream), or Buddha (another -dream); for certain it is we cannot do without dreams at any period of -our lives, from the celebrated "deep sleep" of Adam, when he dreamt he -lost a rib to gain a wife, down to the "hypnotic-trance" schools of -to-day, where we are gravely informed we can be taught how to murder -each other "by suggestion." The most abandoned of us has an Idea—or -an Ideal—of something better (or worse) than ourselves, according -to whether our daily potations be crushed out of burgundy grape, or -made of mere vulgar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> gin-and-water. Even Hodge, growing stertorous and -sleepy over his poisoned beer and <i>Daily Telegraph</i> at his favourite -"public," takes his turn at castle-building, and drowsily muses on -a coming time of Universal Uproar, which <i>till</i> it comes is proudly -called Socialism, when the "sanguinary" aristocrat will be laid low in -the levelling mire, and he, plain Hodge, will be proved a more valuable -human unit than any educated ruler of any realm. Alas for thee, good -Hodge, that thou should'st boozily indulge in such romantic flights of -fancy! Thou, who in uninstructed thirsty haste dost rush to vote for -him who most generously plies thee with beer, what would'st thou do -without the aristocrat or rich man thou would'st fain trample upon? -Who would employ thee, simple Hodge? Another Hodge like thyself? Grant -this, and lo! Hodge Number Two, by possessing the means, the will and -the power to make thee work for him, tacitly becomes thy master and -superior. Wherefore the Equality thou clamourest after, is wholly at an -end if thou, Hodge Number<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> One, dost hire thyself out as labourer or -servant to Hodge Number Two! This is a plain statement, made plainly, -without Gladstonian periods of eloquence; think it over, friend Hodge, -when thou art alone, <i>sans</i> beer and cheap news-sheet to obfuscate thy -simple intelligence.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, it would be cruel to deprive even Hodge of an idea, -provided the idea be good for him. For ideas are the only unalterable -suggestions of the eternal; their forms change, but themselves are -ever the same. One Idea, running through history, built Baal-bec, -the Pyramids, the temples of India, the Duomo of Milan, and in our -own poor day of brag, the hideous Eiffel tower. The idea has always -been the same; to compass great height and vastness of some kind, and -Eiffel has only dragged down to the level of his merely mechanical -intelligence Nimrod's fantastic notion of the Tower of Babel. Nimrod -had a belief that he could reach Heaven. M. Eiffel was convinced he -could advertise himself. <i>Voilà la difference!</i> That "difference" is -the great gulf between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> ancient art and modern. In the past they went -star-gazing and tried to climb—in the present, we stay where we are, -look after ourselves, and put up an advertisement. Thus has the form of -the idea changed from the likeness of a god into a painted clown—yet, -fundamentally, it is still the same idea. And, reduced to its primeval -element, its first dim, nebulous hint, an idea is nothing but a dream.</p> - -<p>Hence I return to my previous proposition, <i>i.e.</i>, the respect we -owe to dreams, particularly when they result in fixed realities such -as, well!—such as curates, for example. I mention this class of -individuals particularly, because there are so many of them, and also -because they are generally so desperately poor, and (to young ladies -in country parishes) so desperately interesting. What English fiction -would do without a curate or a clerical personage of some kind or -other to figure in its pages I dare not imagine. The novels of other -countries do not produce such hosts of invaluable churchmen, but in -England the most successful books are frequently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> those which treat -of the clergy, from "Robert Elsmere," who found himself startled out -of orthodoxy by a few familiar and well-ventilated French and German -theories of creed, down to the gentle milksops of the church as found -in the novels of Anthony Trollope and the dreary stories of Miss -Edna Lyall. This well-intentioned lady's productions would assuredly -find few readers were it not for the "old-woman-and-faded-spinster" -fanaticism for clergymen. And yet—I once knew a wicked army man -(worshippers of Edna Lyall prepare to be disgusted! truth is always -disgusting) who for some years amused himself by collecting out of the -daily newspapers, cuttings of all the police reports and criminal cases -in which clergymen were implicated, and this volume, an exceedingly -bulky one, he brought to me, with a Mephistophelian twinkle in his bad -old eyes.</p> - -<p>"Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest!" said he. "These fellows in -'holy orders' have committed every crime in the calendar, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> only -mischief I have not found them out in yet is Arson!"</p> - -<p>This was the fact. The calm, unromantic statements of the police, as -chronicled in that carefully-collected book of damnatory evidence, -bore black witness against clerical virtue and morality—a "reverend" -was mixed up in every sort of "abomination" which in old times called -down the judgments of the Lord—save and except the one thing—that -none of them had been convicted of wilfully setting fire to their own -or other peoples' dwellings. But I believe—I may be wrong—that Arson -is not a very common crime with any class. It is not of such frequent -occurrence as murder or bigamy—or if it is, it does not attract so -much attention. So I fancy it may be taken for granted that clergymen -are, on the whole, not a whit better, while they are very often worse, -than the laity they preach at—hence their "calling and election" is -vain, and nobody wonders that they are by their proven inefficiency -causing the very pillars of the Church<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> to totter and fall. And has not -Parliament been seriously busying itself with a "Clerical Immorality" -Bill? This speaks volumes for the integrity of the preachers of the -Gospel!</p> - -<p>As for me, who am no Churchman, but merely a stray masquerader -strolling through the social bazaar, I consider that all churches as -they at present exist, are mockeries, and as such, are inevitably -doomed. Nothing can save them; no prop will keep them up; neither -fancy spiritualism, nor theosophism, nor any other "ism" offered by -notoriety-hunting individuals as a stop-gap to the impending crash. -Not even the Booth-boom will avail—that balloon of cleverly-inflated -philanthropy which has been sent up just high enough to attract -attention from the gaping Britishers, who, like big children, must -always have something to stare at. Of course, my opinion, being the -opinion of an "anonymous," is worthless, and I do not offer it as -being valuable. In saying things, I say them for my own amusement, and -if I bore any one by my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> remarks, so much the more am I delighted. -As a matter of fact, I take peculiar pleasure in boring people. Why? -Because people always bore <i>me</i>, and I adore the sentiment of revenge! -And that I stand here, masked, a stranger to all the brilliant company -whirling wildly around me, is also for my own particular entertainment. -If I have said anything to offend any of the excellent clericals I see -running towards me with the inevitable "collection-plate," I am sorry. -But I will not bribe them for their good opinion, nor will I flatly -disobey the command received (which they all seem to forget), "Do not -your alms before men." Besides, I have nothing with me just now—not -a farthing. I am only in this great assembly for a few moments, and -my "silver domino," lavishly studded with stars, has cost me dear. -For the completion of churches, and the mending of chancels, and the -french-polishing of pews, I have no spare cash. Walls will not hold -me when I am fain to worship—I take the whole arching width of the -uncostly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> sky. There are rich old ladies in this vast throng of people, -doubtless?—dear Christian souls who hate their younger relatives, -and who are therefore willing to spend spare cash in order to prove -their love of God. From these gather your harvest while you may, all -ye ordained "disciples of the Lord," but excuse a poor wandering -Nobody from No-land from the uncongenial task of helping to provide -a new organ for parish yokels, and from sending out cheap Bibles to -the "heathen Chinee," who frequently disdains to read them. Let me -pass on—I am not worth buttonholing—and I want to take a passing -glance at things in general. I shall whisper, mutter, or talk loudly -about anything I see, just as the humour takes me. Only I will not -promise any polite lying. Not because I object to it, but simply -because it has become commonplace. Everybody does it, and thus it -has ceased to be original, or even diplomatic. To openly declare the -Truth—the truth of what we are now, and what, in the course of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> -present down-hill "progress," we are likely to become; the truth that -is incessantly and relentlessly gnawing away at the foundations of -all our social sophistries—to do this, I say, and stand by it when -done, would be the only possible novelty that could really startle the -indolent and exhausted age. But nobody will undertake it. It would be -too troublesome. One would run so many risks. One would offend so many -"nice" people! True—very true. All the same, neither for convenience -nor amiability do I personally consider myself bound to tell lies -for the mere sake of lying. So, while elbowing a passage through the -crowd, I shall give expression to whatever thoughts occur to me, -inconsequentially or rationally, as my varying moods suggest; moreover, -I shall be very content to glide out of the "hurly-burly," and enter it -no more, when once I have said my say. </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">II.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>II.</span> <span class="smaller">SOLILOQUISETH ON LITTLE MANNERS.</span></h2> - -<p>One can hardly be among a great number of people more or less -distinguished, without observing the way they move, talk, walk, -and generally behave themselves. And the first impression received -on entering the throng over which the electric light flashes its -descriptive sky-sign "Present Day" is distinctly one of—bad manners; -yes, bad, ungainly, jostling, "higgledy-piggledy" manners. The general -effect (bird's-eye view) is as of motley-clothed lunatics hurrying -violently along to a land of Nowhere. Men stoop and shuffle and -amble from the knees, instead of walking with an erect and dignified -demeanour; women skip or waddle, making thereby an undue exhibition -of purely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> English feet. In art-collections one sees plenty of old -engravings wherein are depicted gallant, well-shaped gentlemen, -pressing three-cornered hats to the left sides of their lace-ruffled, -manly bosoms, and bending with exquisite deference and stately -deportment to demurely sweet dames, who, holding out gossamer skirts in -taper fingers, perform the prettiest curtsies in response. It must have -been charming to see them thus habitually realising the value of mutual -politeness in everyday life; one would like to witness a revival of the -same. Men lost nothing by outwardly expressing a certain reverence for -women; women gained a great deal by outwardly expressing their gentle -acknowledgment of that reverence. "Manner makyth the man," says the -old adage, and if that be true, then there are no men, for certainly -there are no manners—at least, not among the "upper ten." I am in a -position to judge, for I am somewhat of a favourite at Court, where -manners are not at a very high premium. I can only judge, of course, by -what I see, and in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> observations of the fair sex I submit that, not -being a "fair" myself, I may be wrong. Yet I believe it is true that -ladies of high rank and good education are obliged to be taught (three -lessons for one guinea) how to make a proper obeisance to the Queen. -And the lesson is, I presume, too cheap to include any training in the -art of decently polite behaviour during the "wait" before entering -the Throne-room. The impudent push and self-assertion of these "noble -dames" is something amazing to witness: the looks at one another—looks -as bold as those of Jezebel—the scramble, the reckless tearing of -lace, and scratching of arms and shoulders in the heated <i>mêlée</i> -is—well—simply degrading to the very name of womanhood. Better, -dear ladies, not to go to a Drawing-room at all if you cannot get to -your Queen without tearing your fellow-woman's dress off her back and -inflicting scars on her unprotected shoulders. Men are better behaved -at the <i>levées</i>, but among them all scarce one knows how to bow. -Nevertheless, they are more polite to each other than women<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> are; they -are obliged to be—no man will take insolence from another man without -instantly resenting it.</p> - -<p>A strange thing it is to consider how poets have raved from time -immemorial about the "grace" of woman! It is pathetic to see how these -ingenuous verse-writers will persist in keeping up their illusions. -As a matter of fact, in England at least, there is scarce one woman -in a hundred who knows how to walk well. And that one is always such -a "peculiar" object that her movements are generally commented upon -as "affected." To a masculine observer this is very strange. A lady -who bundles up her clothes well behind, exposes thick legs, flat -feet, and ugly boots all at once in order to effect her entrance into -carriage, cab, or omnibus, is, by certain of her own sex, voted "a good -soul," "unaffected," "no nonsense about her," "as frank and simple -a creature as ever lived." But a lady who lifts her dress just high -enough to show the edge of a dainty lace on her petticoat, clean, trim -boots, the suspicion of an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> ankle, and only the pleasing suggestion -of a leg—she—ah! nasty designing creature! "No good, my dear!" "all -affectation, every bit of her!" "<i>Look at the lace on her petticoat!</i>" -This last clause, I have noticed, is always damnatory in the opinion -of super-excellent females with no lace on their petticoats. There is -enough in this suggestion to make even a strolling masquerader pause -and meditate, because, arguing from the point of view taken by many -eminently virtuous dames, it would seem that manners, <i>i.e.</i>, walking -well, keeping clean, and holding one's self with a certain affable -grace and air of distinction, are indicative of latent cunning. This -curious but popular fallacy applies in England to men as well as women. -The awkward gawk, whose clothes never fit, and who appears to be always -encumbered and distressed by his own hands and feet, is frequently -declared to be a "good fellow," "heart in the right place," "regular -trump," and so forth, as probably he is. I do not for a moment imply -that he is not. But I will maintain that because a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> holds himself -well, dresses well, and is perfectly at ease with the appurtenances of -his own body, he need not therefore be "a confirmed <i>roué</i>" "a turf -man," or "a club gamester." But this is what he frequently passes for -if he dares to indulge in a suspicion of "manner." In fact, the only -presumable effort of "style" now attempted by the men of to-day appears -to be concentrated in the art of twirling or stroking the moustache -whenever the owner of the moustache perceives a pretty woman. This -little trick is done in different ways, of course; the "twist" can be -rendered insolently, familiarly, aggressively, or with a caressing -feline movement, indicative of dawning amorousness. It is frequently -effective, particularly with schoolgirls and provincial misses, who -have been known to render up their susceptible hearts instantaneously -to one victorious twirl of a really well-grown moustache, but I have -also seen many creditable performances of moustache-twirling completely -thrown away on unappreciative women. It is, however, the only piece -of elegance—if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> elegance it can be called—indulged in by the true -"masher." And beyond it he never soars. He does not know how to lift -his hat gracefully; he does not know how to enter a room (without -looking vaguely surprised or beamingly idiotic), or leave it again with -any touch of affable dignity. His movements are generally stiff and -ungainly to the very last degree, and, worst of all, he seldom has any -brains to make up for his lack of breeding.</p> - -<p>A good position from whence to observe the manners of the time is close -to the right hand of the Premier on the evening of a great crush at -the Foreign Office. If courtly Lord Salisbury be there, you get in his -bow, smile, and cordial handshake the finest essence of diplomatic -urbanity and ease. But when you have exchanged greetings with him and -his gracious lady you have seen nearly all you shall see of "manner." -The throng come tumbling in helter-skelter, treading on each other's -heels, for all the world like an untrained crowd of the "bas-peuple," -all heated, all flustered, all vaguely staring ahead. Ambassadors, -foreign princes, military<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> dignitaries, jerk their heads spasmodically -on entering the rooms, but evidently have no proper notion of a bow, -while some of them let their arms hang stiffly down at their sides, -and proffer a salutation that seems as though it were the result of a -galvanic wire working their spines by some curious patent process not -yet quite perfected. And the women!—the poets' goddesses! They arrive -in very ungoddess-like bundles of rich clothing, some waddling, some -ambling, some sidling, but only a rare few, a dozen at most, <i>walking</i>, -or carrying themselves as being at all superior to their gowns. Most -of these "fair" forget to curtsey properly to their distinguished -entertainers, and the general impression made on the mind of an -observer in looking at the "manner" of their entrance is distinctly -unpleasing. Most of them wear far too many diamonds, a notable sign -of egregious bad taste. A woman I saw there on one occasion wore a -sort of dish-cover of diamonds on her head. (A friend told me it was -a "garland"; it may have been,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> but it looked like a dish-cover.) Her -hair was straight and flat, and stuck close to her scalp, and beneath -the gorgeous headpiece of jewels was a fat red face profusely adorned -with wrinkles and pimples, on which the diamonds cast a cruel glare. -"Alas, good soul," I thought, as she went glittering past, "thou hast -fallen on the most evil hour of all thy span—the fateful time when thy -jewels are preferable to thyself!"—though, truly, as an unnoteworthy -personage, I may here remark that I do not like diamonds. I own that -a few choice stones, finely set and sparkling among old lace, are -effective, but the woman who can wear a soft white gown without any -ornaments save natural flowers would always carry away the palm of true -distinction for me. I confess my notions are old-fashioned, especially -those concerning women.</p> - -<p>Talking of the Foreign Office, there was a terrible man there once -who trod on everybody's toes. He seemed born to do it. He was tall -and powerful, and wore the full Highland costume. I shall never -forget the bow he made to Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> Salisbury—it bent him double in true -Scottish fashion; for a <i>bonâ-fide</i> Scot, you know, always yearns -to cast himself on his knees before a title. It is in his blood and -heritage so to do: the remains of the old humility practised by the -clans to their chiefs what time they were all robbers and rievers -together. This man literally divided himself to do fitting homage -to the Premier's lady—his head sank to the level of the hem of her -dress, while the back part of his kilt (not to be irreverent) rose -visibly in air in a way that was positively startling. The achievement -appeared to alarm some people, to judge by their anxious looks. Would -the noble Highlander ever come straight again? That was the question -that was evidently agitating the observers of his attitude. He did come -straight, with galvanic suddenness too, and marched off on the war-path -through the rooms, planting his foot, not "on his native heath," but on -every other foot he could find with a manly disregard of consequences. -He was a great man, he <i>is</i> a great man; I feel sure he must be, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>otherwise he would not have hurt so many people without apologising.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, there is nothing so rare in these days as -distinguished and affable manners. An Arab thief has often more -external personal dignity than many an English peer. In some of -the best houses in the land I have seen the owners of the stately -surroundings comport themselves with such awkward sheepishness as to -suggest the idea that they were there by mistake. I have seen great -ladies sitting in their own drawing-rooms with a fidgety and anxious -air, as though they momentarily expected to be ordered out by their -paid domestics. When I was "green" and new to society I used to think -somewhat of dukes and earls. I had a foolish notion that the wearers -of great historic names must somehow look as if they inwardly felt -the distinction of race and ancestry. Now that I know a great many -of these titled folk, I have discovered my mistake. I find several -of them vote their "ancestors" a "bore." They carry no outward marks -to show that they ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> had ancestors. They might indeed have been -ground into existence by means of a turning-lathe, for aught of -inherited beauty, stateliness or courtesy they exhibit. I have seen -great dukes bulge into a room with less grace than sacks of flour, and -I have watched "belted earls" sneaking timorously after the footman -who announced their lofty names, with a guilty air as though they -had picked that footman's plush pockets on the way. I once heard -a very, very "blue-blooded" duchess run through the items of her -chronic indigestion with as much weight and emphasis of detail as a -brandy-seeking cook. A famous lord, brother to a famous duke, has -shuffled into my study and sunk into a chair with the "manner" of -an escaped convict, and I have had much ado to drag him out of his -self-evident humiliation. He has picked his fingers and surveyed his -boots disconsolately. He has felt the leg of his trouser in doubtful -plight. That his "ancestry" performed acts of valour on Bosworth field -awakens in his flabby soul no pulse of pride. His heroic progenitors -might as well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> have been tallow-chandlers for all he cares. Yet he is -the living representative of their greatness, more's the pity! I often -wonder what those old Bosworth fellows would say if they could come to -life and see him—their descendant—as he is—with but two ideas in his -distinguished noddle—ballet-girls and brandy-and-soda!</p> - -<p>I am here reminded of an incident which in this place may not come -amiss. I happened to be present on one occasion at a luncheon-party -made up chiefly of men, most of them well known in Parliament and -society. Our hostess was (and is) a lady who always has more men than -women at her parties, but on this particular day there was one stranger -present, a lady noted for a great literary success. After luncheon, -when this lady took leave of her hostess and went downstairs into -the hall, it was found that her carriage had not arrived. She waited -patiently, with the footman on guard staring at her. Meanwhile man -after man came downstairs, passed her in the hall as though she were a -stray servant (they had all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> eagerly conversed with her at luncheon, -and had tried to get as much entertainment out of her as possible), -and never uttered a word. Not one of them paused to say, "Allow me to -escort you upstairs till your carriage comes," or, "Can I do anything -for you?" or, "May I have the pleasure of waiting to see you into -your carriage?" or any other of the old-world chivalrous formalities -once <i>de rigueur</i> with every gentleman. Not one man; except the last -who came down, and who (under the immediate circumstances) shall be -nameless, as he was evidently a fool. Because among the gentlemen who -thus passed the lady by, were Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr. Lockwood, -Q.C., and other "notabilities," so I am forced to argue from this -that it is the very essence of modern "good form" to ignore a lady -(with whom you have previously conversed) at the precise moment when -she might seem to require a little attention. So that the stupid and -ill-bred person was the nameless "he" who came down last, who spoke to -the solitary "damozel," escorted her upstairs again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> to her hostess, -waited with her, chatting pleasantly in the drawing-room till her -carriage arrived, then took her down to it, put her in, and lifted his -hat respectfully as she drove away. He was not "nineteenth-century -form"—and his "manner" was obsolete. Most people would rather be -considered downright vulgar than what they are pleased to term -"old-fashioned."</p> - -<p>Hurry kills "manner," and there can be no doubt that in this day we -are all in a frantic hurry. I don't know what about, I'm sure. We are -after no good that I can see. I have tried to fathom the reason of -this extraordinary and vilely unbecoming haste, and the only apparent -cause I can discover is that we are trying to get as much out of life -as possible before we die. The means, however, entirely defeat the -object. We have no time to be generous, no time to be sympathetic, no -time to converse well, no time to do anything but feed and look after -our own interests, and we get so fatigued in the business of living -that life itself becomes worthless. At least, so it seems to me. I say -we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> are "all" in a terrible hurry, but this is not quite correct. There -are exceptions to the rule. I myself am one. I never hurry. I "laze" -through life and enjoy it. I never "scramble" for anything, and never -"fluster" myself for anybody. Even now I am sauntering, not rushing, -amidst you all with the utmost ease; I move softly and talk softly, -and, though frequently disposed to laughter, I never snigger aloud. -The loud snigger (sign of "well-bred" hilarity) is the muffled but -exact echo of the donkey's bray. It resembles it in tone and sense and -quality. I avoid it; because, though a donkey is an exceedingly clever -beast and much maligned, his voice might be easily surpassed. As it is, -<i>au naturel</i>, it does not appear to me worth imitating.</p> - -<p>And now, pardon me, sirs and dames, but as I perceive a small crowd of -you engaged in the truly English occupation of staring, not at me, but -at my glittering domino, and as I do not wish to create an obstruction, -I will, with your very good leave, pass on. Observe how quietly I -glide; with only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> the very faintest rustle of my "star-spangled" -wrappings; striving not to tread on anybody's corns, carefully winding -my way in and out the busy throng, and only holding myself a little -more erect than some of you, because—well! because I have no favours -to ask of anybody, and therefore need not trouble myself to acquire the -nineteenth-century skulk and propitiatory grin. And so—on through the -motley! </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">III.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>III.</span> <span class="smaller">PRONOUNCETH ON LESSER MORALS.</span></h2> - -<p>I think if everybody would only be as frank as I am, they would -confess we haven't such a thing as a Little Moral left, except in the -copy-books. Big Morals are everywhere, writ large for all the world -to see; we don't trouble about them because they do not individually -concern us—they are merely the names and forms that help to keep -things going. But little morals are gone out of fashion entirely. It -is rather perplexing when we come to think of it. Because we ought -to be moral, strictly moral; and feeling that we ought to be, we -have to pretend that we are. Sometimes we find it difficult to keep -up the game, but as a rule we succeed fairly well. Only we know, you -know,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> that a "little moral" is a bore. That is why, in our heart of -hearts, we will have nothing to do with it. For example, it is not -on the lines of "little morality" that we should run up bills. But -we do run them up. Sometimes, too, without the smallest intention of -paying them. It is not in the path of unselfish virtue that we should -give our dear friends wine from the "stores" at "store" prices, while -we carefully reserve our old Chambertin and Chateau d'Yquem for our -own special drinking; but we do this sort of thing every day. And yet -we love our dear friends—oh! how we love them! we would do anything -for them, anything—except produce our Chambertin. And it is not, I -believe, a "little moral," <i>i.e.</i>, a copy-book maxim, that we should -fall in love with our neighbour's wife. But that is just precisely -the most delightful among our modern fashionable amusements. Our -neighbour's wife is the most interesting woman in our social set. -Our neighbour's daughter is not half so interesting. Because our -neighbour's daughter is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>generally marriageable; our neighbour's wife -is only divorceable—hence her superior charm. The scandalous and -rude statement, "Whoso looketh on his neighbour's wife to lust after -her, hath already committed——" No, no! I will not defile delicate -ears polite with pure New Testament language. It is too strong; it is -painfully strong—quite unpleasant—a thunderous speech uttered by the -holiest lips that ever breathed man's breath, but it is shocking, and -gives our nerves an unpleasant thrill. Because we do look after our -neighbour's wife a good deal nowadays; "neigh" after her is the old -Scriptural term for our latter-day custom, which has been set in vogue -by the most distinguished examples of aristocracy among us. And our -neighbour's wife's husband is a capital butt for our "chaff"; we like -him, oh yes, we always like him: we go and stay with him for weeks, and -shoot game in his preserves, and ride his best horses; he is a capital -fellow, by Jove, but an awful fool. Yes, so he is. Our neighbour's -wife's husband is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> generally a fool. His dense noddle never discerns -any way out of his dishonour but the crooked path of the law. I haven't -got a wife—praise be to heaven!—but if I had, and I found any "noble" -personage disposed to "neigh" after her, I know what I should do with -him. I should trounce him with a tough cowhide thong till his "blue -blood" declared itself, till his "nobility" roared for mercy. Whether -he were prince, duke, lord, or plain "Mister," he would be black as -well as "blue" before I had done with him. Of course the law would have -to come in afterwards by way of a summons for assault, but who would -not pay liberally for the satisfaction of thrashing a low scoundrel? -Besides, viewed in the most practical light, it would cost less than -the business of divorce, besides having the immense advantage of giving -no satisfaction to the guilty parties concerned.</p> - -<p>By Heaven, there are some men I know whom I would kick in the way -of pure friendship, if a kick would rouse them to a sense of their -position<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>—men whose wives are openly shamed, the whole public knowing -of their flagrant, unblushing infidelity—men who stand by and look -on at their own disgrace, and yet presume to offer the "example" of a -public career to the "lower" classes. And how these "lower" despise -them; how they who still do call a spade a spade are filled with honest -scorn for such "distinguished" cowards! Well, well, I shall do no -good, I warrant, by heating my blood in the cause of the worthless and -degraded; fidelity in wives, manly principle in husbands, are "little -morals," and seem to have gone out with the jewelled snuff-boxes and -rapiers of old time.</p> - -<p>Among other of these "little morals" it used to be tacitly understood -that "gentlemen" should preserve a certain delicacy of speech when -conversing before "ladies." This idea appears to be almost obsolete. -Men have no scruple nowadays in talking about their special ailments to -women (and not old women either), and they will allude to the various -parts of their bodies affected by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> those ailments in the most frankly -disgusting manner. At a supper-party given by one of the most exalted -of noble dames not long ago, I heard a brute detailing the ins and -outs of his "liver" trouble to an embarrassed looking young woman of -about eighteen. As for the ugly word "stomach," it is commonly used in -various circles of the <i>beau-monde</i>, and the most revolting details -of medicine and surgery are frequently dealt with in what used to be -termed "polite conversation." That ugly old women, and fat, greasy -matrons love to chatter about their own and their friends' illnesses, -is of course an accepted fact, but that men should do so before a -casual company of the married and unmarried "fair" is a new and highly -repulsive phase of "social intercourse." I remember hearing the editor -of a well-known magazine talk with a pretty young unmarried woman -concerning the possibilities of her sex in Art, and after the utterance -of many foolish platitudes, he brought his remarks to a brusque -conclusion with the following words: "Oh yes, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> admire gifted women, -but, after all, their genius is bound to be interfered with and marred -by the <i>bearing of children</i>." Coarse ruffian as he was, I suppose the -surprised, hot blush that stained the poor girl's face was agreeable -to his low little soul, while I, for my part, yearned to knock him -down. His words, and above all, his manner, implied that he in his -fatuous mind considered every woman bound, willy-nilly, to submit -herself to the passions of man, be she saint or sinner. "The bearing -of children," as he put it, is, according to natural animal law, the -prime business of the average woman's life, average women being seldom -fit for anything else. But it has to be conceded that there are women -above the average, who, gifted with singular powers of ambition and -attainment, sweep on from one intellectual triumph to another, and do -so succeed in quelling the natural animalism that they do not consider -themselves bound to "bring forth and multiply" their kind. With -brilliant, fiery-souled Bashkirtseff, they exclaim: "Me marier et avoir -des<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> enfants! Mais chaque blanchisseuse peut en faire autant!"</p> - -<p>And in her next sentence the captive genius cries: "Mais qu'est ce que -je veux? Oh, vous le savez bien. Je veux la gloire!" And "la gloire," -despite the opinions of the vulgar little editor aforementioned, does -not precisely consist in having babies, in hushing their frantic yells -hour after hour, and wiping their perpetually dribbling noses, what -time the fathers of these "blessings" sleep and snore in peace. "La -gloire" assumes an inviting aspect to many feminine souls to-day, and -the "joys of marriage" pale in comparison. It is rather a dangerous -seed to sow, this "la gloire," in the hitherto tame fields of woman's -life and labour, and the harvest promises to astonish the whole world. -That is, provided women will be original and not imitate men. At -present they imitate us too closely, and even in the question of coarse -freedom of speech they ape the masculine example. If a man insists -on talking about his "liver" a woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> will bring her "leg" into the -conversation in order to be even with him. The vulgar word "ripping" -slips off the tongue of a well-bred young woman as easily as though she -were a rough schoolboy. And so on through the whole gamut of slang. As -a casually interested spectator of these things, I would respectfully -inform the "fair" that as long as they elect to "follow" instead of -"lead," so long will their efforts to attain eminence be laughed at and -contemptuously condemned. A painful flabby-mindedness distinguishes -many of the sex feminine, an inviting readiness to be "sat upon" which -is perhaps touching, but also ridiculous. If you take up an art, -dear ladies, you require to be strong if you ever wish to consummate -anything worth doing. Art accepts no half measures. You will need to -live solitary and eat the bread of bitterness, with tears for wine. -Consolations you will have doubtless, but they will come slowly, and -not from without, only from within. An ethereal ice-air will surround -and sever you from the common lot,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> you will be lifted higher and -higher into a cold, pure atmosphere that will require all your force -of lung to breathe without losing life in the effort. If you can stand -it—well! if not, better be Bashkirtseff's "blanchisseuse qui pent -faire autant."</p> - -<p>Is it worth while, among "little morals," to mention gambling? I -trow not? Everybody gambles, from the men on the Stock Exchange to -the princes of the blood. We gamble on the turf, in the clubs, and -in our own homes, with the most admirable persistency. Any trifling -excuse serves, as, for example, a man asked me the other day to risk a -sovereign on the question as to whether a certain music-hall artiste's -Christian name began with a P. or a W. I declined the offer, not being -interested in music-hall artistes. And this brings me to a final point -in our "little morals," namely, the point of considering how utterly -and finally some of us have kicked over the traces with regard to -preserving the respectability and virtue of our women. We frequently -allow women to do things nowadays that may, or will, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> the end -degrade them, while we put obstacles in all directions to retard their -elevation to distinction in the arts or sciences. We hate the idea of -their having a voice in the government of the country, but we do not at -all mind their appearing half naked to dance before us on the stage. -We are hardly civil to the young daughters of our aristocratic host, -but we will make a countess of the public dancer of "break-downs." -We will only arrive at an intimate friend's ball in time to eat his -supper, but we will hang about for hours to stare at an advertised -"beauty barmaid." Yet I should not say "we," since I am not guilty of -these things. I am not fond of music-halls, though I confess to finding -them more entertaining than Mr. Irving's hydraulic efforts at tragedy. -Still I daresay my good friend Gladstone patronises them more than I -do. Again, I am not devoted to barmaids. I may here remark a trifling -particular connected with "little morals" which has often struck me. -It is this. A "man about town" will kiss a pretty housemaid or any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> -other "low-class" woman he fancies without considering himself demeaned -by the act. Now, how is it that a lady of equal position never wishes -to kiss a footman or a waiter at a restaurant? One would think the -situation as tempting to one sex as another. But no. The "lady" would -consider herself insulted if kissed by a footman; the "gentleman" -chuckles with ecstasy if kissed by the housemaid. Why is this thus? I -am inclined to think that here the "fair sex" score the winning number -in the trifling matter of self-respect.</p> - -<p>And now we have come soundly upon the cause of our open disregard of -"little morals." It is this: loss of self-respect. We do not respect -ourselves any longer, probably because we do not find ourselves worthy -of respect. We cannot respect a creature who is ready to sell soul, -body, sentiment, and opinion for hard cash, but that creature is -Ourself, in this blessed time of progress. Morals are nowhere weighed -against a fat balance at the banker's. Self-respect is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> ridiculous if -it opposes the gospel of Grab. What will self-respect do for us? Simply -isolate us from our fellow-men! Our fellow-men tell convenient lies, -cheat prettily, steal their neighbour's wives, and yet walk openly in -social daylight; why should not we all do the same? Where is the harm? -We only hurt ourselves if we try to do otherwise, and, what is far -worse, we are looked upon as fools. We cannot possibly be "in the swim" -unless we are good hypocrites. Herein is my sore point. I am unable -to hypocrise. Candour is part of my composition. It is unfortunate, -because it keeps me out of many delightful entertainments where Humbug -rules the roast. Socrates was not a "social" favourite, neither am -I. I am perfectly aware how unpleasantly tedious I have been all the -time I have talked about morals. They are not interesting subjects of -conversation at any time, and people would much rather not hear about -them at all. True! Only in church o' Sundays are we bound (by fashion's -decree) to listen to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> discourses on morality by a possibly immoral -cleric, but during the week we are, thank Heaven, free to forget that -morals, little or big, exist. This is as it should be in all civilised -communities. Of course we must keep up the <i>pretence</i> of morality—this -is a necessity enforced by law and police. But we may piously assure -ourselves that our "feigning" is the most perfectly finished art in the -world. No nation can out-rival the English in Sunday-show morality. -It is the severest, grandest, dullest Sham ever evolved from social -history. From its magnitude it commands wondering admiration; from its -ludicrous inconsistency it provokes laughter. And I, strolling idler as -I am, stop an instant to stare and smile, and involuntarily I think of -the Ten Commandments. I believe that on one occasion Moses was so angry -that he broke the tablets on which they were graven. This was mere -temper on the part of Moses; he should have known better. He should -have spared the tablets, and broken the Commandments, every one of -them; as we do!</p> - - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">IV.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>IV.</span> <span class="smaller">OF SAVAGES AND SKELETONS.</span></h2> - -<p>Pausing awhile to consider the question, I find that on the whole, -most of you, my dear friends, appear to get on excellently well -without either manners or morals. There you all are, taking your -several parts in the pageant before me, pushing, scrambling, and -making generally the most infernal din, the while you move heaven and -earth to serve your own personal interest and pleasure, regardless of -anybody else's convenience, and you manage to make a tolerably good -show of respectability. Your finished education in the great art of -counterfeiting does everything for you. The sum and substance of modern -culture is in the one line, "Assume a virtue<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> though you have it not." -You all "assume" superbly. And yet the best actors tell us they find -their profession entails fatigue and exhaustion at times, and they are -glad when they can throw aside the mask and take to "rough-and-tumble" -in the secrecy of their own homes. For there is one great fact about -us which we all strive to hide, and yet which is for ever declaring -itself, and that is, that despite all our civilisation and progress, we -are savages still. Absolute barbarians are we, born so, made so, and -neither God nor Time shall alter us. Our education teaches us how to -cover Nature with a mask, even as our innocent Scriptural progenitors -covered themselves with fig-leaves; but Nature is not thereby -destroyed. The savage leaps out at all sorts of times and seasons, in -the tempers and habits of the most highly cultured men and women. "My -Lord," unbracing himself at night and unbuttoning his waistcoat to -give freedom to his ample paunch, hiccoughs himself into bed with as -much rude noise as the naked Zulu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> who has drunk himself nearly dead -on rum. "My Lady," unclasping her fashionable "corset" and allowing -her beauties to expand, sighs, yawns, shakes herself jelly-wise in -freedom, and plumps between the sheets as casually as any squaw in a -wigwam. And it is probable that both my lord and my lady asleep, snore -as loudly and look as open-mouthed and ugly in their slumbers as any -uncivilised brutes ever born. Old Carlyle's notion of the virtue of -clothes was the correct one. What should we do with a naked Parliament? -The clothes maintain order and respectability, but without artificial -covering the whole community would be as they truly are in their heart -of hearts—savages, and no more.</p> - -<p>I think we are all pretty well conscious of this, some of us perhaps -painfully so. And what we are painfully aware of we always try to -conceal. Byron, despite his genius, was always thinking of his -club-foot. So are we always voluntarily or involuntarily, thinking -of our savagery. It will out, still, as I say, we do try to keep it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> -in. We do most faithfully pretend we are civilised, though we know we -never shall be; not in this planet. The thing is manifestly impossible. -The attraction of sex, the love of fighting, the thirst of conquest, -the greed of power: these things are savage elements, like wind and -fire and lightning; they make up life, and so long as life is ours, so -long shall we be savages at heart—savages in our grandest passions -as well as in our meanest. That is why I am disposed to think the -doctrines of Christianity unsuited to the world, because they are so -directly opposed to natural instinct. However, this is a point I am -quite unfitted to argue upon, being of no creed myself, and very much -of a savage to boot. Personally, I would not give a fig for a man who -had nothing of the savage about him. I have met the kind of fellow -often, especially among the literary set. "Not that I intend to imply," -as the G. O. M. sayeth, "that under certain circumstances, and given -certain conditions," the literary set cannot be savage—they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> can be, -and are, but it is a savagery that is mere palaver, and never comes to -honest fisticuffs. The "literary set" are physically timorous, and not -fond of firearms or manly sports; effeminacy and dyspepsia mark these -gifted creatures for their own. They have "nerves," have the bookish -folk, like fine ladies, and with the "nerves" spite and petulance go as -a matter of course. Real, <i>bonâ-fide</i>, fierce savagery is infinitely -preferable to the puling whine or the cynical snarl of little poets -and "society" philosophers; and the company of a bluff soldier who has -"faced fire" is preferable to that of a dozen magazine editors.</p> - -<p>Gathering my domino closer about me, I gaze steadily over the circling -noisy throng that whirls before me, and I think of wild tribes and -famished hordes scurrying fiercely along through clouds of sand -over miles of desert, and I see very little difference between the -"cultured" crowd and the hungry "barbarians." Desert, or the road -called Custom; sand or dust in the eyes of moral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> perception—they come -to very much the same thing in the end. Can it be possible that the -present century is "helping on" civilisation? I don't believe it any -more than I believe that the wretches who flung themselves under the -car of Juggernaut went straight to heaven. The most curious and awful -part of the whole spectacle to me is to realise that all this movement, -clamour, and confusion, should be doomed to end in sudden silence by -and by; such silence, that not a sound from any one of these now living -noisy tongues will stir it by so much as a curse or a groan.</p> - -<p>Yes, my friends; deny it if you will that we are all savages (I expect -you to deny it because I assert it, and you would not be human if you -did not contradict me), you will hardly refuse to admit that we are all -skeletons. Our flesh makes our savagery. Our clothes make our morality. -But reduced to our primal selves, we are plain Bones. And in honest, -unadorned Bones, to be positive to the utmost degree of positivism, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> -invariably discover ourselves grinning. At what? Ah, who shall say! -Unless it be at our own exquisite fooling with fate, which, truth to -tell, is very exquisite indeed. And, however serious we may look in the -flesh, we must remember our own death's-head is always laughing at us.</p> - -<p>Death's-heads are jolly companions. Some of my friends are fond of -wearing imitation ones to remind them of the wide perpetual smile they -carry behind their own fleshly covering. One or two charming ladies -I know carry jewelled death's-heads on their watch-chains, and play -with them in a sufficiently gruesome manner. Lady Dorothy Nevill, -she of shrewd Walpole wit and keen intelligence, wears a conspicuous -ornament given her by our own amiable Prince of Wales—a red coral or -cornelian death's-head, with a couple of diamonds in the eye-sockets. -I wonder what Albert Edward was thinking about when he made the lady -this valuable present, and whether the line, "To this complexion must -we come at last," occurred at all to his memory. Lady Dorothy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> herself -is particularly fond of the suggestive bauble; she perceives and -appreciates as much as I do the delicate irony of a skull's smile.</p> - -<p>And it really needs a good deal of intelligence to understand -death's-heads. A duke I know, of the best possible ducal brand, annoys -me exceedingly by his lack of perception in this regard. The handle -of his walking-stick is an ivory skull, and he is always sucking it. -The effect of this act is indescribable. He seems to be mouthing the -dried and polished cranium of an ancestor. I meet him frequently in the -"row," or Snobs' Parade, where gilded youth goes to stare at gilded -age, by which phrase I mean that the foot-passengers are mostly young -and lissom of limb, while the fine carriages frequently contain naught -but the dried and desolate fragments of old age, or the painted and -bedizened wrecks of youth. It is really quite curious to note how few -pretty or even genial-looking persons are seen in the vehicles that -crowd the Row during a "season." Max O'Rell declares that the entire -show is like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> Tussaud's wax-work taken out for an airing, but I have -never seen any one so good-looking or so clear-complexioned as wax-work -in a carriage. On foot, yes; there are any number of pretty women and -tolerably well set-up men to be met with strolling about under the -trees, and it is precisely for this reason that whenever I go to the -Park I walk instead of driving, as I prefer pretty women to ugly ones.</p> - -<p>And thus by preamble and general tedium I have come leisurely round to -the point I wished to arrive at, which is the narration of a singular -dream I once had; a vision which fell upon me, not in the "silence of -the night," but in the glaring heat of a midsummer afternoon while -I was seated on a penny chair in the middle of the Row. I had just -exchanged the usual greetings with my kindly young idiot friend the -duke (sucking the ivory skull on his cane as usual) and he had gone -on his way blandly grinning. I had shaken hands with a couple of -vagrant journalists. I had saluted a few charming women,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> chatted for -ten minutes with Lord Salisbury, and had imparted to a dear paunchy -diplomat the secret of stewing prawns in wine—a dish which I assure -you, on the faith of a true <i>gourmet</i>, is excellent. I had studied -the back of a massively fat woman's dress for several seconds, trying -to puzzle out the ways and means by which it got fastened over so -much rebellious flesh. Fatigued with these exertions, and lulled by -the monotonous noise of the rolling wheels of the carriages going to -and fro, I fell into a sort of semi-conscious doze, in which I was -perfectly aware of my surroundings, though more than half asleep. And -"a change came o'er the spirit" of the scene—a change which might -have alarmed unphilosophic people, but which to one like myself, -who am surprised at nothing, merely transformed a dull and ordinary -spectacle into a deeply interesting one. A curious white light pervaded -the atmosphere and tinged the overhanging foliage with a sickly shade -of green, the yellow sunshine took upon itself a jaundiced hue, and -lo! all suddenly and straightway the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> "row" was stripped of its "too, -too solid flesh" and appeared as too, too truthful Bones. Bones were -the fashion of the hour—skulls the order of the day. Clothes were -worn, of course, for decency's sake, clothes, too, of the very newest -fashion and cut; but flesh was discarded as superfluous. And so the -most elegant Paris "creations" in the way of lace parasols shaded -the sun from the delicate female death's-heads; skeleton steeds in -gorgeous trappings worked their ribs bravely, guided along by skeleton -coachmen superb in plush and wigs well powdered; and dear antiquated -Lady Doldrums, as she turned her eye-sockets to right and left with a -pleasant leer, seemed to be more cheerful than she had been for many a -long day. She still wore her favourite style of youthful hat, pinched -artistically about the brim and turned up with artificial roses, -but these handsomely-made French flowers now nodded quite waggishly -against her bare jaws, knowing there was no longer any painted flesh -there to eclipse their colour. Yes, Lady Doldrums was herself at -last—the terrible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> strain of pretending to be young was over, and the -only <i>coquetterie</i> she practised in her honest condition of Bones, -was the wielding of a fan in her grisly sticks of fingers, not for -heat's sake—no, merely to keep away the flies. And the wonderful -crowd thickened every moment—bones, bones, nothing but bones;—they -multiplied by scores, and I began to find out a few of my dear society -friends by the armorial bearings on their carriages. I could guess -nothing by their faces, as these were nearly all alike, and there -was no variety of expression. True, there were short jaws and long, -high foreheads and low, wide skulls and narrow, but I was unable to -guide myself entirely by these hints. I found out Randolph Churchill, -though, in a minute, but then his head is of a curious shape one does -not easily forget. I should know his skull anywhere as thoroughly as -the gravedigger in <i>Hamlet</i> knew Yorick's. He looked very cool and -comfortable in his bones, I thought. So did the delightful <i>danseuse</i> -who followed close behind him in a high-wheeled trap,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> with the -smartest little skeleton "tiger" possible to conceive, pranked out in -livery, an impudent little top-hat perched jauntily on his impudent -little half-grown skull, while as for the exquisite "dancing-girl" -herself, good heavens! her bones were positively fascinating! The wind -whistled in and out them with a breezy amorousness—and then her smile -was more than usually perfect owing to the admirable set of false -teeth which were so dexterously screwed into her jaw. It would take -years of mouldering away to loosen those teeth, and the mouldering -had evidently not yet begun. She wore a wig too—a bronze-red wig in -beauteous curl—and upon my soul, she looked almost as well arrayed -in bones as in her usual heavily enamelled flesh. Very different was -the aspect of the toothless old bundle that came after, seated in a -springy victoria, and wrapped in rich rugs to the chin. His skeleton -steeds pranced nobly, his skeleton coachman sat stiffly upright, -his skeleton footman preserved the accustomed dignified cross-armed -attitude, but he himself, poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> wretch, rolled uneasily from side to -side, till it seemed that his yellow skull would sever itself from -the spinal attachment and fall incontinently into his own shaking -claws. I recognised him by the showy monogram on his carriage-rug; he -was the rich proprietor of several newspapers, the "impresario" of -several music-halls, and the dotard lover of several ballet-girls. -After him came a "four-in-hand," a marvellous sight to see with its -skeleton team, its "lordly" skeleton driver, and its "select" party -of skeleton "professional beauties" on top. It made quite a white -glare as it passed in the sickly sun, and scattered a good deal of -bone-dust from its wheels. Quite close to me there were a couple of -skeletons engaged in love dallyings of the most ethereal description. -The one, a female, was seated in a victoria, sheltering the top of her -skull (on which a fashionable bonnet was perched) with a black lace -parasol lined in crimson—a tint which flung a rouge-like reflection -on her fleshless but still sensually-shaped jaws. The other, a man, -clothed in "afternoon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> visiting" costume, leaned tenderly towards her -over the park-railing, proferring for her acceptance a spray of white -lilies which he had taken from his button-hole, and which he held -affectionately between his dry bone fingers. Anything more sublimely -chaste, yet "realistic," can never be imagined. The way their two -skulls nodded and grinned at each other was intensely edifying—it -was a case of purely "spiritual" love and platonic desire, in which -the wicked flesh had no existing part. And one of the most remarkable -features of the whole pageant was the intense stillness which -pervaded the movements of the elegant bony throng of "rank, beauty, -and fashion." Not a leaf on the trees rustled, not a joint in any -distinguished skeleton cracked. Two skeleton policemen kept order, -and the crowd itself kept silence. The skeleton horses rubbed against -each other in the press, but not a bone clattered, and not a wheel -grated. As noiselessly as mist or rolling cloud, the white-ribbed, -motley-clothed multitude moved on; the foot-passengers were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> skeletons -also, and 'Arry, turning empty eye-sockets about, looked quite as -"noble" as my lord the duke in his barouche, somewhat more so in fact, -though wearing shabbier clothes. A delightful equality ruled the -scene—a true "fraternity," fulfilling some of the socialistic ideas -to the letter. For once the "row" had cast off hypocrisy, and appeared -in its absolutely real aspect—everybody had found out everybody -else—there was no polite lie possible; frank Bones declared themselves -as Bones, and nothing more. Moreover, each skeleton was so like its -neighbour skeleton that there were really no differences left to argue -about. The famous beauty, Lady N., could no longer scowl at her rival, -the Duchess of L., because they looked precisely similar, save for a -trifling difference in length of jaw, and also for the more impressive -fact that one wore blue and the other grey. The bones were the same in -each "fair" composition, and as bones, the two ladies were, or seemed -to be, amiable enough—it was only the wretched flesh that had made -them quarrelsome. And of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> things, the chief thing that was truly -beautiful to witness was the universal smile that beamed through the -vast assemblage. Never had the "row" presented itself to broad daylight -with such a sincerely unaffected, all-pervading Grin! From end to end -the grin prevailed—horses, dogs, and men—there was not one serious -exception. Into the air, into the very sky, the wide, perpetual, toothy -smile appeared to stretch itself out illimitably, everlastingly: like -a grim satire carved in letters of white bone, it seemed to inscribe -itself upon the blue of heaven; a mockery, a savagery, a protest, a -curse, and a sneer in one, it spread itself in ghastly dumb mirth to -the very edge of the far horizon, till I, watching it, could stand -the death's-head jollity no longer. Starting in my chair, I uttered -a smothered cry, and awoke. A friendly hand fell on my shoulder—a -pair of friendly eyes twinkled good-humouredly into mine. "Hullo! Were -you asleep?" And there beside me stood Labby—the genial Labby—with -"Truth" glittering all over him. Should I tell him of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> queer vision, -I thought, as I took his arm and strolled away in his ever-delightful -company? No. Why should I bother him with the question of honest Bones -<i>versus</i> dishonest Flesh? He was (and is) already too busy exposing Shams.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">V.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>V.</span> <span class="smaller">HOW NAMES ARE SUPERIOR TO PERSONS.</span></h2> - -<p>"What's in a name?" sighed the fair Juliet of Shakespeare's fancy. She -was very much in love when she propounded the question, so she must be -excused for coming to the conclusion that a name meant nothing. But -no one who is not in love, no one who is not absolutely mad, can be -pardoned for indulging in such an opinion. Romeo was more than his name -to Juliet, but out of romantic poesy, nobody is more than his name as a -rule. The Name is everything; the Person behind the Name is generally -nothing when you come to know him. A fine title frequently covers -the most unpretentious individual. Beginning with the very highest -example in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> land, can there be anything more lofty-sounding than -this—"Her Majesty Victoria Regina, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, -and Empress of India!" The full-mouthed, luscious, trumpet-roll of -this description calls up before the imagination something beyond -all speech to express; visions of great nations, glittering armies, -stately war-ships, kingdoms of the Orient, stores of wealth and wonder -untold—well, and after it all, when you come to stand face to face -with this so tremendous Victoria Regina, you find only a dear, simple -old lady attired in dowdy black, who might just as well be Mrs. Anybody -as the Queen, for all she looks to the contrary. She is a dreadful -disappointment to the young and enthusiastic, who almost expect to see -something of the enthroned goddess about her, with Athene's shield and -buckler bracing her woman's breast, and all the jewels of her Eastern -Empire blazing on her brow. Alas for the young and enthusiastic! They -are doomed to a great many such disillusions. They dream<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> of Names, -and find only Persons, and the fall from their empyrean is an almost -paralysing shock as a rule. There are exceptions of course. There is a -majestic Cardinal in Rome who looks every inch a Cardinal—the others -might be anybodies or nobodies. The Pope is not entirely disappointing; -he has the air of a refined Spanish Inquisitor, a sort of etherialised -Torquemada. He is much more impressive in demeanour than our own -excellent Archbishop of Canterbury, who does not overawe us at any -time. In fact, we are seldom awed by persons at all, only by names. -A small boy of my acquaintance, taken to see the Shah, expressed his -disgust in a loud voice—"Why, he's only a man!" There is the whole -mischief of the thing. Only a man—only a woman. Nothing more. But the -Names seem so much more. Names spread themselves in a large, vast way -over the habitable globe—they are everywhere, while the Persons remain -limited to one place, or else are nowhere. The name of Shakespeare<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> -is so all-pervading that we will not hear of Bacon being substituted -for it, even though Donelly should chance to be right. How well it is -for us that we never knew the Person (whoever he was) that wrote the -plays. Even Homer himself—should we have cared to know him? I doubt -it. His name has proved infinitely better than himself because more -lasting. And so, what slight amount of reverence I have in my nature -I bestow entirely on Names—for Persons I have little or no respect. -A great name possesses a great charm—a great person is generally a -great bore. Any one who takes the trouble to observe society closely -will support my theory of the superiority of names to individuals. -Try the mere sound of several names and see. "The Prince of Wales." -That is a fine historical designation, but, curiously enough, it does -not convey so much in the way of grand suggestions as it ought to do. -Yet he who bears it now is the first gentleman in the land; kindly, -courteous, chivalrous, and a veritable Prince of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> good fellows. -"Baron Rothschild"—a name suggestive of wealth galore—but the great -financier himself is not such wondrous company. "His Grace the Duke -of Marlborough" hath a pleasing roll in the utterance, but when you -get close to the distinguished biped so designated, you are conscious -of a dismal sense of failure somewhere. "Her Grace the Duchess of -Torrie MacTavish" suggests a "gathering of the clans" and bonfires -on the Highland hills, but her Grace herself is but a little mean -old Scotchwoman, with an avaricious eye upon every "bawbee" expended -in her household. "Prime Minister" is a fine title—"Prime Minister -of England"—the finest title in the world; but Salisbury is the -only man who looks the stately part. The G.O.M. is pure Plebeian—a -big-brained plebeian, if you like, but plebeian to the marrow. The -demagogue declares itself in the shape of his feet and hands, which are -as long and flat as it is the privilege of demagogue hands and feet -to be. Coming to the "dream-weavers," or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> men of letters, some of us -(young and enthusiastic) breathe the name "Tennyson" with reverential -tenderness, thinking the old man must be well-nigh a demi-god. Not a -bit of it. Crusty and perverse, he will have little of our company, -and against many of those who have bought his books he thunders -denunciation and bars his garden-gate. A little of the exquisite -vanity of old Victor Hugo, who used to show himself to passers-by -at his window, would better become our veteran Laureate than his -hermit-like sourness. "Ruskin" is another great name—but who can count -the intense disappointments entailed on ardent admirers of the Name -when they discover the Person! "Swinburne" suggests poetry, romance, -wild and wondrous things—a bitter awakening awaits those who will -insist on peering behind the Name to see the bearer thereof. And it -is nearly always so. Names open to us the gates of the Ideal—Persons -shut us up in the dungeon of Commonplace. Few famous people come up to -their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> names—still fewer go beyond them. If ever I chance to meet a -celebrated man or woman whose personal charm fascinates me more than -his or her celebrated name, I shall make a great fuss about it. I -shall—let me see, what shall I do?—why, I shall write to the <i>Times</i>. -The <i>Times</i> is the only correct threepenny outlet for ebullitions of -sincere national feeling. But till I am otherwise convinced, I adhere -to my expressed opinion that Names are the chief motors of social -influence, and that individuals are of infinitely less account. Thus, -I think it a thousand pities that Stanley did not meet with the good -old style of melo-dramatic hero's death in the Dark Continent. His Name -might have become a glory and a watchword—as matters now stand his -Person has extinguished his Name.</p> - -<p>Yes, my dear friends all, I assure you, on my honour as an honest -masquer, that both my opinion and advice in this matter are well worth -following. When you have selected a Name to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> hold in some particular -reverence, you will be unwise if you try to peep behind it in search -of the person belonging to it. The Name is like the door forbidden to -Bluebeard's wife: once opened, it shows no end of horrors, headless -corpses of good intentions weltering in their blood, and hacked -limbs of fine sentiment mouldering on the floor. Keep the door shut -therefore. Never unlock it. Let no light fall through the crannies. -Stand outside and worship what you imagine may be within. Do as I -do—know as many Names as you like and as few Persons as possible. -Life is more agreeable that way. For example, if you wanted to find -<i>me</i> out, and you were to peep behind my name and tear off my domino, -you would only be disappointed. You would find nothing but—a person; -a Person who might possibly be your friend and might equally be your -foe. 'Twere well to be wary in such a doubtful business. Best accept me -as I appear, and entertain yourselves with the notion that there may -be a "Somebody" hidden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> behind the mask. Make an "ideal" of me if you -choose—ideal saint, or devil, whichever pleases your fancy, for I have -no taste either way. Only, for Heaven's sake, remember that if you do -persuade yourselves into thinking I am a Somebody, and I turn out after -all to be a Nobody, it is not my fault. Don't blame me; blame your own -self-deception. Inasmuch as it is especially necessary in my case to -bear in mind that the Name is not the Person. </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">VI.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VI.</span> <span class="smaller">CONVERSETH WITH LORD SALISBURY.</span></h2> - -<p>Excellent and courteous friend, one moment, I beseech you! I know -how busy you are, but I also know, much to my satisfaction, that, -like a true diplomat and wise man, you give ear to all, even to fools -occasionally, inasmuch as from fools sometimes emanate certain snatches -of wisdom. Therefore pause beside me for an instant with the patient -grace and friendliness I am accustomed to from you; for though I call -myself a fool with the heartiest good will, you have often thought and -spoken of me otherwise, for which condescension I thank you. It is -something to have won your good opinion, inasmuch as you are guiltless -of "booming" second-rate literature, in the style<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> of the venerable -Woodcutter of Hawarden, for the sake of bringing yourself into notice. -Indeed, I think the admirable qualities of your head and heart have -hardly been sufficiently insisted upon by the party you serve. And the -genius of patriotism and love of Queen and country which inspire your -spirit—are these rightly, fairly, acknowledged? No. But what can you -or any one else expect from the weak, vacillating souls you are called -upon to lead, such as Randolph Churchill, for example, whose political -career is but a disappointment and mockery to public onlookers. I -consider that you fight single-handed. Your endeavours are noble and -fearless, but those who should support you are for the most part -cowards—and not only cowards, but selfish cowards; for to some of your -party whom I know, a matter of digestion is more paramount than the -good of the country. When a leading Conservative finds himself slightly -bilious through over-eating, he hastens away abroad, there to nurse his -miserable physical ills and pamper his worthless carcase, regardless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> -of, or indifferent to, the fact that, by virtue of his position, if not -his brains, his presence in England might be useful and valuable. There -are numerous such lazy hounds in your party, my dear Lord, who deserve -to be lashed with the whip of a Fox's or a Pitt's eloquence. And I have -wondered oft why you have not spoken the lurking reproach against them, -the indignant "Shame on you all!" that must have frequently burned for -utterance in your mind.</p> - -<p>And "shame on you all!" is the cry that leaps to the lips of every true -Briton who thinks of the former historical glories of his country, -and at the same time observes the lamentable unsteadiness, the lack -of courage, the dearth of principle in politicians of every grade -to-day. Parliament gabbles; it does not speak. Often it resembles a -cackling chorus of old women striving to describe their own and their -friends' various ailments. Why is Radicalism rampant? Why is there -any Radicalism? Because so many Radicals are honest, hard-working -men—honest in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> opinions, honest in the utterance of those -opinions, honest in thinking that their cause is good. And you, my -dear Lord, have a certain sympathy with this active, energetic, vital, -if wrong-headed honesty—you know you have. You love your Sovereign, -you love your country, you love the constitution, but for all that you -cannot but sympathise with integrity. You know that the Monarch has -left England pretty much to itself for the last thirty years, and that -she has allowed the people to realise that they can get on without -her, seeing she will take no part with them in their daily round. A -pity! but the evil is done, and it is too late to remedy it. There is -practically no social ruler of the realm, and you must confess, good -Salisbury, that this fact makes your work difficult. The mass of the -people can only be got to understand a monarch who behaves like one, -and the more intellectual food you put into them, the more obstinate -they become on the point. With similar pigheadedness they can only -understand the personality of a prince whose conduct is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> a princely -example; they are quite sure about themselves here, and have the most -appallingly distinct notions concerning right and wrong. They do not go -to church for these notions—no. Many cobblers and coalheavers would -be mentally refreshed if they were allowed to kick a few seeming-holy -clerics whose hypocrisies are apparent despite sermons on Sunday. It -must not be forgotten that education is making huge strides among the -populace; it has got its seven-leagued boots on, and is clearing all -manner of difficulties at a bound. When your greengrocer studies Plato -o' nights, when your shoemaker carries the maxims of Marcus Aurelius -about in his pocket to refresh himself withal in the intervals of -stitching leather, when the wife of your butcher sheds womanly tears -over Keats' "Pot of Basil," a poem which the "cultured" dame has "no -time" to read—these be the small signs and tokens of a wondrous -change by and by. Cheap literature, especially when it is a selection -of the finest in the world, is a dangerous "factor" in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> making -of revolutions, and among other purveyors of literary food for the -million, one who calleth himself Walter Scott, of Newcastle-on-Tyne, -is unconsciously doing a curious piece of work. He is putting into the -hands of the "lower classes," for the moderate price of one shilling -(discount price ninepence) small volumes well bound and well printed, -which contain the grandest thoughts of humanity, such as "Epictetus," -"Seneca," Mazzini's "Essays," "Sartor Resartus," "Past and Present," -the "Religio Medici," the Emerson "Essays," and what not—and it is -necessary to take into consideration the fact that the people who buy -these books read them. Yes, they read them, every line, no matter how -slowly or laboriously; for whether they have expended a shilling or -the discount ninepence, they always want to know what they have got -for their money. This is the peculiar disposition of the "masses"; -the "upper ten" are not so particular, and will lay out a few guineas -on Mudie by way of annual subscription, getting scarce anything back -of value<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> in exchange. After this fashion, too, the "upper ten" -entertain the ungrateful, keep horses and carriages for display, and -trot the dreary round of season after season, striving to extract -amusement from the dried-up gourd of modern social life, and finding -nothing in it all but a bitter jest or a sneering laugh at the slips -in morality of their so-called "friends" and neighbours. And thus it -is, my dear Lord, that the balance of things is becoming alarmingly -unequal; the "aristocratic" set are a scandal to the world with their -divorce cases, their bankruptcies, their laxity of principle, their -listless indifference to consequences; they never read, they never -learn, they never appear to see anything beyond themselves. Whereas -the "bas-peuple" <i>are</i> reading, and reading the books that have helped -to make national destinies—they <i>are</i> learning, and they are not -afraid to express opinions. They do not think a duke who seduces his -friend's wife merely "unfortunate"—they call him in plain language -a low blackguard. They cannot be brought to believe that the heir -to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> great name who has gambled away all his estates on the turf a -"gentleman"—they call him a "loose fish" without parley. Now you, -excellent and true-hearted Salisbury, have to look on two sides of -the question. On the one are your own people, the aristocrats, the -Tories, lazy, indifferent, inert, many of them—fond of what they term -"pleasure," and as careless of the interests of the country (with a -few rare exceptions) as they can well be. On the other hand you have -the sturdy, loyal, splendid English "masses," who in their heart of -hearts are neither Radicals, Whigs, or Tories, but are simply as they -always have been—"For God and the Right!" It matters not which party -expresses what they consider the Right; it is the Right they want, and -the Right they will have, and they will try all means and appliances -in their power till they get it. And it is with this clamour for the -Right that you, my Lord, sympathise, because you know how much there -is just now that is wrong; how politicians shuffle and lie and play -at cross-purposes simply to attain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> their own personal ends; how -over-competition is cutting the throat of Free Trade; how foolishly -the tricksters have played with poor distracted Ireland; how openly -we have lowered the standard of society by admitting into it men and -women of well-known degraded reputation, as well as the painted mimes -and puppets of the stage; how wives are bargained for and bought for -a price, almost as shamelessly as in an open market; how good faith, -chivalry, honour, and modesty are every day becoming rarer and rarer -among men; and how, worst of all, we try to cover our vices by a -cloak of hypocrisy—the most canting hypocrisy current in the world. -English hypocrisy, the ultra-pious form—oh! "it is rank; it smells -to heaven!" There is nothing like it anywhere—nothing—no devil so -well sainted by psalm-singing, church-going, Sunday observance, and -charitable subscription lists. The married woman of title and high -degree who sells the jewel of her wifely chastity for the trifling -price of a fool's praise, is ever careful to look after the poor, -and give her "distinguished" patronage to church-bazaars. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>Pah! such -things are as a sickness to the mind; one's gorge rises at them; and -yet they are, as the Queen said to Hamlet, "common." So common, i' -faith, that we are beginning to accept them as an inevitable part of -our "social observances." And, alas, my Lord of Salisbury, you can do -nothing to remedy these things, and yet it is precisely "these things" -that swell the rising wave of Radicalism. And despite all the power -of your keen, capacious brain, and all the love of country working in -your soul, believe me, the storm will break. Nothing will keep it back; -because, though there are men of genius in the realm, these men are not -permitted to speak. The tyrant Journalism forbids. Why "tyrant"? Is not -Journalism free? Not so, my Lord; it is not the "voice of the people" -at all; it is simply the voice of a few editors. Were the most gifted -man that ever held a pen to write a letter to any of the papers on a -crying subject of national shame, he would be refused a hearing unless -he were a friend of the proprietors of whatever journal he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> elected to -write to. And men of genius seldom are friends of editors—a curious -fact, but true. And so we never really hear the "voice of the people" -save in some great crisis, and when we do, it invariably astonishes -us. It upsets our nerves, too, for a long time afterwards. It is -always so horribly loud, authoritative and convincing! The "voices of -editors" die away on these occasions like the alarmed squealings of -cats chased by infuriated hounds, and into the place of such a smug -and well-satisfied person as the Editor of the <i>Times</i>, for example, -leaps a shabby, dirty, hungry, eager-eyed creature like Jean Jacques -Rousseau, who, instead of a clean and carefully prepared pen, uses for -the nonce a red, sputtering torch of revolution, which, setting fire to -old abuses, spreads wide conflagration through the land. And how the -heart leaps, how the blood thrills, when old abuses <i>are</i> destroyed! -When the rats' nests of cliques are thrust out to perish in the gutter, -when the dirty cobwebs of self-interest and love of gain are swept -down, and the fat spiders within them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> trampled under foot, when the -great white palace of national Honour is cleansed and made sweet and -fresh for habitation, even at the cost of groaning labour, confusion, -and stress, how one breathes again, how one lives the life of a true -man in the purified strong air!</p> - -<p>As you know well, my Lord, I am of no political party. I am proud to be -as one with this great nation in its vital desire for the Right and the -Just. Wherever the Right appears I am its follower to the death. I hate -false things; I hate bubble reputations, empty wind-bags of policy, -dried skeletons of faith. Why not leave this dubious handling of bones -and dusty material? It is too late to set wry matters straight. They -are an obstruction, and must be cleared from the path of England. Had -you the temerity, as I know you have the will, you would speak your -thoughts more openly than you have yet done. You would say: "I refuse -to lead cowards. I will call to my side men of proved brain and honesty -and skill, with whom honour is more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> pelf; I will get at the heart -of England, and move with <i>its</i> pulsations; and of those who are not -with this heart I will have none. I will at once make some attempt to -remedy the frightful abuses of the law; I will move heaven and earth -till England, not party, is satisfied!"</p> - -<p>And oh, my most excellent friend, what a wise thing you would do, if -you would only keep a watchful eye on the scribblers—the poor and -hungry and ambitious scribblers especially! Your party at all times of -history has been foolishly prone to neglect this sort of inky folk, -and what an error of policy is such neglect! These same inky folk, my -Lord, do cause thrones to fall and empires to tremble, wherefore you -and all whom it concerns should look after them warily. Make friends -with them; soothe their irritated nerves; take time and trouble to -explain a situation to them, and remember, never was there dusty, -crusty writing-biped yet but could not be moved to a pale, pleased -smile of response to a royal hand-shake, a royal greeting, given in -good season.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> It is not singers and twiddlers on musical strings that -a wise Court should patronise, but the wielders of pens—they, who, if -despised and neglected, take relentless vengeance, and, fearing neither -God nor devil, proceed to make strange bargains with both. The Press -is a plebeian creature—yes, I know; but for all that, it has stumbled -with its big, hob-nailed shoes and Argus eyes into the Royal precincts, -and stands there smacking its greasy lips and staring rudely, after the -fashion of all plebeians unaccustomed to polite society. It is vulgar, -this Press—there is no doubt of that; it dresses badly, and wears, not -a sword by its side, but a stumpy pen stuck unbecomingly behind its -ear, and it gives itself a vast amount of coarse swagger because it is -for the most part deficient in education, and picks up its knowledge -by hearsay—nevertheless it has power. And it is a power which neither -you nor any one else can afford to despise; wherefore, good friend, -when you have any grand object in view and want to attain it, let all -else go if necessary, but gather a grand muster-roll of Pens. These<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> -shall win you your cause if you only know how to lead them, and without -their assistance you shall be lost in a sea of contradictions. Some -of these Pens are already yours to command; but others are not, and -you trouble not your head concerning these "others" which are the very -ones you should secure. As for me, I could go on advising you with the -most infinite tedium on sundry matters, but I will not now, inasmuch -as we shall have frequent opportunities for discourse in the library -at Hatfield. And so, till we meet again, accept the assurance of my -admiration and devoted service. You are one of the noblest of living -Englishmen; you have the kindest heart in the world; your foreign -policy means peace and satisfaction to Europe; and yet, with it all, -and with my ardent friendship for you, I cannot help asking myself the -question whether, if the storm breaks and the waves rise mountains -high, will you have the strength to be a pilot for the ship of England -in her dark hour? And if it should be proved that you cannot steer us, -Who shall be found that can? </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">VII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VII.</span> <span class="smaller">CHATTETH WITH THE GRAND OLD MAN.</span></h2> - -<p>Dost thou remember, my dear Mr. Gladstone, a certain warm and pleasant -July afternoon when thou didst honour and oppress me with thy Grand -Old Presence for a couple or more of weary hours, regardless of the -fact that the "House" expected thee to appear and reply on some moot -point or other to Mr. Goschen? There in my modest studio thou didst -sit, rubbing that extensive ear of thine with one long forefinger, -and smiling suavely at such regular intervals as almost to suggest -the idea of there being a patent smiling-machine secreted behind thy -never-resting jaw!</p> - -<p>Ah, that was a day! We talked—but no! 'twas thou didst talk, thou -noble old man! and I—as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> all poor mortals must needs do in thy -company—listened. Listened intently; helpless to remove thee from the -chair in which thou sattest; hopeless of putting any stop to thine -eloquence; while on, on, on, still on, rolled the stream of thy fluent -and wordy contradictions, till my mind like a ship broken loose from -its moorings, rocked up and down in a wild, dark sea of uncertainty -as to what thou didst mean; or whether thy meaning, if it could by -chance be discovered, should in truth be meant? Hadst thou been a -Book instead of a Man, I should have flung thee aside, walked the -room, and clutched my hair after the manner of the intense tragedian; -but with thee, thou astonishing Biped, I could do no more than stare -stonily at thy careless collar-ends and concentrate all my soul on my -powers of hearing. "Listen, fool!" I said to my inner self—"Listen! -It is Gladstone who is speaking—Gladstone the old man eloquent; -Gladstone the thinker; Gladstone the Bible scholar; Gladstone the Greek -translator; Gladstone the Scotchman, Gladstone the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>Irishman, Gladstone -the—the—the—Wood-cutter! Listen!"</p> - -<p>And, as I live, I listened to thee, Gladstone; I swallowed, as it -were, thine every word, in spite of increasingly lethargic mental -indigestion. Specially did I strive to follow thee in thy wild flights -up the stairs of many religious theories, when with gray hair ruffled -and eyes aglare, thou didst solemnly rend piecemeal "Robert Elsmere," -forgetting, O thou grand old Paradox, that if thou hadst never lifted -up that clamant voice of thine in <i>Nineteenth-Century-Magazine</i> -utterance, Robert and his oppressive religious troubles might scarcely -have attracted notice? Didst thou not "boom" Robert, and then feign -surprise at the result? Ay, venerable Splitter of Straws and Hewer of -Logs, wilt deny the truth? And shall I not advise thee in thine own -terms to retire from public life, not "now," but "at present." Or if -not "at present" then "now"? Either will serve, before thou dost make -more blows with thy hatchet-brain (somewhat dulled at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> edge) at the -future honour and welfare of thy country.</p> - -<p>Ah, what things I could have said to thee, thou Quibble, when thou -didst venture to assail me with thy converse, if thou hadst but -taken decent pause for breathing! Why, amongst other marvels, didst -thou deem it worth thy while to flatter me, or to praise the casual -sputterings of my pen? Thy unctuous insinuations carried no persuasion; -thy "nods and becks and wreathed smiles" were wasted on me; thy soft -assurances of the "certainty of my future brilliant fame" went past -my ears like the murmur of an idle wind. For a fame "assured" by thee -is nothing worth; and thy Polonius-like approbation of any piece of -work, literary or otherwise, is as a mark set on it to make it seem -ridiculous. For thou art destitute of humour save in wood-cutting; -and thou needest many a lesson from my dear friend Andrew Lang before -thou canst successfully comprehend the subtly critical art of proving -a goose to be a swan. And so, by monosyllables slipt in like frailest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> -wedges between thy florid bursts of ambiguity, I strove to entice thy -wandering wits back to the discussion of personal faith in matters -religious, wherein I found thee most divertingly inchoate, but my -feeble efforts were of small avail. For lo, while yet I strove to -understand whether thou wert in truth a Roman Papist, a Calvinist, a -Hindoo, a Theosophist, or a Special Advocate of the <i>War Cry</i>, the -subject of Creed, like a magic-lantern slide, disappeared from thy -mental view, and Divorce came up instead. Frightful and wonderful, -according to thee, goodman Gladstone, are the wicked ways of the -married! No sooner are they united than they move heaven and earth to -get parted—so it is at any rate very frequently in the free and happy -American Republic, where the disagreeing parties need not move heaven -and earth, but simply make a mutual assertion. Oh, of a truth here was -no smiling matter! No Deity in question, but a very positive Devil, -needing thy exhortation and exorcism; and thy jaws clacked on sternly, -strenuously, and with a resolute gravity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> and persistency that seemed -admirable. Not every man could be expected to find a Mrs. Gladstone, -but surely all were bound to try and discover such a paragon. If -all married society were composed of Mr. and Mrs. Gladstones, why, -married society would realise the fabled Elysium. And supposing there -continued to be only one Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, and all the rest were -quite a different set of hopelessly different temperaments, then, -naturally, it was impossible to state what disasters might ensue. -It would be a case of Noah and his wife over again—after them the -Deluge. In the interim, Divorce was shocking, abominable, sinful, -diabolical, ungodly—an upsetting of the most sacred foundations of -morality—and it was chiefly because Gladstonian domestic tastes were -not universal. This, at least, is what I seemed to gather from thee -in thine onslaughts against the large and melancholy mass of the -Miserably Married; I say I "seemed" to gather it, because it "seemed" -thy meaning, but as thy whole mode of speech and action is only -"seems," I cannot be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> absolutely sure either of myself or thyself. For -thou didst set out an attractive row of various learned propositions, -gently, and with the bland solicitude of a hen-wife setting out her -choicest eggs for sale, then suddenly and incontinently, and as one in -a fit of strangest madness, thou didst sweep them up and fling them -aside into airy nothingness without concern for the havoc wrought. -Thou didst calmly state what appeared to be a Fact, reasonable and -graspable; and with all the powers of my being I seized upon it as a -grateful thing and good for consideration; when suddenly thy senile -smile obscured the intellectual horizon, and thy equably modulated -voice murmured such words as these: "Not that I desire to imply by -any means that this is so, or should be so, but that it might (under -certain circumstances, and provided certain minds were at harmony upon -the point) probably become so." Ah, thou embodied Confusion worse -Confounded! Had it not been for this constant playing of thine at thy -favourite shuffling game of cross-purposes, I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> have roused my -soul from its stupor of forced attention to demand of thee more of -thy profound Bible scholarship. Whether, for example, if Divorce, -thy bugbear, were ungodly, and the Bible true, a man should not have -two, three, nay, half-a-dozen wives at his pleasure for as long or as -short a time as he chose, and find situations for them afterwards as -servants, telegraph-clerks, and bookkeepers, when their beauty was gone -and snappishness of temper had taken the place of endearing docility. -Whether English harem-life, lately set in vogue by certain great and -distinguished "Upper" people, could not be easily proved pleasing unto -the Most High Jehovah? For did not God love His servant Abraham? and -did not Abraham bestow his affections on Sarai and Hagar? and when the -hoary old reprobate was "well stricken in years" and "the Lord had -blessed him in all things" did he not again take a wife named Keturah, -who presented him in his centenarian decrepitude with six sons?—all -"fine babies," no doubt. What sayest thou to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> these morals of Holy -Writ, thou "many-sounding" mouthpiece of opinion? Answer me on a -postcard, for with thee, more than with any other man, should brevity -be the soul of wit!</p> - -<p>Some of us younger and irreverent folk oft take to speculating why, -in the name of bodies politic, thy days, O Venerable, are so long in -the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee? The Lord thy God, friend -William Ewart, must have some excellent reason for allowing thee to -ruthlessly cut down so many growing oaks of English honour and walk -unscathed across the bare, disfigured country, with the wild dogs of -Democracy sneaking at thy heels. And I forgot, in speaking of the -holy Abraham, that late events have proved the high superiority of -thy tastes in morality to those of God's anciently-favoured servant. -For didst thou not disown thy sweetest nursling, thine own favourite -adopted son, Parnell, simply and solely to publicly clasp and kiss -the wrinkled, withering hand of Mrs. Grundy? And knowest thou not, -thou gray-haired Conundrum, that nothing has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> ever seemed more -preternaturally absurd to the impartial observer and student of social -life in all countries, than this making a public question out of -personal matter?—this desertion of a former friend, a man, too, of -immense intellectual capability, all because, as the old German ballad -goes, "he loved a, to him, temptingly-forbidden lady"? Just Heavens! I -could name dozens of men (but I will not), party men too, respectably -married likewise, who have their "temptingly-forbidden ladies" tucked -snugly away in the innermost recesses of their confidence, and who -avoid betraying themselves into such impulsiveness as might lead to a -fire-escape and political dissolution. As for Mrs. Grundy, the dear -old soul never sees anything now unless she is led up to it with her -spectacles on; she is more than half blind, and totally deaf—a poor, -frail creature very much on her last legs—and she must have been -vaguely flattered and surprised at thy voluntary Grand Old Hand-Shake, -given to her in the very face of all the staring world of intelligence -and fashion. It must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> have soothed her aching heart and comforted her -tottering limbs to find she still had left to her a pale vestige of -past power. Ah, it was a grand and edifying party-split!—almost as -exciting as if it had occurred on a question of Beer, which fateful -subject angrily discussed, did, I believe, on one occasion actually -effect a change of Ministry. And it is rather a notable proof of the -curious littleness of the age we live in, that of late, political -parties have seldom broken up on great questions—questions of -momentous and general interest affecting the welfare of the state and -people—but nearly always on petty, personal, nay almost vulgar and -childish disputes, such as might make Fox and Pitt turn and groan in -their graves. Is there no such thing as unadulterated patriotism left, -I wonder?—no real ardent love of the "Mother" England? or hast thou, -old Would-Be Despot, choked it all by thy pernicious gabble?</p> - -<p>And yet, whatever may be said of thee now or in after history as a -Man-Enigma, thy bitterest enemy, unless he be an idiot born, can hardly -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> blind to thy numerous and extraordinary endowments. Jumbled as -they are together with so much confusion that it is difficult to tell -which savour most of vice or most of virtue, they are nevertheless -Endowments, rare enough to find in any other living composition of -mortal mould. And the mystic gift that keeps thee powerful to grasp -and retain thy dominance over the minds of the Majority, is simple -Genius—a gift of which there are many spurious imitations, but which -in itself is given to so few as to make it seem curious and remarkable, -aye, even a thing suggestive of downright madness to the men of mere -business talent and capacity who form the largest portion of the -governing body. Misguided, captious, flighty as caprice itself, it -is nevertheless a flash of the veritable Promethean fire which works -that busy, massive brain of thine—a kindling, restless heat which is -entirely deficient in the brains of nearly all thy fellow-statesmen of -the hour. This it is that fascinates the Public—the giant Public that -above all the whisperings and squealings of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> the Press, reserves its -own opinion, and only utters it when called upon to do so, with sundry -roarings and vociferations as of a hungry lion roused—a convincing -manner of eloquence which doth wake to speculative timorousness the -wandering penny-a-liner. For Genius is the only quality the Public -does in absolute truth admire, without being taught or forced into -admiration—and that Genius has ever in reality been despised or -neglected by the world, is, roughly speaking, a Lie. Everything noble -that deserves to live, lives; and Homer wrote as much for the England -of to-day as for the Greece of past time. The things that die, deserve -to die; the "genius" who deems himself ill-used, does by his childish -querulousness prove himself unworthy of appreciation. For no great soul -complains, inasmuch as all complaint is cowardice.</p> - -<p>Thus, when I bring the Public well into sympathetic view, and consider -thee in relation to it, O Grand Old Gladstone, I understand readily -enough what is meant by the feeling of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> "majority" concerning thy -civic and personal qualifications for power. It is this—that the -people feel, that notwithstanding thy chameleon-like variableness, -and thy darkly cabalistic utterances on the political How, When, and -Why, thou art still the "only" man in the professed service of the -country possessing this talisman of Genius which from time immemorial -has carried its own peculiar triumph over the heads of all opposers. -For when thou shalt be gone the way of all flesh, who is left? Little -brilliancy of wit or good counsel is there now in the Commons, and the -Lords are but weary creatures, bent on maintaining their own interests -in the face of all change. Is there a man who can be truly said to -have the gift of eloquence save Thou? Wherefore the attention and -interest of the people still continue to revolve round thy charmed -pivot, thou Hawarden Thinker, with, as the Scotch say, "a bee" in thy -bonnet. And, whether Premier or Ex-Premier, all because thou <i>art</i> a -Thinker in spite of the bee. Thy thoughts may be "long, long thoughts" -like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> the "thoughts of youth" in Longfellow's pretty poem—they may -be indeed without any definite end at all, but they are thoughts, -they are not mere business calculations of the State's expenses. -Only being ill-assorted and still worse defined, they are unfit to -blossom into words, which they generally do, to the perplexity and -anxiety of everybody concerned. And there is the mischief—a mischief -irremediable, for nothing will stop thy tongue, thou Grand Old Gabbler, -save a certain Grand Old Silence wearing only bones and carrying a -scythe, who is not so much interested in politics as in mould and -earthworms <i>à la</i> Darwin.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless I, for one, shall be exceedingly sorry when this fleshless -"reaper whose name is Death" mows thee down, poor Gladdy, and turns -thee remorselessly into one more pinch of dust for his overflowing -granary. Remember me or not as thou mayest, do me good service or -bad, I care nothing either way. Thy visits to me were of thine own -seeking, and of conversation thou didst keep the absolute monopoly; but -what matter?—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> at least was privileged to gaze upon thee freely and -mentally comment upon thy collar unreproved. 'Twas but thy unctuous -flattery that vexed my soul; for Gladstonian praise is but Art's -rebuke. Otherwise I bear thee no malice, though for sundry reasons -I might well do so.... Oh, venerable Twaddler! Didst thou but know -me as I am, would not the hairs upon thy scalp, aye "each particular -hair" rise one by one in anger and astonishment, and thou for once be -rendered speechless?... Nay, good Gladstone-Grundy, have no fear! I -will not blab upon thee; I am well covered, closely masked; and thou -shalt hear no more of me as I slip by, save ... a smothered laugh -behind my domino!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">VIII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VIII.</span> <span class="smaller">OF THE TRUE JOURNALIST AND HIS CREED.</span></h2> - -<p>I am very fond of journalists. I look upon them, young and old, fat and -lean, masculine and feminine, as the salt of the earth wherewith to -savour the marrow of the country. And I like to put them through their -paces. I am always devoured by an insatiable curiosity to fathom the -depths of their learning—depths which I feel are almost infinite; yet -despite this infinity I am always fain to plunge. Whenever I see a son -of the ink-pot I collar him, and demand of him information—information -on all things little and big, because he knows all things. I believe he -even knows why Shakespeare left his second-best bed to his wife, only -he won't tell. As for languages, he is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>everybody's own Ollendorf. He -knows French, he knows Russian, he knows Italian, he knows Spanish, he -knows Hindustani, he knows Chinese, he knows—oh divine Apollo! what -does he <i>not</i> know! Let anybody write a book and try to introduce into -its pages one word of Cherokee, one wild unpronounceable word, and -the omniscient journalist is down upon him instantly with the bland -assertion that it is a wrong word, wrongly spelt, wrongly used. For -the journalist knows Cherokee; he spoke it when a gurgling infant in -his mother's arms, together with all the living and dead dialects of -all nations. So that when I get a journalist to dine with me, is it to -be wondered at that I am consumed by a desire to <i>know</i>? The thirst of -wisdom enters into me, and having plied my man with eatables and wine, -I hang on his lips entranced. For can he not tell me everything that -ever was, or ever shall be?—and shall I not also aspire to oracles?</p> - -<p>Once upon a time, to my unspeakable joy, I caught a fledgling -journalist; a fluttering creature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> all eagle-wings and chuckles, and I -carried him home in a cab to dinner. He was a wild fowl, with plumage -unkempt, and beak, <i>i.e.</i>, a Wellingtonian nose, that spoke volumes of -knowledge already. I discovered him hopping about a club, and seeing -he was hungry, I managed to coax him along to my "den." When I had him -there safe, I could have shouted with pure ecstasy! He became gentle; -he smoothed his ruffled feathers; he dipped his beak into my burgundy -wine and pronounced in a god-like way that "behold, it was very good." -Then, when his inner man was satisfied, he spoke; and information, -information, came rolling out with every brief and slangy sentence. Of -kings and queens, of princes and commoners, of he and she and we and -they, of fire, police, law, council, parliament, and my lady's chamber, -of all that whirls in the giddy circle of our time, my fledgling had -taken notes—yea, even on the very wheels of government, he had placed -his ink-stained finger.</p> - -<p>"O wondrous young man!" I muttered as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> heard; "O marvel of the age! -Why do not the kings of the earth gather together to hear thy wisdom? -Why do not the councils of Europe wait to learn the arts of government -from thee? Wert thou at the right hand of Deity, I wonder, when worlds -were created and comets begotten?" ... Here, filled with ideas, I -poured more wine out for the moistening of the Wellingtonian beak, and -demanded feverishly—"Tell me, friend, of things that are unknown to -most men—tell me of the dark mysteries of time, which must be clear as -daylight to a brain like yours!—instruct me in faith and morals—show -me the paths of virtue—explain to me your theories of the future, of -creed—"</p> - -<p>I stopped, choked by my own emotion; I felt I was on the point of -comprehending the incomprehensible—of grasping great facts made clear -through the astute perception of this literary Gamaliel. And he arose -in response to my adjuration; he expanded his manly chest, and stood -in an attitude of "attention"; his nose was redder than when he first -sat down to dine, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> the vacuous chuckle of his laugh was music to my -soul.</p> - -<p>"Creed!" said he. "Drop that! I'm not a church-goer. I've got one form -of faith though." And he chuckled once again.</p> - -<p>"And that is?" I questioned eagerly.</p> - -<p>"This!"</p> - -<p>And with proud unction he recited the following simple formula:—</p> - -<blockquote><p>I believe in the <i>Times</i>.</p> - -<p>And in the <i>Morning Post</i>, Maker of news fashionable and -unfashionable.</p> - -<p>And in one <i>Truth</i>, the property of one Labby, the only-begotten -son of honesty in Journalism,</p> - -<p>Who for us men and our salvation, socially, legally, and -politically,</p> - -<p>Came down from Diplomacy into Bolt Court, Fleet Street,</p> - -<p>And was there self-incarnated Destroyer of Shams. Labby of Labby, -Truth of Truth, Very Rad of Very Rad, Born not made, Being one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> -with himself and answerable to nobody for his opinions.</p> - -<p>Member for Northampton, he suffered there, secured votes and was -left unburied,</p> - -<p>And he sitteth in the House, save when he ariseth and speaketh,</p> - -<p>And he will continue with triumph to judge all those that judge, -both the living and the dead,</p> - -<p>Whose "legal pillory" shall have no end.</p> - -<p>And I believe in one <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>, Pure Giver of frequently -mistaken information, which proceedeth from pens feminine,</p> - -<p>And which with the soporific <i>St. James's</i>, together, exerteth the -lungs of the newsboys.</p> - -<p>I acknowledge one holy and absolute <i>Court Circular</i>.</p> - -<p>I confess one "<i>Saturday</i>" for the flaying of new authors,</p> - -<p>And I look for the death of the <i>Nineteenth Century</i></p> - -<p>And the life of a less dull magazine to come Amen.</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> - -<p>With this, my journalistic fledgling gave way to Homeric laughter, and -helped himself anew to wine. And since that day, since that witching -hour, I have watched his wild career. I track him in the magazines; -I recognise the ebullitions of his wit in "society" paragraphs; I -discover his withering, blistering sarcasm in his reviews of the books -he never reads; in fact, I find him everywhere. As the air permeates -space, he permeates literature. He is the all-sure, the all-wise, the -all-conquering one. With such a faith as his, so firmly held, so nobly -uttered, he is born to authority. I only wish some one would make him -Prime Minister. Everything that is wrong would be righted, and with -a Journalist (and such a journalist!) at the head of affairs, all -questions of government would be as easy to settle as child's play. He -himself—the Journalist—implies as much, and with all the fibres of my -soul I believe him! </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">IX.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF WRITERS IN GROOVES.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>IX.</span> <span class="smaller">OF WRITERS IN GROOVES.</span></h2> - -<p>There are a certain class of authors who remind me of a certain class -of gamblers—men who believe in a special "lucky number," and are -always staking their largest amounts upon it. To speak more plainly, -I should say that I mean the "groovy" men, who, as soon as they find -one particular sort of "style" that chances to hit the taste of the -public, keep on grinding away at it with the remorselessness of an -Italian street-organ player. I see lots of such fellows in the crowd -around me, and I know most of them personally. For instance, there -is William Black, a distinctly "groovy" man if ever there was one. -All his books are like brothers and sisters, bearing a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> strong family -resemblance one to another. If you have read "A Princess of Thule" and -"A Daughter of Heth" you have got the <i>crême de la crême</i> of all that -was or is in him. The rest of his work is evolved from precisely the -same substance as is found in these two books, only it is drawn out -into various criss-cross threads of deft weaving; and, deft as it is, -it makes uncommonly thin material. In his latter novels, indeed, there -is so much of what may be justly termed "feminine twaddle," that one -has to look back to the title-page in order to convince one's self that -it is really one of the "virile" sex who is telling a story. Excellent -Willie! With his small head and inoffensive physiognomy, he suggests -an intellectual sort of pint-pot, out of which it would be absurd to -expect a quart of brain. Inasmuch as a pint-pot can only hold a pint; -so let us be grateful for small mercies. And let us admire, not for -the first time either, the persistent kindly confidence of the British -Public, who steadily take up Willie's novels, one after the other, in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> sanguine faith of finding something new therein. "Some day," says -the patient B.P. in its trot to and from Mudie's Library—"some day -Willie will give us a book without a sunset in it. Some day, by happy -chance, he will forget there exists such a thing as a yacht. And some -day—who knows?—he may even awaken to the fact that there are other -places on earth besides Scotland, and other men who are as interesting -as Scotchmen."</p> - -<p>Good B.P.! Excellent B.P.! What a heart you have! You deserve the -very best that can be given you for the sake of your tolerance -and cheerfulness of temper, which qualities in you seem truly -inexhaustible. Here followeth an anecdote: A certain flimsy scribbler -I wot of, who had just got himself into a loosely-fitting suit of -literary armour, and was handling his sword a bit awkwardly, as -beginners at warfare are apt to do, said to me one day, with a sort of -schoolboy vaunt, "The Public want <i>trash</i>!—and trash is what I'll give -them!" O wise judge! O learned judge! Out he went with his "trash," -his sword<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> poking into everybody's eye, and his armour waggling -uncomfortably round him, and lo! the Public "took" his trash and threw -it into the gutter, broke his sword for him, gave him back the pieces, -and civilly recommended him to look after the loose places in his -armour. He went home, did that proud warrior, and sat thinking about -what had chanced—it may be he is thinking still.</p> - -<p>No, the B.P. don't want "trash"—they want the best of everything—but -they have an infinite kindness and patience in waiting for that -"best," and carefully looking out for it; and when it truly comes they -welcome it with honest enthusiasm. Thus did they welcome and applaud -the "Princess of Thule," because they found it good and charming and -unique, and ever since that time they have reposed quite a pathetic -trust in little Black, hoping against hope that he will give them -something else equally good again. Alas for the vanity of all such -human wishes! for William is a "groovy" man now, and in his groove -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> evidently purposes to remain. I remember dining with, him on one -occasion, when, in the ordinary way of conversation, I asked him what -books he had been reading lately? Oh, what sublime amazement in his -rolling eye!</p> - -<p>"Read?" he drawled. "I never read. Reading spoils an author's own -style."</p> - -<p>Haw-haw! Weally! Good B.P., you see how matters stand? Willie's -"kail-yairdie," or little plot of garden-ground, is barren; its first -crop has been gathered, and no more seed sown by study, so don't expect -any other rich harvests, or look for wonders in such work as "Stand -fast, Craig Royston!" For even brain-soil wants cultivation, if it is -to produce something better than weeds.</p> - -<p>Another "groovy" man is William Clark Russell. The waves rule Britannia -in his opinion: The sea occupies his inventive faculty to the exclusion -of everything else. A pigmy Neptune sits on his bald pate, touching -it up with a trident. Sailors' "yarns," sailors' marriages, sailors' -shipwrecks—tales of mariners in every sort of painful and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> pleasant -situation—influence his mind and bring it into that "One-idea" -condition which is considered by gravely spectacled specialists as a -form of cerebral disease. Moreover, his books bristle with sailors' -jargon, sailors' slang, sailors' "lingo," which people, who are not -sailors and who never intend to be sailors, do not understand and -do not want to understand. However, this monomania of his produced -one good result—"The Wreck of the Grosvenor." He exhausted his best -energies in that book, and having found it a success (as it deserved to -be), settled into the Jack Tar line of writing, and became once for all -and evermore "groovy." The "Wreck of the Grosvenor" is his "Princess of -Thule." He is all there, and there is no more of him anywhere.</p> - -<p>At one time I feared, but it was only a passing shudder, that one of -the most brilliant novelists we have, Marion Crawford, was drifting -in the fatal direction of "groove." When the rather lengthy "Sant' -Ilario" came trailing along, after the equally lengthy "Saracinesca," -I thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> "Alas! and woe is me! Are we never to hear the last of the -beautiful and lovable Astrardente? A noble character, but somewhat too -much of her is here." And I was on the verge of uncomfortable doubt for -some time, for I had always judged Crawford to be of the true Protean -type of genius, capable of touching every string on the literary harp -he holds. And I was not mistaken, for "A Cigarette-maker's Romance," -that most delicate and delightful work, proves that he is anything -but "groovy"; and his "Witch of Prague" is a breaking of entirely new -soil. So that the more I read of him, the more I am confirmed in the -opinion I have previously ventured to express—namely, that he is our -best man-novelist. I use the term "man-novelist" because I know there -are women-novelists—ladies whom I should be very sorry to offend by -applying the adjective "best" to any member of the viler sex. For I -know also that those ladies, if affronted, have curious and unexpected -ways of revenging themselves, and though I am masked, my silver domino<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> -is hardly proof against the green and glittering eye of a remorseless -literary female. So pray you be not wrathful, sweet ladies!—rather -join with me in gentle chorus, and say, as you know you must, that -the author of "Dr. Isaacs," "A Roman Singer," and "Marzio's Crucifix" -is indeed the least "groovy," and therefore the best "man-novelist" -living; be kind and condescending thus far, for of women-novelists you -shall have a word presently.</p> - -<p>Somewhere, once upon a time, I called George Meredith an Eccentricity. -I meant him no harm by this phrase or term—I mean none now, when -I repeat it. He <i>is</i> an Eccentricity—of Genius! Ha! where are you -now, all you commentators and would-be clearers-up of the Mighty -Obscure? An Eccentricity—a bit of genius gone mad—an Intellectual -Faculty broken loose from the moorings of Common Sense, and therefore -a hopelessly obstinate fixture in the "groove" of literary delirium. -A Meredithian description of Meredith is found in his story of "One -of our Conquerors"—a description there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> applied to the character of -Dudley Sowerby, but fitting Meredith himself exactly. Here it is; "His -disordered deeper sentiments were a diver's wreck where an armoured -subtermarine, a monstrous puff-ball of man, wandered seriously light -in heaviness, trebling his hundred-weights to keep him from dancing -like a bladder-block of elastic lumber; thinking occasionally amid -the mournful spectacle, of the atmospheric pipe of communication -with the world above, whereby he was deafened yet sustained." Of -course it is difficult to grasp all this at once—but I seize upon -the words, "<i>a bladder-block of elastic lumber</i>"—I know, I feel -that "<i>bladder-block</i>" is Meredith, though I cannot precisely inform -myself or others what a "<i>bladder-block</i>" in its original sense may -mean. But meanings are not expected to be vulgarly apparent on the -surface of this "diver's wreck" or new school of prose—you have to -search for them; and you must hold fast to whatever "<i>atmospheric -pipe of communication</i>" you can find, in order to keep up with this -"<i>Monstrous puff-ball of man</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> <i>wandering seriously light in heaviness</i>." -It has been left to George Meredith to tell us about "the internal -state of a gentleman who detested intangible metaphor as heartily as -the vulgarest of our gobble-gobbets hate it"—and if we would not be -considered "<i>gobble-gobbets</i>" ourselves, we must strive to be grateful -for the light he throws on our intellectual darkness. He is supposed -to understand women in and out and all round, so we must take it for -granted that a woman can "breathe thunder." It sounds alarming—it is -alarming—but if Meredith says it, it must be true. And he does say -it. With the calm conviction of one who knows, he assures us that "the -lady breathed low thunder." She is a very remarkable person altogether, -this "lady," called Mrs. Marsett, and her modes of action are carried -on in positive defiance of all natural and physical law. For at one -time we are told "her eye-<i>lids</i> (not her eyes) mildly sermonised," -and on another occasion she actually "caught at her slippery tongue -and carolled," quite a feat of <i>leger de langue</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> Again, "her woman's -red mouth was shut fast on a fighting underlip." Till I read this, I -was fool enough to think that the underlip was part of the mouth, but -now I know that the underlip is quite a separate and distinct thing, -as it is able to go on "fighting" while the mouth is "shut fast" on -it. She does all sorts of curious things with this mouth of hers, does -Mrs. Marsett; in one scene of her career it is said that "she blushed, -blinked, frowned, <i>sweetened her lip-lines, bit at the under one</i>, and -passed in a discomposure." Moreover, this strange mouth was given to -the utterance of bad language, for with it and her "slippery tongue" -Mrs. Marsett said her own name was "Damnable!" and what was still -worse, "had the passion to repeat the epithet in shrieks and scratch -up male speech for a hatefuller," whatever that may mean. Of course, -it is all very grand and mixed and magnificent, if any one chooses to -think so; people can work themselves up into an epilepsy of enthusiasm -over prose run mad <i>à la</i> Meredith, as over poetry gone a-woolgathering -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span><i>à la</i> Browning. It is a harmless mania which is confined to the -few, and is of a distinctly non-spreading tendency; while those who -are not partakers in the craze can look on thereat and be amused -thereby—for Meredith is at all times and all seasons both personally -and in literature a real entertainment. Whether he be haranguing to -the verge of deafness some stray acquaintance in the Garrick Club; -whether he be met, a greybeard solitary, stalking up the slopes of -Box Hill, at the foot of which he resides; whether he be inveighing -against the "porkers," <i>i.e.</i>, the Public, within the precincts of a -certain small and extortionate but rigidly pious bookseller's shop in -the town of Dorking; or whether he be visited in his own small literary -"châlet," which he built for himself in his own garden, away from his -house, what time he had a wife, (a very charming, kindly lady, whose -appreciative sense of humour enabled her to understand her husband's -gifts better than any of his wildest worshippers), in order to escape -from "domesticity"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> and the ways of the "women" he is supposed to -understand—in each and all of these positions he is distinctly -amusing—and never more so than when he thinks he is impressive. Yet -there can be no doubt whatever as to his natural cleverness, and the -original turn of mind which might have made him a distinctly great -writer, if he had not forced himself into the strained style of the -artificial "groove" he has adopted. Even now, if he would only leave -the first spontaneous output of his thought alone, instead of altering -it when it is on paper, and weighing it down with all the big words he -can find in the dictionary, he would probably write something above -the average of interest. However, it's no use being hard upon him, as -he has quite recently been Lynched.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> I cannot endure his novels, it -is true—but still, I never wished him to meet such a frightful fate. -When we reflect on the barbarity of the institution known as Lynch-law, -we cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> but wonder how his admirers have tamely stood by and seen -him delivered over to so awful a punishment. Yet it is a positive fact -that they have made no defence. And he has been torn limb from limb, -and broken into explained pieces by a pitiless executioner self-elected -to the performance of the abhorrent deed. A woman too—yclept Hannah -as well as Lynch; and eke a spinster—mind cannot picture a more -formidable foe—a more fearful fate! Heaven save you, poor Meredith! -for man cannot. Lynched you are, and Lynched you must be by every word, -sentence and chapter, until you be dead, and may God have mercy on your -soul!</p> - -<p>Among other "groovy" men may be included Hall Caine (whose big -"bow-wow" style is utterly unchanged and unchangeable), W. E. -Norris, the pale, far-off, feeble imitator of Thackeray, and F. -C. Philips. This latter gentleman is evidently fast "set" in the -"groove" of naughty but interesting adventuresses. His tale of "As -in a Looking-glass" met with so much success, besides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> receiving the -extremely questionable honour of dramatisation, that he now indulges -in the error of imagining that all the world must for the future be -persistently eager to know the histories of a continuous succession -of conscienceless ladies like Lena Despard. One of his creations of -the kind, Margaret Byng, might be Lena's twin sister. (According to -the title-page, one P. Fendall would seem to have something to do -with Margaret Byng, but how and where it is impossible to discover.) -Adventuresses for breakfast, adventuresses for dinner, tea and -supper; adventuresses in all sorts of gowns, brand-new or shabby, and -adventuresses in all sorts of difficult situations at all sorts of -seasons—this is the "four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie" kind -of dish, which is what we must expect from Mr. Philips in the future. -This and no more, since he considers it enough. And among "groovy" men, -alas! must be reckoned one of the most delightful of writers, Bret -Harte. The "groove" he chose was at first so new and fresh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> that we -all felt as if we could never have enough of it; but even in excess of -love there is satiety, and such satiety is our sad experience with the -gifted author of "The Luck of Roaring Camp" and the pathetic "Outcasts -of Poker Flat." We know exactly the sort of thing he will write for us -now—and the charm is broken.</p> - -<p>I lay no claim to being possessed of any literary taste, so it will -matter to no one when I say I can see no beauty and no art in Mr. -Hardy's "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." It is an entirely hateful book -in my opinion. Neither can I endure Mrs. Ward's "David Grieve," and -as this lady has undoubted literary gifts, I hope she will for the -future avoid the religious "groove." It is extremely uninteresting, -and is enough to cramp any author's style. Mr. Gladstone, who "boomed" -"Robert Elsmere," apparently has nothing to say for "David Grieve," -though it seems he can admire such crude performances as "Mdlle. Ixe" -and "Some Emotions and a Moral." But it would never do for us to go by -the taste of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> the Grand Old Man in these things. He is as variable as -a chameleon. He might call our attention to the splendours of Dante on -one occasion, and directly afterwards assure us that nothing could be -finer in literature than the nursery rhyme of "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, -baker's man." Dear old Gladdy! He is the greatest "leader" ever born in -his quality of <i>mis</i>leading.</p> - -<p>It is difficult indeed to find a writer who is not more or less -"groovy"—that is, one who will not only give us different stories, but -different "styles." And as a rule the men writers are more "groovy" -than the women, though the women are bad enough in their own particular -way. Miss Braddon, for example, is, as every one knows, the "grooviest" -of novelists going—her canvas is always prepared in the same manner, -and the same familiar figures stand out upon it in only slightly -altered attitudes. Her books always remind me of a child's marionette -theatre, having the same set of puppets, who can be placed in position -to enact over and over again the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> sort of play. And it is a play -that always amuses one for an hour, when one has nothing better to do. -"Ouida," though she tells all sorts of different stories (of which her -short ones are by far the best), has no difference of style—she is -always the same old "Ouida"—and so will be to the end of her life's -chapter. There are always the same wicked, but exquisitely lovely, -ladies, to whom the marriage tie is frailer and less to be considered -than a hair, and always the same good, pure, and <i>therefore</i> (according -to "Ouida") stupid girls who are just sixteen. There are always the -bold, bad men with "mighty chests" and "Herculean limbs," who covet -their neighbour's wives, or play havoc with the hearts of trusting -maidens—and all these things are told with a gorgeousness of colour -and picturesqueness of description that is not only brilliant, but very -marvellously poetical. "Ouida" holds a pen such as many a man has good -secret reason to envy. There are rich suggestions for both poets and -painters in many of her books—but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> there is no convincing portrait -of life, except in "Friendship," which was a satirical <i>exposé</i> of -the actual lives of some very questionable and unpleasant people. Yet -"Ouida's" gift was one which might have been turned to rare account had -she studied more arduously in her earlier years; but now, across her -little garden of genius, in which all the flowers have run wild, are -written the fatal words "Too Late."</p> - -<p>Another very "groovy" lady novelist is Rhoda Broughton. The -not-particularly-good-looking and "loose-jointed" young man (all Miss -Broughton's heroes are "loose-jointed"—I don't know why) puts in his -appearance in all her books without fail—and there is always the same -sort of distressing hitch in the love-business. The liberties she takes -with the English language are frequently vulgar and unpardonable. -Familiarity with "slang" is no doubt delightful, but some people would -prefer a familiarity with grammar.</p> - -<p>A very promising creature was the fair American, Amelie Rives. I say -"was" because she is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> married now, and I'm afraid she will not write so -well with a "worser half" looking over her "copy." Her story, "Virginia -of Virginia," was a delicious study—quite a little work of genius in -its way—though I must own her novel, "The Quick or the Dead," was a -mere boggle of wild sentiment and scarcely-repressed sensualism. Some -critics were very hard down upon her, because she threatened to be -"original" all the time, and critics hate that sort of thing. That -is why they invariably "go" for one of our newest inflictions, Marie -Corelli, of whom it may be truly said that she has written no two -books alike, either in plot or style; and the grave <i>Spectator</i> on -one occasion forgot itself so far as to say that her romance entitled -"Ardath" had actually beaten Beckford's renowned "Vathek" out of the -field. But all the same, with every respect for the <i>Spectator's</i> -opinion, I, personally speaking, find her a distinctly exasperating -writer, who is neither here, there, nor anywhere—a "will-o'-the-wisp" -sort of being, of whom it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> devoutly to be wished that she would -settle into a "groove," as she would be less of a trial to the (in her -case) always savage reviewer.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more irritating to a critic than to have to chronicle -the reckless flights of this young woman's unbridled and fantastic -imagination. She tells us about heaven and hell as if she had been to -them both, and had rather enjoyed her experiences. Valiant attempts -to "quash" her have been made, but apparently in vain, and most of my -brethren in the critical faculty consider her a positive infliction. -Why does she not take the advice tendered her by the <i>World</i>, and other -sensible journals, and retire altogether from literature? I am sure she -would be much happier "picking geranium leaves" <i>à la</i> Becky Sharp, -with a husband and two thousand a-year. As it is, her very name is, to -the men of the press, what a red rag is to a bull. They are down upon -it instantly with a fury that is almost laughable in its violence. But -I suppose she is like the rest of her sex—obstinate, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> that she -will hold on her wild career, regardless of censure. Only, as I say, I -wish she would elect a "groove" to run in, for I, among many others, -shall be relieved as well as delighted when we are all quite certain -beyond a doubt as to what sort of book we are to expect from her. At -present she is a mere vexation to any well-ordered mind.</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs. Henry Wood! What a wonderfully "groovy" woman <i>she</i> was! -always writing, as one of my brother-critics has aptly remarked, "in -the style of an educated upper housemaid." And yet her books sell -largely—partly because Bentley and Son advertise them perpetually, -and partly because they "will not bring a blush to the cheek of the -Young Person." This latter reason accounts for the popularity (in the -pious provinces) of that astoundingly dull writer, Edna Lyall. Patience -almost fails me when I think of that lady's closely-printed, bulky -volumes, all about nothing. "Groove"? ye gods! I should think it <i>was</i> -a "groove"—a religious, goody-goody <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>"groove," out of which there is -never the smallest possibility of an escape. But perhaps one of the -circumstances that surprises me most in the fate of all the mass of -fiction produced weekly, is the curious placidity with which the public -take it up, scan it, lay it aside, and forget it instantly. Scarce one -out of all the writers writing, male and female, has a book remembered -by Mudie's supporters after a year. If any novel is still thought of -and talked of after that period, you may be sure it is not "groovy," -but that it runs in a directly contrary current to all "grooves" of -preconceived opinion—that it has something vaguely irritating about -it as well as pleasing—hence its success. But on the whole I am -not sure that I do not prefer "groovy" writers after all. There is -a comfortable certainty in their literary manœuvres. They are not -going to frighten you by exploding a big fiery bomb of Imagination or -Truth (both these things are abhorrent to me) on the reader unawares. -It is really quite a weird sensation to take up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> the latest book by -a writer who has the reputation of being able to tell you something -different each time, because, of course, you never know what he or she -may be at. You may have your very soul racked by painful or pathetic -surprises—and why should we have our souls racked? The persistently -"original" man may take us to the brink of a hell and force us to look -down when we would rather not; he may suddenly exert all his forces to -drag our leaden minds after him up to a heaven where we are not quite -ready to go. Then, again, he may give us descriptions of human passion -such as will make us grow quite hot and anon quite cold with the most -curious feelings; what have we done that we should be afflicted with -literary ague? No; it is better, it is safer, to have our novelists -all arranged in "grooves" or "sets" ready to hand, so that we shall -know exactly where to find the chroniclers of rural stories, sporting -stories, detective stories, ghost stories, every "male and female after -their kind,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> each in his or her own appointed place. To get a book by -an author who is recognised as a manufacturer of "racing novels," and -find him breaking out into a strain of sublimated philosophy, would be -indeed an alarming circumstance to most readers. Oh, yes, it is better -to be "groovy"; sometimes the public get tired and throw you over, but -that sort of thing happens more frequently in restless France and Italy -than in England. Had I been "groovy" I should have been famous—at -least, so I have been told by a lady skilled in the fashionable science -of palmistry. But being unable to play the mill-horse, and go round -and round in a recognised rut, here I am—the merest un-notorious -Nobody. What a pity! I cannot but heave an involuntary sigh over my -lost opportunities. If I had only had the necessary ambition, I could -have been made a "Celebrity at Home" for one of the leading journals. -"Fancy that!" to quote from the immortal Ibsen's "Hedda Gabler." And -then—proud thought!—I should have been a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>Somebody. Not because I -had achieved something—oh, no, that isn't required of a "Celebrity at -Home." Not at all. In fact, the less you do nowadays the more likely -you are to become a "celebrity" of the newspapers. So that as I have -done nothing, and moreover, as I have really nothing to do, I ought, by -all modern rule and plan, to be "interviewed" as—well, let me modestly -suggest, as a "Coming" person, perhaps? Lots of fellows are "Coming," -according to the press, who never arrive. I could be advertised as one -of those, without doing much harm to anybody? Won't some one back me -up? I am fully aware of the extent of my loss in literature in having -failed to find a "groove"—but it's never too late to mend, and perhaps -I shall discover it still and settle down in it. At present I am not -anxious, because, as far as my observations on the great literary -raree-show have gone, I find the chief object of the modern Pen is to -earn Money, not Fame. Now, of money I have enough, and of fame—well! I -am a friend of Gladstone's, and that assures fame to anybody!</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Miss Hannah Lynch has published a "Commentary" on the -works of George Meredith.</p></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">X.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>X.</span> <span class="smaller">OF THE SOCIAL ELEPHANT.</span></h2> - -<p>Upon my word, the crowd is very dense just here! I find it more than -difficult to elbow a passage through. And I know how dangerous it is -to jostle literary men, even by accident—they are so touchy, that no -matter how politely you apologise for the inadvertency, they never -excuse it. And there is a little obstruction yonder in the person of -the tame Elephant, who is a sort of grotesque pet of ours; he moves -slowly on account of his bulk, and he has a big palanquin on his -back in which sits the Fairy who manages him. It's quite a charming -spectacle—especially the Fairy part of it—and although there is -such a crush in this particular corner, it is pleasant to see how -good-natured <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>some of the people are, and how kindly they allow the -Elephant to get along in spite of increasing scarcity of room, and how -they all make light of his awkward size because he is such a nice, -mild, innocent, sagacious creature.</p> - -<p>What am I talking about?—who am I talking about? Nothing!—nobody! I -am only making an allegory. It is not called "The Sunlight Lay Across -my Bed," but "The Elephant Walked Across my Path." So he did on one -occasion. I wasn't a bit inconvenienced by his proceedings; he thought -I was, but I wasn't.</p> - -<p>When they are at home the Elephant and the Fairy live together. The -Elephant has a Trunk (or Intellectual Faculty) of the utmost delicacy -and sensitiveness at the tip, and with this exquisitely formed member -he is fond of picking up Pins. The Fairy watches him with a touch of -melancholy interest in her lovely eyes; pins are certainly useful, -and he does pick them up "beautifully." No one can be more bewitching -than the Fairy; no one can be blander or more aware of his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> value -than the Elephant. Conscious of weight and ponderous movement, he -nevertheless manages to preserve a suggestion of something indefinable -that is "utter." He is not without malice—note the slyness of his -eye when he is at his graceful trick of Pin-lifting. He will, it is -true, wave his trunk to and fro with a majestic gentleness that seems -harmless, but a closer inspection of him will arouse in the timorous -observer a vague sense of danger. The chances are ten to one that he -will accept the sugared biscuit (or compliment) offered to him by the -unsuspecting beholder, and then that he will incontinently seize the -unsuspecting one suddenly round the body and dash him to bits on the -flat ground of some hard journalistic matter suitable for smashing -a man. But he never forgets himself so far as to trumpet forth this -secret capability of his; the only warning the visitor ever receives as -to his possible malicious intent is the solemn twinkle of his sly green -eye. Beware that eye! it means mischief.</p> - -<p>As for the Fairy, it is not too much to say that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> she is one of the -prettiest things alive. She does not seem to stand at all in awe of -her Elephant lord. She has her own little webs to weave—silvery -webs of gossamer-discussion on politics, in which, bless her heart -for a charming little Radical, she works neither good nor harm. Her -eyes would burn a hole through many a stern old Tory's waistcoat and -make him dizzily doubtful as to what party he really belonged to for -the moment. She has the prettiest hair, all loosely curling about -her face, and she has a very low voice, so modulated as to seem to -some folks affected in its intonation. But it isn't affected; it -is a natural music, and only repulsive old spinsters with cracked -vocal cords presume to cast aspersions on its dulcet sweetness. She -dresses "æsthetically"—in all sorts of strange tints, and rich -stuffs, made in a fashion which the masculine mind must describe -as "gathered-up-anyhow"—with large and wondrous sleeves and queer -mediæval adornments—it pleases her whim so to do, and it also -pleases the Elephant, who is apt to get excited on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> the subject of -Colour. We all know what a red rag is to a bull—so we should not -be surprised to find an Elephant who is calmed by some colours and -enraged by others. Colour, in fact, is the only rule of life accepted -by the Elephant—better to have no morality, according to him, than -no sense of Colour. And so the Fairy robes herself in curious and -cunningly-devised hues to soothe the Elephant's nerves (Elephants -have thick hides but excessively fragile nerves, as every naturalist -will tell you); and pranks herself out like a flower of grace set -in a queen's garden. She does not talk much, this quaint Fairy, but -she looks whole histories. Her gaze is softly wistful, and often -abstracted; at certain moments her spirit seems to have gone out of her -on invisible wings, miles away from the Elephant and literary Castle, -and it is in such moments that she looks her very prettiest. To me -she is infinitely more interesting than the Elephant himself, but as -it is the Elephant whom everybody goes to see, I must try to do him -justice—if I can! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> - -<p>To begin with, I know him very well, and he knows me. I have fed him -many a time and oft with the sugared compliments he likes best—and -what is really a matter worth noting he has <i>allowed</i> me to feed him. -This is very good of him. He is not so amiable to everybody. Few -indeed are permitted the high honour of holding out a dainty morsel of -flattery to that delicately-sniffing trunk which "smells a rat" too -swiftly to be easily cajoled. But it has pleased the Elephant to take -food from my hand, though while he ate, I noticed he never stopped -winking. So that I know perfectly well who it was that lifted me up -a while ago in a journal that shall be nameless, and did his utmost -to smash me utterly by the force with which he threw me down again. -Elephants have "nasty humours" now and then—it is their nature. -But for once this particular animal found his match. He didn't hurt -me though he tried; I got up from under his very feet, and—offered -him another Compliment. He took it—gracefully; swallowed it -"beautifully"—and does not wink<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> quite so much now. Still, his eye is -always on me—and mine on him—and we begin to understand each other.</p> - -<p>His prettiest trick, and the one for which he is chiefly admired, is, -as I said before, the delicate way in which he picks up Pins. Pins -that any less sensitive creature would think worthless, he instantly -perceives, selects and classes as "distinctly precious." Minute points -of discussion having to do with vague subjects which (unless we could -live on an Island of Dreams like the Laureate's Lotus-eaters) no one -has any time to waste in considering, he (the Elephant) turns over and -over and disposes of in his own peculiar fashion. He has a low estimate -of man's moral responsibilities, he thinks that if the "masses" -could only be brought to appreciate Colour as keenly as he himself -appreciates it, the world would be both happy and wise, and would have -no further need of law. He considers Nature <i>au naturel</i> a mistake. -Nature must be refined by Art. <i>Ergo</i>, a grand waterfall would not -appeal to him, unless properly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> illumined by electricity, or otherwise -got up for effect. He himself is got up for effect—if he were not, -according to his own showing, he would be hideous. An Elephant of -the jungle is unlovely, but an Elephant in civilian attire, decently -housed, with a Fairy to look after him and preside over his meals, is a -very different animal. Art has refined him. Nature has nothing more to -do with him.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the Elephant ruminates. Pins cease to interest him, and with -coiled-up trunk (<i>i.e.</i>, Intellectual Faculty), and heavy limbs at -rest, he shuts his blinking emerald eyes to outer things, and thinks. -Then, rising with a mighty roar of trumpeting that blares across the -old world and the new, he tears up the ground beneath his feet, and -throws a Production—<i>i.e.</i>, a novel, or a play—in the face of his -foes. And his foes momentarily shrink back from him, appalled at the -noise he makes; but anon they rise up boldly in their puny strength to -confront his ponderosity. Staves, darts, arrows and stones they get -together in haste and trembling, and, shielding themselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> behind -different editor's desks, begin the wild affray. Lo, how the huge Trunk -sways and the green eyes glare! Trample the Production to pieces, ye -pigmy ruffians of reviewers, ye shall never crush what is "immortal!" -Howl, ye spitfires of the Press, ye shall never make the Elephant's -shadow diminish by one iota! For the fulminating truth of the -elephantine Production, from a literary point of view, is this: That -"as a work of art it is perfection, and perfection is what we artists -aim at."</p> - -<p>Thus the Elephant, with much pounding of feet, swinging of trunk, -lashing of tail, and scattering of dust in the eyes of bewildered -beholders. And truly he succeeds in attracting an infinite amount of -attention, as why should he not? He is a lordly animal; large enough to -be seen at a distance, and society pets him as it pets all creatures of -whom it is vaguely afraid. Shy, retiring souls have no chance whatever -of what is called "social success" nowadays. You must either be an -Elephant or a Gnat; you must rend or sting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> before society will take -any notice of you. And though critics curse the Elephant and wish he -were well out of their way, Society fondles him; and as long as he -is thus fondled, so long will he score certain victories in art and -literature. It is impossible to "quash" him, he is too big. Every one -is bound to look at him, and when he begins to move, albeit slowly, -every one is equally bound to get out of the way.</p> - -<p>There was once a time, however (when the Elephant was younger), in -which it seemed doubtful whether he would remain an Elephant. A -strange spell was upon him, a wizard-glow of the light that blinds -reviewers—Genius. He stood on the confines of a sort of magic -territory, wagging his delicate Trunk wistfully, and taking inquiring -sniffs at the world. He was then like one of those deeply interesting -animals we read about in the dear old fairy-books; he was waiting for -the proper person to come and cut off his head, or throw water over -him, or something, and say—"Quit thy present form and take that of -a ——" What?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> Well, let us say "Poet," for example. Yes, that would -have probably been the correct formula—"Quit thy present form and -take that of a Poet." And then, hey presto! he would have skipped out -of his hide, all dressed in dazzling blue and silver, a very Prince -of wit and wisdom. But the magician who could or might have worked -this change in him didn't turn up at the right moment, and so no one -would believe he was anything <i>but</i> an Elephant at last. And when he -found that this was people's fixed opinion, and that nobody could be -persuaded to think otherwise, he showed a few very ugly humours. He -broke into the newspaper shops and went rampaging round among the pens -and the ink-pots. He knocked down a few unwary authors whom he imagined -stood in his way, and when they <i>were</i> down, he stamped upon them. -This was not nice of him. But he ought to have known, if he had been -as wise as elephants are supposed to be, that authors, unless they -are very frail indeed, take a deal of killing before being killed. -And he might have foreseen the possibility<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> of those trampled people -getting up and revenging themselves whenever they had the chance. His -"perfect" work was the very thing they had waited for ever so long. -And they did not spare the Elephant. Not they! They remembered the -weight of his feet on themselves, and not being able to tread on him -because he was so large and heavy and obstinate, they stuck things into -him instead. The "barbëd arrow," you know, that kind of disagreeable -small weapon that goes in deep and rankles. A whole shower of such -irritating little darts went into the Elephant—just in the delicate -fleshy places between the folds of his hide—and it was an amazing -sight to see how badly he took them. Never was such a roaring and -trumpeting heard before! In the unreasoning heat of rage he quite -forgot how matters really stood, and that he was only getting the <i>quid -pro quo</i> he actually deserved. He never gave a thought to the authors -he had mangled and left for dead, and who had not been allowed to make -any outcry on the subject of their wounds. He had no <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>recollection of -that Scriptural anecdote which tells how the "dry bones" came together -"bone by bone," and became a "great standing army." <i>His</i> "dry bones" -were the poor poets and novelists he had stamped upon; indeed, not only -had he stamped upon them, but he had even filled his trunk with muddy -water, and squirted it over their seemingly lifeless remains. But the -"great army" was there, and not past fighting, and it marched straight -at and around the Elephant. On one occasion it encamped a force against -him in the <i>St. James's Gazette</i>, and alas, for the good Elephant's -vanity, he imagined he had foes there simply because he holds Radical -views. Ye gods! Who that is commonly sane, cares whether an elephant be -Radical, Whig, or Tory? Politics are the very last subject in the world -I should consult an Elephant about. The mere idea of such a thing is -enough to make a certain <i>St. James's Gazette</i> reviewer I wot of, split -his sides with laughter in the evil secrecy of his literary den.</p> - -<p>As I hinted before, the Elephant while on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> rampage in the -newspaper-shops once chanced on my humble self, sitting back in an -unobtrusive corner. One would have thought that to a lordly animal of -such a size, I might have seemed too microscopic to be noticed, but -not a bit of it. He "went" for me, with a good deal of unnecessary -vigour—a total waste of power on his part, I considered; however, -that was his look-out, not mine. He didn't know who I was then, and -he doesn't quite know now, though I believe if I threw off my domino -and showed him my features he would take to his old tricks again in -a minute. But I don't want to irritate him, because he is really a -good creature; I would much rather pet him than goad him. He can be -cruel, but he can also be kind, and it is in the latter mood that -everybody likes him and wants to give him sugar-candy. Moreover, as -Elephant he is the living Emblem of Wisdom—a sacred being; and, if one -is of an Eastern turn of mind, worthy of worship—and I never heard -of any one yet who would venture to cast a doubt on his sagacity. -He is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> wonderfully knowing; his opinion on some things is always -worth having, and when he picks up Pins his movements are graceful -and always worth watching. Moreover, one never gets tired of looking -at the lovely Fairy who guards and guides him. We could not spare -either of the twain from our midst—they form a picture "full of -Colour." When we view that picture the "moral sense" of Colour enters -into us—we feel twice born and twice alive. See how graceful is the -<i>cortége</i>! how quaint and pretty and Oriental! Through the eye-holes -of my domino I gaze admiringly upon the group—it makes a bright -reflection on the "tablets of my memory." Move on, gentle Elephant! -Move on! As slowly as you like, and at your own pleasure. Only don't -try to "smash" me any more—it's useless. I am formed of that hard -"virile" composition of literary ware "guaranteed unsmashable"—I am -neither glass nor porcelain. Have another biscuit? Another <i>bon-bon</i> -of sugared praise? Well, then, you are a poet in disguise—a genius, -wrapped up and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> sealed down under a hopeless weight of circumstances. -I know your buried qualities well, and had some brave person cut off -your head—<i>i.e.</i> your Self-Esteem (as I previously suggested)—years -ago, we might have had a Prince, nay, even a King, among us. Yet on the -whole I think you are happy in your condition. The <i>dolce far niente</i> -suits you very well, and the bovine repose of an almost Buddhistic -meditation entirely agrees with your constitution, while as long as -life lasts you may be sure you shall never lack Pins. Pass, good -Elephant! I salute you profoundly, and with a still more profound -reverence I kiss the hands of the Fairy!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XI.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XI.</span> <span class="smaller">THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN DREAM.</span></h2> - -<p>Elephants and Fairies suggest the "Arabian Nights." The "Arabian -Nights" suggest, in their turn, the East, and the East suggests—ah! -what does the East not suggest? A. P. Sinnett with his eyeglass? -a vision of "Koot-Hoomi?" pretty Mrs. Besant, once atheist, now -theosophist? or the marvellous fat (now dematerialised) of the -marvellous Blavatsky? More, far more than these things! The very idea -of the East causes me to stand still where I am, in a corner among -all the literary folk, and "dream." The mood grows upon me; I am in -the humour for "dreams." I feel metaphysical; don't listen to me; -the fit will pass by and by. Nay, it <i>is</i> passing, and I feel pious -instead—very pious; and I shall probably get blasphemous directly. -From piety to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> blasphemy is but a step; from the prayer of Moses to his -professing to see the Deity's "back parts" was but the hair's-breadth -of a line in Holy Writ. And as I find everything in a very bad state, -and as I think everybody wants reforming, I am going to tell a little -story. It is a beautiful little story, and if you ask the <i>Athenæum</i> -about it, it will tell you that it is "like a picture by Watts"; that -"it has had no forerunners in literature and probably will have no -successors." So you must pay great attention to it, and you must think -it over for a long time. It requires thinking over for a long time, -because it is a Parable. The best people, and especially those who want -to "tickle the ears" of the <i>Pall Mall</i> groundlings, are all going to -talk and live and write in Parables for the future. So listen!</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">"There was once a woman in South Africa.</div> -<div>She saw the sunlight lie across her bed.</div> -<div class="i1">When there is a window and no blind to it, the sunlight has a way of pouring in,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>And of falling in the direction which is most natural to itself.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">The sunlight did not move,</div> -<div>So the woman covered her eyes.</div> -<div class="i1">And sleep came upon the woman and she dreamed.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">Now in her dream the woman saw a hole.</div> -<div>It was a round hole, and it was red inside and very deep</div> -<div class="i1">And the woman looked down at the hole and said—'What hole is this?'</div> -<div>And a loud voice answered her, saying—</div> -<div class="i1">'That hole is Hell!'</div> -<div>And the woman looked up, and, lo! there was God laughing at her.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>And the woman looked down again at the hole, and saw how red it was and how very deep.</div> -<div class="i1">And she knelt down, with both arms leaning on the brink of the hole.</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>And she said to God: 'I like this place.'</div> -<div>And God answered: 'Ay, dost thou so?'</div> -<div class="i2">And God laughed again.</div> -<div>And the woman said again: 'I like this place. It seems warm.'</div> -<div class="i1">And God said: 'Ay, it <i>is</i> warm.'</div> -<div>And the woman said: 'I think I will go in thither.'</div> -<div class="i1">And God said: 'Ay, go by all means!'</div> -<div class="i2">And the woman went.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>The hole was very wide and red and deep.</div> -<div class="i1">And the woman had plenty of space to slide down.</div> -<div>She slid; and the hole got wider and redder and deeper, but still she slid on.</div> -<div>And presently she caught a creature by the hair.</div> -<div class="i1">And she said to the creature: 'Who art thou?'</div> -<div class="i1">And the creature answered: 'I am X. Y. Z. of the <i>Athenæum</i>, Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane.</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>And the woman said: 'Good, I like thee. Give me thy hand, and we will go together.'</div> -<div class="i1">And the creature went with the woman.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>The hole grew deeper, and it began to be more hot than warm.</div> -<div>And further on the woman saw another creature saying mock prayers.</div> -<div>And the woman asked: 'To whom dost thou say mock prayers?'</div> -<div class="i1">And the creature said: 'To God up there. I want him not to laugh at me.'</div> -<div class="i1">Then the woman said: 'Who art thou that God should laugh?'</div> -<div>And the creature writhed, and answered: 'I am the religious Spirit of the <i>Pall Mall</i>, abiding in the street called Northumberland, off Strand.'</div> -<div class="i1">And the woman said again: 'And doth God laugh at thee?'</div> -<div>And the creature answered: 'Ay, he laugheth sore.'</div> -<div class="i1"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>And the woman said: 'Nay, he shall not laugh. I will tell him to protect thee. Come with me.'</div> -<div>And the creature ceased praying mock prayers, and followed the woman.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>And presently the woman from South Africa grew weary.</div> -<div class="i1">She desired to get out of the hole.</div> -<div>And she called aloud to God: 'I wish to leave Hell.'</div> -<div class="i1">And God said: 'Leave it then.'</div> -<div class="i2">And she left it.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">Outside the sun was shining.</div> -<div>There was no hole anywhere to be seen.</div> -<div class="i1">And the woman looked up, and lo! there was God laughing at her.</div> -<div class="i1">Then said the woman: 'There is no hole.'</div> -<div class="i1">And God gaily answered, 'No.'</div> -<div>Then the woman asked: 'Where is Hell?'</div> -<div class="i1">And God, very much amused, replied: 'I haven't the least idea!'</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>And the woman smiled right joyously, and said: 'I have had bad Dreams.'</div> -<div class="i1">And God said: 'You have!'</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>The sunlight lay across the bed of the woman from South Africa.</div> -<div>She woke, and thought of the deep red hole she had seen.</div> -<div>And she reflected on her strange meeting with X. Y. Z. of the <i>Athenæum</i>, and the 'Religious Spirit' of the <i>Pall Mall</i>.</div> -<div>And she also thought what a playful and hilarious personage God was.</div> -<div>Then she remembered she had had late supper the previous evening.</div> -<div>Which accounted for 'Dreams.'</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">* * * * *</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>The sunlight still lies now and then across the bed of the woman from South Africa.</div> -<div class="i1">It is a way the sunlight has.</div> -<div>And God laughs, as well He may."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Now I hope everybody sees what a "touching<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> simplicity" there is, what -a child-like familiarity with the Deity pervades the whole of this -"prose poem." And yet there is a "subtlety," a candour, a strange -melancholy, a curious cynicism, and a weirdness of conception and -strong picturesqueness about its every line. It is unique in itself; it -wants no explanation, because it says everything in the fewest words. -It has a diction as innocent and unadorned as that of an infant's -first spelling-book. And all the best critics I know want authors -to let "brevity be the soul of wit," and to tell their stories as -concisely as possible. If I were a novel-maker and wished to please -the critics, I should write my "thrillers" in telegram form; twelve or -twenty-four words to a chapter. Then I am sure I should get very well -reviewed. Critics have no time to read any thoroughly finished and -careful work—they seldom can do more than scan the first page and the -last. I know this, being a Critic myself, and I think it is a thousand -pities authors should take any trouble to write a middle part to their -stories.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> An Ollendorf curtness of wording is always desirable, unless, -indeed, one happens to be a George Meredith, and can manage to get -cleverly involved in a long sentence which takes time to decipher, and -when deciphered has literally no meaning at all. Then of course one is -a genius at once; but such masterly art is rare. And so on the whole I -like the "allegory" style best, because it is both brief and obscure -at the same time. It has the surface appearance of simplicity, but its -depth—ah! it is surprising to what a depth you can go in an allegory. -You can fall down a regular well of thought and go fast asleep at -the bottom, and when you wake up you wonder what it was all about, -and you have to begin that allegory over again. That is what I call -"reading"—hard reading—sensible reading. I like a thing you can never -make head or tail of—the brain fattens on such provender. I am going -to write out several dozen "Dreams" by and by—some of the queer ones I -have had after a bout of champagne, for example—and I shall give them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> -<i>gratis</i> to the <i>Pall Mall</i> with my fondest blessing. If there is "one -bright particular star" in the sphere of journalism I worship more than -another it is the <i>Pall Mall</i>, and I feel I can never do too much for -it. And it likes "dreams" and little innocent religious allegories, -because it is so good itself, and, like the boy Washington, has "never -told a lie." I have always considered that the <i>Pall Mall</i> and the -German Kaiser are the only two earthly institutions "God" can favour, -seeing that, according to the lady from South Africa, He has taken -to "laughing" at most things. It is a pleasant picture, that of God -laughing—one, too, not to be found in all the Bible. There the Deity -has been represented as angry, jealous, reproachful, or benignant, but -it has been left to South African literary skill to show us how He -"laughed." And as the <i>Pall Mall</i> thinks it all right that He <i>should</i> -laugh, why then we ought to coincide unanimously in the <i>Pall Mall's</i> -opinion. Because just imagine what London would be without the <i>Pall -Mall</i>!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> Can mind conceive a more hideous desert?—a more wildly howling -desolation? We should be left friendless and all unguided without our -angel of reform; our clean, white-winged, heavenly, truthful Apostle -of Northumberland Street, who is always able to tell us what is good -and what is bad; who can inform us all, statesmen, clerics, authors, -artists, and day-labourers, exactly what we ought and what we ought -not to do. In the event of another Deluge (and some of the scientists -assure us we shall have it soon) I know of a way in which some few of -us might be saved; that is, some few with whom "God" is delighted, -such as myself and the German Kaiser. We should simply require to make -friends with the <i>Pall Mall</i> staff, (several of the members are ladies, -and how charming to have their society!), and build an ark out of -planks from the <i>Pall Mall</i> office floors. We should then paste it all -over with <i>Pall Mall</i> placards of the latest accounts of the Flood up -to date of sailing, for the fishes to read, and then we should get into -it; we who were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> the elected ones (including the Kaiser of course), and -off we would go in smiling safety, secure from winds and waves, being -the only "just people" left on a corrupted earth. And if in the end we -found another Mount Ararat, and it were left to the governing body, -<i>i.e.</i>, the <i>Pall Mall</i> staff and the German Kaiser, to begin a new -world ... O ye gods and little fishes! What a world it would be!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XII.</span> <span class="smaller">QUESTIONETH CONCERNING THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND.</span></h2> - -<p>Standing still too long is rather monotonous work. How Socrates could -have managed to remain a whole night on his feet in meditation is one -of those strange historical circumstances that have always puzzled me. -Now here have I been only a few minutes at rest; only dreaming one -little "dream" of how I, together with the Kaiser and the <i>Pall Mall</i>, -am going to set to work in the general renovation and improvement of -mankind, and yet I am as tired and bored and disposed to yawn as any -of the gaping people in the crowd who have stopped a second to listen -to me. Let me pass on, good folk!—I will e'en resume my indolent, -aimless way, for truly there are many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> things to be seen both wise and -wonderful, which even a strolling player would not miss. Only I will, -with everybody's good leave, avoid that black and stagnant quagmire -of literary matter that stretches its unseemly length across the -social arena. 'Tis a veritable mud-trap, a dismal Slough of Despond, -into which I once fell heedlessly, all through the force of example. -I saw others (some of whom I respected) making for the Slough, and I -followed. When my friends ran to it straight and tumbled in, I did -likewise, and wallowed in the mud with those who were near and dear -to me. I stayed there heroically till I was nearly suffocated, then, -unable to bear it any longer, I made a strong effort and scrambled out, -melancholy and depressed, but—free. Free, and wise enough not to be -cajoled into those black depths again. You see I have not yet shaken -off my allegorical humour, and I am just now speaking allegorically. -For the benefit of those who are slow to perceive the "subtle" meaning -of an allegory I do not mind condescending to explain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> that by the -Slough of Despond I mean the great, sticky, woful, heterogeneous -mass of Magazine Literature. What is the use of it? Why is it with -us? Who wants such productions as the magazines of England, when the -magazines of America can be had? Americans know how to make their -magazines interesting; Englishmen do not. I beg some one who is well -instructed in these matters to tell me where I can find the abnormal -beings who derive any real intellectual benefit from the ponderous -pages of the <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, for example? Little Knowles sits in -his editorial chair even as an angler sits by a stream, assiduously -fishing for names and nothing more. He allows Gladstone to write -the purest nonsense about "Dante at Oxford," simply because he <i>is</i> -Gladstone. He takes poorly-written articles on public questions from -lords and dukes simply because they <i>are</i> lords and dukes. Genius -weighs as nothing with him—titles and passing notorieties that "draw" -are everything. Then we have the <i>Contemporary</i>, the <i>Fortnightly</i>, the -<i>New Review</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> the <i>Quarterly</i>, all on the same "deadly lively" level. -The <i>Quarterly</i> still boasts of its bygone villainous attack on Keats, -for not so very long ago it said that it considered that in-"famous" -criticism perfectly justifiable. Satisfied with itself in this regard, -it praises Hall Caine! O gods of Olympus! There is also the venerable -<i>Blackwood</i>, of whose mild chimney-corner prattle it were cruel to -take serious observation. And there is <i>Temple Bar</i>, <i>The Argosy</i>, -<i>London Society</i>, <i>Belgravia</i>, and hosts of mild imitations of these; -yet taken altogether the magazines published in London do not give in -their entirety half as much satisfaction or well-written information -to the reader as the American <i>Century</i> magazine, or <i>Harper's</i>. This -fact helps to emphasize the general "behindhand" tendency of literary -things in Great Britain, as compared to those same things in America. -Even the children's magazines in the "States" are interesting, and -full of concise, simple, pleasantly-worded knowledge, but here, if -you want pure, undiluted literary drivel, buy a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> child's magazine. -However, it must be remembered that Americans generally, young and -old, like to acquire information; perhaps they feel they do not yet -know everything. The English, on the contrary, have a rooted aversion -to being instructed, inasmuch as every true-born Britisher considers -himself about equal to the Deity in omniscience.</p> - -<p>Most of us, I suppose, have heard of Charles Dickens and his immortal -novels, the most wholesome, humane, sympathetic, and heart-invigorating -books that ever, by happy fortune, were given to the public. And I -daresay we remember in "Little Dorrit" the lively young man connected -with the "Circumlocution Office," who very strenuously objected to the -existence of people who "wanted to know, you know." Now I am one of -those people. I want to know, you know, why we should have about us -all these little marshy literary mud-pools which make up the British -magazine Slough of Despond. I want those curiously-minded beings who -read (and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> buy) the magazines, and follow all the dreadful "serials" -therein, to "stand forth and deliver." I want to know, you know, -how they manage to do it? Whether they feel good after it? Whether -they ever read anything else? And what opinions they have formed on -literature by this means? Whether they accept the verse in <i>Temple -Bar</i>, for example, as actual poetry? Or the short stories and articles -as samples of good terse English style? Whether they find their -brains developing under the fine humour of <i>Belgravia</i>? Whether their -intellectual faculties are roused by a study of <i>The Strand Magazine</i> -(which began well, but is now as monotonous as the rest) or <i>The -English Illustrated</i>? I want to know, you know. Who laugheth at <i>The -Idler</i>? Who rejoiceth in <i>Macmillan's</i>? And who on God's good earth -can stand <i>The Novel Review</i>? What happy saints peruse <i>The Leisure -Hour</i>?—what angels sit down to con the pages of <i>Cassell's Family -Magazine</i>? Who bothereth himself with <i>The Bookman</i>? Who conceiveth -it agreeable to read <i>Longman's</i> or <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span><i>The Gentleman's Magazine</i>? -There must be people who do these things; and, certainly, by a wild -stretch of imagination, I can picture a fat mamma glancing casually at -<i>Belgravia</i>, the while she watches her eldest girl's flirtation with -a "moneyed" suitor out of the corner of her eye; I can also deem it -possible that a paunchy paterfamilias might cut the pages of <i>Temple -Bar</i> and hand it in as a delicate attention to his children's governess -in the schoolroom. But further than this I cannot go. It may be that -the magazines exist for the domestic circle only—the English domestic -circle, of course. For other countries' domestic circles they would not -serve. I think all those interesting females who are understood to be -"good mothers," ladies with high maternal foreheads and small chins, -very likely read the magazines. They do not want to study, they do -not want to learn, they never require to read anything but the tamest -stuff, just to pass away an hour between lunch and afternoon-tea. These -are the only individuals I can connect with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> magazine literature. But, -of course, I may be wrong. There may be intellectual persons who accept -the varied utterances of the <i>Nineteenth Century</i> and <i>Fortnightly</i> as -gospel. I can understand any one liking the <i>Review of Reviews</i>. That -serves a purpose, and is admirably done. Apart from its adoration of -the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>, it is really an excellently managed concern. -That and the <i>Century</i> suffice me—the American <i>Century</i> I mean, not -the Nineteenth Century, which will hardly enter the Twentieth. Quite -recently, one Edward Delille severely slated the American press and -American literature generally, with the hysterical passion of those -lady-writers who, to use reviewer's parlance, "let down their back hair -and scream." Rather unkind of Edward, considering that rumour asserts -him to be American himself. A man should stick up for his own country -or get re-nationalised. Does Delille find English magazine literature -superior to that of America? If he does, he deserves his fate! Let him -wallow, as I did, in the Slough of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> Despond, till he groweth weary, and -when he crieth, "Help! release me!" let no one answer. For the Slough -is the ruin of all originally-minded men; and any novelist who writes -magazine serials is simply committing literary suicide. His name grows -stale to the public ear, his stories lose point, his style lacks proper -warmth, and his very thoughts grow crippled. In a work of true art the -creator should be free as air and answerable to none, not even to that -Olympian god, a magazine editor.</p> - -<p>But because I now avoid the Slough of Despond I do not want others -to avoid it. On the contrary, I love to see a certain class of folk -stuck in the mud. I feel they could not be in a better plight, and -I enjoy the spectacle. Moreover, "by their magazines ye shall know -them." Their conversation, their ideas, their opinions, all are -taken out of the magazines. This is beautiful and edifying. The lady -who talks <i>Temple Bar</i> has naturally a calmer view of life than the -gentleman who talks <i>Nineteenth Century</i>. The sweet thing who <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>murmurs -<i>Chambers's Journal</i> is not so worldly-wise as her friend who utters -<i>New Review</i>. The man at the club who converses <i>Quarterly</i> may or may -not agree with him who pronounceth <i>Contemporary</i>. And so on. It is -like the Baths of Leuk, where every mud-bather has, if he likes, his -own private floating-table, with writing materials and cup of coffee. -But the mud is everywhere all the same, and every man is stuck in it -like a sort of civilised tadpole. And what is always a mystery to me -is how so many magazines manage to "pay." For of course they must pay, -or else they would not be kept going. However, there are various such -social mysteries, which not even the most astute person can fathom. -And I am not astute. I simply "notice" things. As for attempting to -take any sort of correct measure of the fancies and "fads" of the -British Public, that is impossible. Such humours are more "occult" -than theosophy itself. Frenchmen cannot understand "Madame Grundée." -Neither can I. She is always an incomprehensible old lady at the best -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> times, but when she takes to reading all the magazines and liking -the literature therein contained, she becomes a spectacled Sphinx, -the riddle of whose social existence is not worth the solving. And in -its bovine tolerance of such an excess of stupid ephemeral literary -matter Great Britain proves for the millionth time how <i>un</i>-literary -and inartistic it is as a nation. But I am not going to be angry about -it. I always laugh at these things. They do not affect me personally, -as I am out of them. And I must never forget that I have reason to be -grateful to at least one magazine out of the mass—<i>The Fortnightly</i>. -It was lent to me by a friend as a cure for insomnia. It succeeded -perfectly. Three pages of a long political article sufficed; a gentle -drowsiness stole over me, a misty vagueness possessed my brain, and -I, who had been restless for many nights, now under the somnolent -spell of excellent Frank Harris, slept the sleep of the just. Others -have derived the same benefit by the same means, so I am told, -wherefore Harris is a benefactor to his kind. His magazine is the -one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> little oasis in the Slough where tired folks may find rest, if -not refreshment, and people who want a peaceful nap should go there -straight. As for me, I am out of the Slough altogether—I merely stand -near the brink and look on. And my observations are addressed to -nobody. I soliloquise for my own pleasure, like Hamlet, and, with that -psychological Dane, may assure everybody who is concerned about me that -"I am only mad nor-nor-east; when the wind blows southerly I know a -hawk from a heron-shaw."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XIII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XIII.</span> <span class="smaller">DESCRIBETH THE PIOUS PUBLISHER.</span></h2> - -<p>The pious publisher is a man who always says "God bless you!" to the -author he is cheating. "God bless you!" is easily said, sounds well, -and costs nothing, all of which is important. The more "profit" the -pious publisher can make out of the individual he blesses, the more -fervent is his benediction. Now, it is not pleasant to have to mistrust -a blessing, and yet, out of the vague interest I have always taken -in all human imps born of the ink-pot, I would advise them not to -bow with too much childlike humility and confidence to the blessing -of the pious publisher. If it is a particularly earnest and friendly -benediction,—well! it might be advisable to see how "royalties" -are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> getting on. The pious publisher does not bless you for nothing, -depend upon it. You are not his relative; he has no cause to love you -or ask the Almighty to look after you, unless he is making a "good -thing" out of you, in which case he is grateful, after a peculiar -manner of his own. Perhaps he feels he can order a few dozen extra -old brands of port; perhaps, too, he will find it possible to have -a certain improvement carried out in his dwelling which he has long -meditated, all through you—you, a successful author whose books have -had an extra large sale unknown to yourself. And, naturally, he looks -at you with a moist and kindly eye; his heart swells paternally, and -the blessing rises to his lips almost involuntarily. He surveys with -gentle complacency the modest arrangements of your house—the tact -by which worn-out furniture is concealed by "art" antimacassars, -the efforts to "make both ends meet" which are proudly visible in -every room, and he grows blander and blander. He admires the "art" -coverings—he admires the furniture—he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>admires everything. He does -not mind lunching with you—oh, not at all. And while at luncheon he -advises you, patronisingly, sagely, as to how you should write your -next book. You have your own ideas—yes, yes, that is right, that is -very good! it is proper for you to have your own ideas, but it is -also advisable for you to bring those ideas into keeping with the -ordinary public taste. Ordinary, mark you! not extraordinary. There -are certain subjects you should try to avoid, as being unpleasing to -the mind of the respectable middle classes. For example, new notions -with regard to religion are dangerous! yes, yes, dangerous and doubtful -too—doubtful as regards a "sale." Then, bigamy is not a pleasant -subject. It would cause eruptions to break out on the cheek of the -Young Person, and it would not secure any chance as a "gift-book." -Then, a murder is a painful thing!—exceedingly painful—you must -leave out murder. And, for Heaven's sake, do not enter into any -question of suicide—it is a morbid taste, and a book dealing with it -in any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> powerful or striking manner would be quite tabooed from the -middle-class family circle, especially in the provinces. A forgery -might be introduced, if the forger turned out to be a manly hero in the -end and properly repentant—and a little (the pious publisher would say -"a leetle") illicit love would not be objectionable—in fact, it might -be made highly saleable if a curate and a housemaid were the guilty -parties, and there were a child born who turned out to be the heir to -five millions, and the erring curate set things right in the usual -thirty-one-and-sixpenny way. But nothing should be drawn too strong; -you understand? no luscious colouring of any sort—keep the imagination -well in check—tint the canvas grey—and make the book one that will be -bought by stout, moral-minded parents, for slim, no-minded young women, -and it is sure of a sale—sure! And thus the pious publisher pleasantly -adviseth, the while the heart of the listening author sinks lower -and lower, and his soul sickens, gasping for the strong, broad eagle -freedom of flight, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> while he works for a pious publisher never -will be his.</p> - -<p>It is a curious fact, but the pious publisher apparently possesses -a very naïve, innocent, and undefiled nature. He does not know the -world at all, or if he does, he has no idea of its wickedness. When -he is told of some dreadful social scandal he does not believe -it—dear, dear no! he cannot believe it. He is a round, paunchy man, -is the pious publisher, bald-headed, clean-shaven, with an eminently -respectable expression of countenance, and an ostentatious assertion -of honesty in the very set of his clothes. He has a soft voice and a -conciliating smile, and he gets on best with women authors. He tells -them first how well they are looking—his next step is to call them "my -dear." They are frequently much touched by this, and in the yielding -softness of their hearts, forget to nail him down to "terms." Even -the fiercest, ugliest "blue-stocking" that ever lived is conscious of -a nervous quiver through the iron fibres of her soul, when the fat, -unctuous, kindly, pious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> publisher, unawed by her stem features, says -"My dear." There is a delicate something in his tone which pleasantly -persuades her that, after all, it is possible she may be good-looking. -Unconsciously she relaxes in severity, and he drives his bargain home -with such sweet firmness as to entirely succeed in having his own -way—a way which, whether it lead to advantage or loss, she, poor -"blue," is generally too weak to dispute. "My dear" is a phrase that -will not work on the minds of men authors of course, so the pious -publisher, when he has to do with the "virile" sex, substitutes "My -boy!" and accompanies this epithet with a hearty, encouraging clap on -the shoulder. When the author in question is too old and frail (as -well as too reduced to misery by the machinations of pious publishers) -to be impressed by this jovial "My boy!" the pious publisher is not -at a loss. No! He then says "My dear fellow," in gentle, serious, -sympathetic accents. This frequently produces a good effect. It is -indeed remarkable what an impression these meaningless,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> apparently -kindly, short phrases have on the weary minds of authors when uttered -by the pious publisher. It is ridiculous in a way, but pitiful too. No -consciousness of intellectual supremacy will ever eradicate from the -human heart the craving for human sympathy, and the biggest author that -ever wielded potent pen has no proof-armour against the simple magic -of a kindly word. And tired out with long thinking and labour, it may -be that sometimes the pious publisher's "dear fellow" hits a sensitive -little place in the author's complex mechanism, somewhere about where -the tears are (if any author is permitted to have tears), and he -becomes dimly soothed by the simple phrase, so soothed as to actually -fancy he has found—a friend! And in the little "arrangement" made for -his work the pious publisher scores again—heavily, as usual.</p> - -<p>Needless to say the pious publisher is an exceedingly shrewd business -man. His piety distinctly "pays." His "God bless you!" has saved him -many an extra twenty or fifty pounds;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> his "my dear" and "dear fellow" -have helped to make suspicious novelists accept without a murmur his -statements of their royalties. He knows all this perfectly well. He -reads all the poor, pitiful, yet beautiful human weakness of men and -women thoroughly, and makes his capital out of it while he can. God, -we are told, compassionates human weakness; the pious publisher lives -by it. He uses the sad little vanities of the would-be "genius" as so -many channels of speculation. He has an agreeable way of reminding the -very small writer of the gloriously self-denying manner in which the -very great writers managed to exist—those writers of old historic time -who served Art for Art's sake, and were content to live upon a crust -of bread for the sake of future glory. That noble Crust! The pious -publisher wishes all authors would live upon it. "My dear boy," he -says, "it is the modern thirst of gold that kills Art. Now you are a -true 'artist.'" (Here probably the small writer thus addressed cannot -restrain a nervous wriggle of satisfaction.) "Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> yes! a true artist! -I can see that at a glance. To you money weighs as nothing compared -with high ambition and attainment." (The small writer is perhaps not -quite sure about this, still he is unable to look stern, so he smiles -feebly.) "To grind out literature for the mere sake of accumulating -cash would be distasteful to a man of your lofty spirit. You were made -for better things. The notorieties of the day who allow themselves to -be paragraphed and 'boomed' and all the rest of it, and command for the -moment large sales, are really mere ephemera. Now, my dear boy, let -me advise you not to hamper your evident genius by over-anxiety about -money. Do your work, the great work that is in you to do; and if the -rewards come slowly, never mind! in your old age you will look back -to these days of effort as the sweetest of your life! Yes!" and the -pious publisher's eyes moisten at his own eloquence, "in the sunset of -your career, when you have made an assured name, and, let us hope, an -assured fortune also, you will remember this time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> of grand struggle -and endeavour! God bless you!"</p> - -<p>The benediction is here uttered abruptly, as if the pious publisher -couldn't help it. It bursts from his manly bosom like a bomb-shell. -His pent-up emotion finds vent in it; his swelling liberality of -disposition is relieved by it. Meanwhile, the small author sits silent, -curiously disconcerted, and uncomfortably conscious that his face wears -a somewhat foolish expression. He doesn't want to look foolish, but -he knows he does. He is aware that the pious publisher has flattered -him, but somehow he does not like to admit that the flattery is more -than kindly and judicious praise. But, all the same, he ponders in a -dismal sort of way on those phrases "in your old age" and "the sunset -of your career." What! Is he, then, not to experience any of the joys -or luxuries of life till he is such a doddering old idiot as to be -only fit to jabber "reminiscences"? Is he to have no rest or physical -comfort in existence till his strength fails and his mental faculties<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> -decay? Is his fortune only to be "assured" at a time when his chief -needs are a bed, an armchair, and a basin of gruel or "infant's food"? -The pious publisher implies as much. It is strange, and perhaps -wickedly ungrateful of the poor small author, but he does not care -about the "sunset" prospect in the least. He would rather be happy and -well fed while it is full day. And for the life of him he cannot help -thinking how very excellently the pious publisher himself is housed. -Pictures, books, statuary, horses—even a yacht—all these things have -come to the pious publisher long before "sunset." And yet what can he, -the poor small author, do? Nothing. He must consider himself lucky if -he gets his work accepted on any terms. He can't afford to be his own -publisher (not because of the expenses incurred in actually printing -and binding, for these are slight), but because he would be considered -an intruder and would have all the "publishers' rings" against him; and -not only the publishers' rings, but the Circulating Library Ring and -the Bookstall Ring;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> for England is a "free" country, and as a first -consequence of its glorious liberty, every one that does honest work -and seeks honest pay for the same, is the veriest slave that ever wore -chains and manacles.</p> - -<p>There are many publishers, of course, who are not pious, and these -are generally among the most honest of their class. They do not -pretend to be anything but tradesmen, with an eye to business, and no -taste whatever for literature <i>as</i> literature. They would as soon be -cheesemongers if the book-trade failed. They affect nothing; they are -brusque, commonplace men, and they often play a losing game by their -lack of proper urbanity. The pious publisher never loses a farthing. -He is always lining and re-lining his nest. He issues a larger number -of works by women than by men, for the reason that women are more -unbusinesslike than their lords, and more easily persuaded to accept -starvation prices. It may be said, and rightly, that women's work is -not frequently worth much, but there are, at the present time, two or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> -three women in literature whose success is indubitable and whose names -alone are of market value. These are they whom the pious publisher -loves to secure. The more gifted they are, the more unpractical; the -more engrossed in imaginative conception, the more unconscious of -treachery. They perhaps feel the pious publisher is even as a father -to them. He is invariably kind and courteous, and is always able -to "explain" troublesome things with the involved eloquence of a -Gladstone. Indeed, it can never be said that either to man or woman at -any time has the pious publisher been dictatorial or unfriendly. He -is too bland, too conscious of rectitude, too innocent of the world's -evil to be capable of anything but the truest Christian behaviour. If -a long-suffering author were to quarrel with him, he would only mildly -"regret the rupture of friendly terms," while quietly letting all his -particular "ring" know of the "rupture," and warning them against -having to do with the quarrelsome author in question; for the pious -publisher has no scruple in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>"boycotting" an author who deserts him for -a rival house. He can do so if he likes, and he frequently does like. -Did you not know this before, O ye unworldly, simple-minded Pensters? -Then know it now on the faith of a wandering truth-teller, and beware -of getting twisted in the pious publisher's silken coils. Stand firm -without yielding under his friendly shoulder-blow; turn his terms of -endearment into terms of ready cash, and if you succeed in making a -good bargain you may be sure he will <i>not</i> say, "God bless you!" He -will probably sigh and tell you he is a poor man. This is a promising -sign for you, and you can bless <i>him</i> if you like. But, unless you are -willing to be "done," never under any circumstances allow him to bless -<i>you</i>. Most casual benedictions are of doubtful value, but the blessing -of the pious publisher is, financially speaking, an author's damnation. -Beware it therefore; go on unblessed, and prosper!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XIV.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XIV.</span> <span class="smaller">OF CERTAIN GREAT POETS.</span></h2> - -<p>Stop, stop, my dear Lord Tennyson! Whither away so fast? Why turn -your back churlishly upon me?—why spoil dignity by hastening your -steps?—why hide that venerable and honoured head in a hermit's cowl -of distrust for all human kind? I am not the "ubiquitous interviewer"; -I do not want a lock of your hair or your autograph, for the autograph -I have in your own letters, and certainly you cannot spare any hair -just now. Fear me not, then, O great but crusty Poet; my silver domino -conceals the features of a friend; I will do no more than render you -distant but most absolute homage. I would not pry into your garden -solitudes at Haslemere—no,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> not for the '<i>World</i>.' I would not -force my way into your little kingdom at Freshwater for anything an -enterprising editor might offer me; for I love you as all England -loves you, and the utmost I can wish is that you would be friends with -both me and England. What have we done to you, my dear Lord—peer of -the realm and Peer of Poets—that you should disdain us, every one, -and take so much precaution to avoid our company? Have we not, as it -were, fallen at your feet in worship?—marked you out in our hearts and -histories as the greatest poet of the Victorian Era, and taken pride -in the splendour of your fame? Despise us not, noble Singer of sweet -idylls, for remember we have never despised <i>you</i>. In our troubles and -losses we have dropped soft tears over "In Memoriam"; in our loves -and hopes we have wandered among the woods and fields, singing in -thought the songs of "Maud" and "The Princess"; in our dreamy moods we -have pored over "The Lotus-Eaters," "The Palace of Art," "Tithonus," -or "Ænone"; in our passionate moments we have felt all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> scorn -and burning sorrow pent up in "Locksley Hall." You are the divine -melodist who has set our deep-hidden English romance and sentiment -to most tenderly expressed music; we are grateful, and we have shown -our gratitude. We have given you such fond hearing as few poets ever -win; we have lodged you in fair domains, and guarded you as a precious -jewel of the realm. What can we do more to satisfy you? Is there any -grander guerdon for a poet's labour than the whole English-speaking -people's honour? And that you have; and yet you manifest a soured -discontent that sadly misfits your calling. What is it all about? You -do not want to be looked at—"stared at" is your own way of expressing -it—you do not wish to be spoken to—you desire to ignore those who -most reverence you, and you treat with ill-mannered, "touch-me-not" -disdain the very people whose faithful admiration gives you all the -good things of this life which you enjoy. Oh, petulant Poet-peer! Do -no memories of the great dead bards (greater in genius than yourself, -but less fortunate in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> reward) sometimes flit like ghosts across -the horizon of your dreams? Of Chatterton, self-slain through biting -poverty; of Keats, dying before he reached his prime, while on the -very verge of the promised land of Fame; of Byron, self-exiled, his -splendid muse embittered by private woes; of Shelley, piteously drowned -before he had time to measure his own vast intellectual forces?—while -you, my good Lord, fostered by a nation's love and recognition, have -experienced no such cutting cruelties at the hand of destiny. Perhaps, -indeed, you have been too fortunate, and continuous prosperity has made -you careless and over-easily satisfied with the lightest trifle of -verse that suggests itself to your fancy. But if you are careless, you -need not be crusty. The British Public has been likened unto an Ass by -many, but to my thinking it is more like a dog—an honest, good-natured -dog who never bites except under the severest and most repeated -provocation. As a dog it has fawned at your footstool, looked up in -your eyes affectionately and wagged its tail<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> persistently—have you no -other response to such fidelity save a kick or a blow? Oh, fie on such -ill-humour—such uncalled-for cantankerousness! Why should you seek -to be "protected" from those who would fain do you honour? We should -all like to see you sometimes, in society, at theatre or opera, at -flower-show and harmless festival; we should like to say to one another -on beholding you, "There is our Laureate—our grand old Tennyson, one -of the glories of England!" We should not harm you by our affection. We -have no design upon your life, save to pray that it may be guarded and -prolonged. Believe me, it would be far more natural, and, let me add, -more Christian (for I knew by your noble lines "Across the Bar" that -you have not smirched your white flag of song with the ugly blot of -atheism) if you could persuade the world to understand that a journey -or a sea-voyage in the company of England's Laureate, were it possible -to devise such an out-of-the-way form of pleasure, would be one of the -most cheery, prosperous, and ideal trips ever made; that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> heart of -the great poet-thinker was so expansive and warm, that even the tiny, -toddling children adored him; that his sympathy was so vast that the -poorest and most unhappy scribbler alive was sure to have a genial -word from the "singing lips that speak no guile"—in brief, that every -soul on board the good ship sailing sunwards, must needs be better, -happier, wiser, and more full of the milk of human kindness for those -few days passed in the near presence of the golden-voiced Minstrel of -the legended Arthur's court. Why, good my Lord Alfred, should you, of -all people in the world, preach and not practise? You, whose majestic -figure seems already receding from us through the opening portals of -the Unknown—why should you not stretch out hands of benediction on us -ere you go? You are leaving us for other lands, dear Poet, and we all -stand gazing after you sorrowfully, waving "farewell!" while the fond -and foolish women we love, waft you kisses amid their tears; praise and -thanks and blessings to the last from us, my Lord—and will you give us -nothing better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> at parting than a frown? Of a truth there are countless -worlds in the universe beside this one; only we cannot follow you where -you are going, and so we know not whether you may find a kingdom in -the stars better than Shakespeare's England. But whatsoever is deemed -the highest reward among high Immortals, that reward we desire may be -yours; for all the happiness which pure thoughts, sweet music, and -tender song can give, you have given to the little country you are soon -to see the last of. The end is not yet indeed, but it is nigh.</p> - -<p>It is not the people, my Lord, the people on whom you have bestowed -the life-long fruits of your genius, who are to blame for the grossly -ill-judged and indelicate speculations that have lately been rife as -to who shall occupy your throne and wear your crown, when you shall -have resigned both for larger labours. It is the Press, with which the -people have really nothing to do. And as to the Laureateship, I, like -every one else, have my ideas, not of putting in a claim for the post,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> -(though I could, at a push, write blank verse, quite as prettily and -inanely as Lewis Morris), but of making it of wider application. After -yourself I consider that no one should be permitted to hold it as you -have done for an entire lifetime. It should be given to the deserving -bard for five or seven years, no longer; and at each expiration of the -appointed period there should be a brisk competition for the right -of succession. Such an arrangement would give a great impetus to -literature generally, and the recurring competitions would waken up -society to a sense of artistic feeling and excitement. Moreover, to -keep pace with the demands of the time, when the people are supposed to -be worthy of having a voice in everything, the election of England's -Laureate should be voted for by England's Public, and not left to the -decision of a Clique. Cliquism would put an end to all possibility of -fair play or justice, as it always does. To keep this public judgment -up to a certain intellectual standard, every householder paying rent -and taxes amounting together to not less than £200 per<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> annum, should -have a vote; and, because women are frequently the best readers and -judges of poetry, one woman in every such household should also be -entitled to a vote. The result of the plan would be that by degrees -society would become interested in Poetry, which by tradition and -heritage is distinctly the first of the Fine Arts—and would take pains -to understand it, by which piece of additional education nothing would -be lost to civilisation, but rather much might be gained in gentleness, -quick perception, and fine feeling. It would be a safer and more -respectable line of study at any rate than turf speculations. But, like -all good ideas, it will, I suppose, have no chance of acceptance, in -which case, rather than see inferior men, like Morris or Edwin Arnold, -in the position which you, my Lord, have so greatly dignified, I would -say with others whom I know, "Abolish the post, and let Tennyson be -our last Laureate." For there is no one fitted to occupy it after -you, unless it be some singer unknown to the Log-rolling community. -Therefore, it would be best<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> for England, in losing you, to also lose -the very name of Laureate, save as a noble and unsullied memory.</p> - -<p>You see how truly my devotion turns towards you, my dear Lord, though -you will have none of it, nor of any such "outside vulgar" sympathy. -A recent letter of yours to me contains the following sentence: "<i>I -sometimes wish I had never written a line</i>." Alas, good Nestor among -modern bards, has Fame brought no happier end than this? No more than -spleen and peevishness? Suppose, for sake of argument, this curious -wish of yours had been granted, and you had never "<i>written a line</i>." -Well? What of the glory of renown?—what of the peerage which descends, -a poet's mantle, on your heirs? what of the creature comforts of -Haslemere and Freshwater?—what of the good honest cash that is paid -for every airy rhyme that is blown from your imagination as lightly -as the winged pine-seed from its cone? If you had "<i>never written a -line</i>," would you have gained anything? Nay, surely you would have lost -much.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> Therefore, why carp and cavil in the radiant face of Fortune, -the smiling goddess who has never deserted you since the publication -of your first volume? Cheerly, cheerly, good heart! Lift up your head -and look frank kindness on the world! It is not a bad world after all, -and whatever its faults, it loves you. Let it see you at your best and -friendliest before you say "Good-bye!"</p> - -<p>When I was very youthful and imaginative, I used to believe implicitly -in that old fairy legend (known to Shakespeare as well as myself) which -declares that toads "ugly and venomous" have precious jewels in their -heads. And I had a special partiality for toads in consequence. I used -to assist them respectfully with a stick when they came panting out -under the leaves in hot weather in search of water, and guide them -gently towards the object of their desires. When a toad stared at me -fixedly with his peculiarly bright eyes, I felt vaguely flattered. -I had an idea that perhaps he might be intellectually capable of -making a will and leaving me his brain-jewel. Needless to say I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> was -disappointed; no toad ever fulfilled the hopes I had of him. But -since those green and happy days I have gained an insight into the -hidden meaning of the fable—which is, of course, that unfascinating -and personally disappointing individuals may possess the greatest -intellectual powers. Now there is one man who is distinctly inimical -to me, personally speaking, and yet I am fain to do his "brain-jewel" -justice. I allude to Algernon Charles Swinburne, whom, to meet on his -way to and from "The Pines," Putney, serves as a revelation. The first -impression one gets is of a small man with large feet, walking as if -for a wager, arms swinging hither and thither, and fingers briskly -playing imaginary tunes in the air as he goes. Then, as the eccentric -shape comes nearer, one is aware of a stubbly beard, and peeping eyes -expressive of mingled distrust and aversion; a hideous hat is clapped -down over the broad brow, which hat when lifted displays a bald expanse -of skull bearing no sort of resemblance whatever to the counterfeit -presentments of Apollo, and yet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> incongruous though it seem, this -little, nervous, impatient, querulous being is no other than the author -of the "Triumph of Time," one of the finest poems in the English -language; and these twiddling restless fingers penned the majestic, -burning, beautiful "Tristram of Lyonesse," a book which, like an -imperial jewel-casket, is literally piled with gems. To look at the man -and to think of his poems at the same time is enough to make one gasp -for breath. It appears quite impossible to realise that this solitary -biped trotting full speed to Wimbledon should have written such lines -as these:—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"I shall never be friends again with roses,</div> -<div class="i1">I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong</div> -<div>Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,</div> -<div class="i1"><i>As a wave of the sea turned back by song</i>."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>One can, however, easily believe that he wrote of himself in the -following passage:— </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"<i>But who now on earth need care how I live?</i></div> -<div>Have the high gods anything left to give</div> -<div>Save dust and laurels and gold and sand?</div> -<div>Which gifts are goodly; but I will none."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Swinburne, like Tennyson, manifests a great abhorrence for the -society of his fellow-creatures, but his shrinking churlishness is -more accountable to the world than that of the elder bard. Tennyson's -muse is pure, refined, and ever persuasive to good; while at times -Swinburne seems possessed of a very devil of lewdness and atheism; and -lewdness and atheism are not yet openly accepted as desirable parts -of a liberal education. Of his former rank and rampant republicanism -nothing need be said; the politics of a poet are always the most absurd -and shifty part of him. And though lewdness of the pen is beginning -to be more tolerated than once it was, thanks to the importation of -such foreign trash as the "Kreutzer Sonata" and other publications of -a like free-and-easy pruriency, the love of moral filth is not yet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> -universal. We are dabbling in mire, but we do not willingly wallow in -it—at least, not at present. The honest British guffaw of laughter -that greets crazy old Ibsen's contemptible delineations of women, -has a jovial wholesome music in it which the caterwauling of cliques -cannot silence. And there is a strong under-current of feeling in -the peoples of nearly all countries, that whatever prose-writers may -choose to do by way of degrading themselves and their profession, poets -should draw the line somewhere. Poor paralytic old Mrs. Grundy still -pretends, in the most ridiculously senile way, to be quite shocked at -the idea of reading "Don Juan," when, as a matter of fact, she has put -on strong spectacles over her blear eyes in order to gloat upon far -worse literary provender. There is not a line that Byron ever wrote -approaching to the revolting indecency of Swinburne's "Faustine"—a -most disgusting set of bad verses, let me tell Algernon, with my -frankest compliments. The only excuse that can be offered for such -a sickening affront to the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> name of poetry, is that the writer -must have been suffering at the time he wrote it from a sort of moral -disease.</p> - -<p>From moral disease no moral health can come—and in spite of -Swinburne's unquestioned and unquestionable genius, I believe his fame -will perish as utterly and hopelessly as a brilliant torch plunged -suddenly in the sea. There is no stamina in him—nothing to hold or -to keep in all this meteor-like shower of words upon words, thoughts -upon thoughts, similes upon similes; there lacks steadiness in the -music; none of the vast eternal underthrobbings of nature give truth or -grandeur to the strain. It is the harsh raving and shrill chanting of a -man in fever and delirium; not the rich pulsing rhythm of a singer in -noble accord with life, love, and labour.</p> - -<p>One of the most unpleasant characteristics of Swinburne's muse is the -idea conveyed therein of the sex feminine. Women are no better (and -rather worse) than wild animals according to this poet's standard; or -if not animals, passive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> creatures, to be "bitten" and "sucked" and -"pressed" and "crushed" as though they were a peculiar species of grape -for man's special eating. Their hair is "woven and unwoven" recklessly -till one feels it must surely be plucked out by the roots; their -"flanks" are supposed to "shine," their "eyelids" are "as sweet savour -issuing;" and the following vaguely comic lines occur in "Anactoria":—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Ah, ah, thy beauty! <i>like a beast it bites</i>,</div> -<div>Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites.</div> -<div>Ah, sweet, and sweet again, and <i>seven times sweet</i></div> -<div><i>The paces and the pauses of thy feet</i>!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>More preposterously insane nonsense than this it would be difficult to -find on any printed page extant.</p> - -<p>It will be chiefly on account of his utterly false conception of life -and the higher emotions of the human heart, that Swinburne will not -leave the great name he might have left had he recognised<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> the full -dignity of his calling. He had the power, but not the will. I say he -"had" advisedly, because he has it no longer. His last productions are -positively puerile as compared with his first, and each new thing he -writes shows the falling-off in his skill more and more perceptibly. -His similes are heavy and confused; his strained efforts at impossible -paradox almost ludicrous. This is the kind of thing he revels in:—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>The formless form of a mouthless mouth,</div> -<div>And the biteless bite of a tooth that has gone.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>We are, perforce, thrown back on the "Poems and Ballads" and "Tristram -of Lyonesse," compelled to realise that in these two books we have -got all of Swinburne that we shall ever get worth reading—all the -concentrated fire of that genius which is dying out day by day into -dull ashes. Theodore Watts, practical, friendly Watts, something of a -poet himself in a grave and lumbersome way, can do nothing to revive -that once brilliant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> if lurid glow that animated Algernon's formerly -reckless spirit. It is all over—the lamp is quenched, and the harp -is broken. It would have been almost better for Swinburne's fame had -he died in his youth, consumed, like the fabled Phœnix, by the fierce -glare of the poetic hell-flames he had kindled about himself, rather -than have lived till now to drivel into a silly dotage of roundels -concerning babies' toes and noses and fingers, which are assuredly -the most uninteresting subject-matter to the lover of true poesy. His -attempts, too, in the "Border-Ballad" style are the weakest and most -unsatisfactory imitations of the rough but vigorous original models. -And while on the subject of imitation, it is rather interesting to the -careful student of poetic "style" to read the admirable translations -made from the earlier Italian poets by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and -compare them with some of Swinburne's earlier pieces. It will be -remembered that Swinburne was at one time of his life much in the -company of Rossetti, and he would most probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> have heard many -of these translations read before they were published; anyway, the -similitude of measure and rhythm between Rossetti's "renderings" and -Swinburne's "originals" is somewhat striking.</p> - -<p>Personally, I am inclined to think that the worthy Algernon Charles -caught his particular trick of rhyming and rounding his verse in the -fashion now known as "Swinburnian" entirely from the Italian school -of Guido Cavalcanti, Rinaldo D'Aquino, and others of their time, as -well as from a few old French models of the François Villon type. His -actual masterpiece, a work which contains no such borrowed juggleries -of rhyme, is "Tristram of Lyonesse." This great poem is not half so -well known as it ought to be—most people appear never to have heard -of it, much less to have read it. In perusing its pages, one scarcely -thinks of the author save as the merest human phonograph through which -Inspiration speaks—in fact, it is rather curious to realise how little -we really do take the personal Swinburne into our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> consideration while -reading his works, or for that matter the personal anybody who has -ever done anything. Personalities are very seldom really interesting. -It is only when we have a wild, wicked Byron that we are fascinated by -"personality"; a man who turns upon us, saying that he is—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i6">"only not to desperation driven,</div> -<div><i>Because not altogether of such clay</i></div> -<div><i>As rots into the souls of those whom I survey</i>."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Well, well! And what of Browning? Why, Browning is dead. Moreover, he -is buried in damp, dirty, evil-smelling Westminster Abbey. What more -would you have for him? Fame? Let be, let be; he had Notoriety. That -must suffice, and that being done, why, all is done, and there is no -more to be said. Notoriety is not Fame. Fame is not Notoriety. No man -can have both, though he may cheat himself into taking the lesser for -the greater, and die happy in the pleasing delusion. Even so Browning -died; even so was he honourably interred. May he rest in peace. Amen. </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XV.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>OF MORE POETS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XV.</span> <span class="smaller">OF MORE POETS.</span></h2> - -<p>Are there no other poets in the crowd save Tennyson and Swinburne? God -bless my soul, you don't suppose I am going to offend a whole mob of -verse-writers—no other poets? Of course there are others! no end of -others. Poets over-run our land even as the locusts over-ran Egypt, and -they are all "as good, and a darned sight better," as the Yankees say, -than either the Laureate or Algernon Charles, in their own opinion. -Mark that last clause, please; it is important. The number of "poets" -so styled by themselves is legion; only I, who am a rudely-opiniated -and fastidious masquer, decline to recognise their clamorous claims -to the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>deathless laurel. But this does not matter. Who cares what -I either decline or accept? My opinions are "nothing to nobody." I -only express them for my own satisfaction and amusement; I have no -other good to gain thereby. As for the chance of offending the "poets" -alluded to, I certainly care not a jot. I have no desire to please them -in any way, as I consider most of them an offence and an obstruction -in literature. Some people run away with the notion that Edwin Arnold -(I give him the full glory of his "Sir" and C.S.I. elsewhere) is a -poet. Certainly his books sell. The "Light of Asia," with all its best -bits taken out of the original "Mahabhârata," is a perfect triumph of -verse-making. All the religious ladies read it because it is so very -unexciting and heavenly and harmless, and because, like all pious -poetry, it preaches virtue that no one ever dreams of practising. It -is a capital book for school prizes, too; it will not hurt any boy or -girl to read it, and it may providentially check them in time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> from -trying to write verse themselves. As for the "Light of the World," -it will probably meet with the same success among the same class of -readers, though it is much inferior to the "Light of Asia," owing to -having no "Mahabhârata" in it. But Lewis Morris is quite as great a -favourite with the "goodys" of society as Sir Edwin. The "goodys" don't -know, and don't want to know, anything about Dante's "Inferno," and are -therefore quite satisfied to accept "The Epic of Hades" as <i>bonâ fide</i> -"original" matter,—and there are some "sweetly pretty" lines in "A -Vision of Saints." Both productions are well adapted for gift-books, -and will suit the taste of the demure provincial "misses" who wish to -be discovered reading poetry under a shady tree what time the bachelor -curate of the parish passeth by. All the same, I, who am a Nobody, -decline to consider either Morris or Arnold poets. They are excellent -verse-compilers though, and suit the tastes of those who do not care -about either originality or inspiration. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> - -<p>I am nothing if not eccentric, and so I am disposed to place one -Alfred C. Calmour among the poets. He has published no poems—he has -only produced "poetical" plays, failures all, save "The Amber Heart," -and he has been generally "sent to the right about" by persons with -infinitely less brain than himself. It is curious to observe what spite -and meanness waken in the manly breasts of certain of his fellows at -the mere mention of his name. I spoke in praise of "The Amber Heart" on -one occasion to a critical brother, and he at once said—"All filched -out of Wills's waste-paper basket; he was Wills's secretary." "What -of 'Cyrene'?" I asked. "Oh, I don't know anything about 'Cyrene'; but -if there's anything good in it, depend upon it, it is stolen from -Wills." I relapsed into silence, for I never thought and never shall -think anything of Wills, whereas I do think something of Calmour. He -is writing a drama, I hear, on "Dante and Beatrice," and I confess to -anticipating it with intense interest. I want him to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> do as my dear -friend Oscar Wilde has done—pulverise his enemies by a big success. -And why? Because I hate to see a hard-working man "sat upon." And -Calmour does work hard, lives hard too, and never complains or "girds" -at fate, wherefore I venture to prophecy fame for him one of these -days. I have been assured he is conceited. I have never found him -so. Suppose he were, is conceit a singular fault in authors? Are we -to believe that they are more boastfully disposed than actors, for -instance?</p> - -<p>"What do you think of Calmour?" I asked E. S. Willard on one occasion, -when, in all the grave consciousness of "looking" <i>Judah</i> to the -life, he stood beside me sipping convivial tea in Wilson Barrett's -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>"Think of Calmour?" he replied, with an inimitable air of -self-sufficiency. "I never think of Calmour!"</p> - -<p>Magnificent wind-bag assertiveness! but hopelessly unreasonable. -Calmour is more worth thinking about than Willard, only Willard -doesn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> see it. The creator of a part merits greater consideration -than the mime who performs it. I confess to being a lover of fair -play, and when a lot of people try to "hustle" a man, I am disposed -to fight for him. Anyway, Calmour has a clean and delicate pen, and -does not pander to vulgar vice like that wretched old Scandinavian -humbug, Ibsen. Why we should abuse Calmour and praise Ibsen passes my -comprehension. Except that "foreign" scribblers are all "geniuses" with -us at once—they must be, you know, simply because they <i>are</i> foreign; -they have a "subtlety," a "flavour," an "ardour," a "naturalism," -and—a Nastiness which is not the legitimate inheritance of the English -School. Had any one of our own men dared to offer us a "Hedda Gabler," -or a "Rosmersholm," or Maeterlinck's piece of bathos, "L'Intruse," he -would have been shrieked and howled down with derisive laughter.</p> - -<p>I often wonder what on earth the faddists of the poor old doddering, -doting <i>Athenæum</i> mean by poking and prodding about for sparks of -genius<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> in their new "heavy man," William Watson? It is very funny -to call him a poet—very funny, indeed. He is a sort of fifth-rate -Wordsworth—and while we can just stand the sonnets and shorter poems -of Wordsworth at first-hand, a diluted example of his pattern in these -days is too much for our patience. I know a good many people—in fact, -I meet in social intercourse nearly everybody worth knowing—but as yet -I have come upon nobody who reads Watson's poems, or who appear to know -anything about Watson. Curious, isn't it? The <i>Athenæum</i> seems to carry -no conviction whatever to the Ass-public.</p> - -<p>Messrs. Trübner sent to me some time ago a book of poems, which first -surprised and then fascinated me into the belief that I had discovered -an English Petrarch. I think I have, too. If absolute music, perfect -rhythm, and exquisite wording of love-thoughts are Petrarchian, then -my man is a Petrarch. His book is called "A Lover's Litanies," and the -"litanies" are the poems. There are ten of them, and each one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> has a -title borrowed from the old church missal—rather a quaint idea. It -would be difficult to match the one called "Vox Amoris" among all the -love-poems of the world. Does the dear old purblind <i>Athenæum</i> know -anything about this real poet, who has perhaps not been "discovered" by -Mr. Grant Allen or Andrew Lang? Cheer up, old <i>Athenæum</i>, put on thy -spectacles, and look about for the author of these "Litanies," lest the -outer world should say thou art napping! People are reading "A Lover's -Litanies"—those people who do not know anything about William Watson.</p> - -<p>Robert Louis Stevenson started as a "poet," I believe. Now he has -become the "Thucydides of literature"—<i>vide Pall Mall Gazette</i>. -Such nice, pretty classical names the <i>Pall Mall</i> discovers for its -particular darlings. Has the <i>Pall Mall</i> read Thucydides? I rather -doubt it. I have, and find no resemblance to Mr. Stevenson. And, truth -to tell, I preferred Mr. Stevenson's past poetry to his present prose. -Yet why should I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> murmur, remembering the sweet, sound slumber into -which I fell over "The Wrecker"—that trying mixture of Marryat and -Clark Russell. I think it is a capital story for schoolboys though, and -that is why the <i>Pall Mall</i> admires it. I am not a schoolboy; the <i>Pall -Mall</i> is; a dear, bright, gamesome, peg-top-and-marble creature, who -thinks the greatest joke in life is to break a neighbour's window or -ring a neighbour's bell, and then run away laughing. Its animal spirits -are too delightfully boisterous for it to appreciate any sort of deep -sentiment; a story of strong human passions, or a romance in which -love has the most prevailing share, would not appeal to its unlessoned -fancy. And, very naturally, it appreciates Stevenson, because he gives -it no hard, uncomfortable life-problems to think about.</p> - -<p>Another "poet" who calls himself so is Hall Caine. He says the -"Scapegoat" is not so much a novel as a drama, and not so much a drama -as a "poem." Very good indeed! Excellent fooling, upon my life. Hall -Caine can be very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> funny if he likes, though you wouldn't think it to -look at him. When he called his story of the "Bondman" a "New Saga," -it was only his fun. His wit is quite irrepressible. Among other -humorous things, he has had his portrait taken in a loose shirt and -knickers, seated facing the bust of Shakespeare, like a day-labourer -fronting the Sphynx. It is altogether refreshing to find a Lilliputian -literary ephemera so entirely delighted with himself as Hall Caine. -He is much more convinced of the intrinsic value of his own genius -than Oscar Wilde, with less reason than Oscar for his conviction. -Oscar is a really clever man; Hall Caine tries to be clever and does -not succeed. Oscar is a born wit, moreover, and though he does crib a -few <i>bon-mots</i> from Molière and a few paradoxes from Rochefoucauld, -what does it matter for the English who do not understand French, and -have to get "books of the words" in order to "follow" Sarah Bernhardt. -Besides, Hall Caine borrows from the French also; the plot of his -"Scapegoat" is taken from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> the French, so one of my critical friends -assures me, and critics are always right. Francis Adams (also a "poet") -"went" for Hall Caine not long ago in the <i>Fortnightly</i>—a regular good -knock-down thrust it was, too. But Adams's prowess is of no avail in -these things. The more you abuse a fellow, the more his books sell. -The best way to utterly damn an author is to say that his novels are -"nicely written," "prettily told," "harmless fiction," or "innocuous -literature." If these phrases do not finish him off, nothing will. An -original, powerful, passionate writer is always "slated," and always -"sells." Witness the career of one Emile Zola. With all his faults, -the man is a great poet; realism and romance unite in strange colours -on his literary palette, and with his forceful brush he paints life -in all its varied aspects fearlessly and without any regard for -outside opinions. His one blemish is the blemish of the whole French -nation—moral Nastiness. But if we talk of "poets" who, though making -their bread-and-butter out of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> writing of prose, still insist on -belonging to the gods of Parnassus, none of the stringers of rhyme and -jinglers of ballads, and weavers of "sagas" and the like, that afflict -this enlightened and imaginative nation, could write such a true poem -from end to end as "Le Rêve." Such consummate art, such unravelling of -exquisite romance out of commonplace material, is not to be discovered -in the English literary brain. The English literary brain is dull, -lumpish, and heavy—the English literary worker is dominated by one -idea, and that is, how much hard cash shall he get for his work? And -thus it is that poets, real poets, are rarer than swallows in snow; so -that is why I am slightly exercised in my mind respecting the Petrarch -sort of minstrel I spoke of a while ago. He is unquestionably a poet, -and seems to get on without any "booming." This strikes me as very -odd. However, most of the "best" men go unboomed. No occasion to puff -a good article. As for the pretended poets, countless as the sands of -the sea, there is a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> consolation in the reflection that in a few -more years they will all be as though they never had been. Good old -Posterity will know nothing about them, and herein Posterity is to be -heartily congratulated. Poetical gnats must live like other gnats, I -suppose—they are rather troublesome, and make a buzzing noise in one's -ears, but as their whole existence lasts no more than a day, we must -have patience till the sun sets. </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XVI.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>TO A MIGHTY GENIUS.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XVI.</span> <span class="smaller">TO A MIGHTY GENIUS.</span></h2> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"O Rudyard Kipling! Phœbus! What a name,</div> -<div>To fill the speaking trump of future Fame!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This, with apologies to the shade of the "loose ungrammatical" Byron, -as the perfectly grammatical Gosse calls him. Dear Gosse! He has -cause to be somewhat irritated with his own career as a poet, for he -has not yet "set the Thames on fire," as he expected to do with the -torch of his inspiration. Hence he was compelled to vent his pent-up -spleen somehow, and what better dead giant to fall upon and beat with -pigmy blows of pigmy personal vexation than Byron, whose Apollo-like -renown (with scarce an effort on his own part) sent thunders through -Europe. Oh, grammatical Gosse!—but never mind him just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> now; I -must concentrate my soul on Kip; on Rudyard; on the glory of this -literary age. Let me look at you, you blessed baby! treasure of -its own Grandmother Journalism's heart! There you are, crowing and -chuckling, small but "virile," every inch of you, though you are not -overstocked with hair on the top of that high head of yours, and it -is hard to begin life by viewing it through spectacles. But <i>as</i> you -are, there you are! and my pulses leap at the sight of you. Fielding, -Sterne, Thackeray, Dickens, all these parted spirits have, as it -were, distilled themselves into a fiery fluid wherewith to animate -your miniature form; was ever such a thrilling wonder? Hear we good -Uncle <i>Blackwood</i>, the while he dances you upon his gouty knee:—"If -her Majesty's Ministers will be guided by us (which perhaps is not -extremely probable; yet we confess we should like the command of a -Minister's ear for several shrewd suggestions) they will bestow a Star -of India without more ado upon this young man of genius who has shown -us all what the Indian Empire means." </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> - -<p>No doubt, good 'nuncle! no doubt the Ministry will listen to thy -"shrewd suggestions" what time the moon is made of ripe green cheese. -Go on, old man, go on, in thy cracked and aged pipe, growing wheezy -with emotion. "The battle in the 'Main Guard' is like Homer or Sir -Walter.... If her Majesty herself, who knows so much, desires a fuller -knowledge of her Indian Empire, we desire respectfully to recommend to -the Secretary for India that he should place no sheaves of despatches -in the royal hands, but Mr. Rudyard Kipling's books.... What Mr. -Rudyard Kipling has done is an imperial work, and worthy of an imperial -reward!"</p> - -<p>Bravo, worthy 'nuncle! Homer begged his bread, but the pen-and-ink -sketcher of "Mrs. Hauksbee" shall have rewards imperial! To it again, -garrulous 'nuncle—to it and cease not! "Here, by the dignified hand of -Maga the ever young, we bid the young genius All hail! and more power -to his elbow, to relapse into vernacular speech, which is always more -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>convincing than the high-flown." Should it not have been written "to -relapse into bathos," good 'nuncle? And beware of declaring thyself -to be "ever young," for nothing lives that shall not grow old, and -the younger generation already profanely dub thee "antiquated." Wipe -thine eyes, Uncle <i>Blackwood</i>, polish thy spectacles, and set down our -precious baby for an instant the while his other nurses, godfathers and -godmothers, look at him, and speculate upon his probable growth.</p> - -<p>Let us listen to the hysterical <i>D. T.</i> the while it raveth in strophes -of gin-and-water:—"Mr. Rudyard Kipling is, and seems likely to -remain, a literary enigma. Who can deny his strength, his virility, -his dramatic sense, his imaginative wealth, his masterful genius? -He is like a young and sportive Titan, piling Pelion on Ossa in his -reckless ambition to scale Olympus; he is always renewing his strength -like an eagle, and rejoicing like a giant to run his course. Nothing -comes amiss to him; he will produce out of his boundless stores -things new and old—tragedies, comedies, farces,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> epics, ballads, or -lyrical odes. His earliest Anglo-Indian stories revealed a new world -to the astonished West; his "Soldiers Three" have attained almost the -reputation of the "Three Musketeers"; his Learoyd, his Ortheris, his -Mulvaney, his Mrs. Hauksbee, his Torpenhow are household words; while -his barrack-room ditties, and his ballads of East and West have not -only startled by their daring frankness, but conquered all criticism by -their picturesqueness and truth."</p> - -<p>All this, an' so please you, on two or three volumes of small magazine -stories and rhymed doggerel! That "Soldiers Three" should have attained -the reputation of the "Three Musketeers" is of course only the -delirious frenzy of the <i>D. T.</i> asserting itself in gasping shrieks -of illiterate mindlessness—Europe knows better than to place the -intellect of a smart newspaper man like Kipling on the same level with -that of Dumas. Kipling is the Jumbo of the <i>D. T.</i> for the present, -and journalists would not be what they are if they could not get up a -"boom" somehow. Now hark we to the fond maudlin murmur of an evening -journal! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Where did Kipling get his ideas about Art from?" This is indeed a -pathetic question. It crops up in a paragraph-ecstasy over "The Light -that Failed." It is as if one should ask, "Where did Shakespeare get -his knowledge of the human soul from?" Where, oh where? We cannot, we -will not believe he has any imagination, this dear Kipling of ours, -because imagination is a thing we abhor. The triumphal and eternal -books of the world have all been purely imaginative, but this does -not matter to us. We, in this modern day, refuse to accept the idea -that anybody can describe a thing they have not seen and felt and -turned over and over under a microscope; we are so exact. And oh, -where then did Shakespeare (to revert to him again, because his is -the only name we can conscientiously compare with Kipling), where did -Shakespeare find Ariel and Caliban, and Puck and Titania, and Julius -Cæsar, and Antony and Cleopatra? He could not have seen these people? -No. Then, alas! he had that fatal gift, that monstrous blemish of -the brain which spoils<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> true genius, Imagination—the grossest form -of cerebral disease. In this he was inferior to our Rudyard, our -hop-skip-and-a-jump Rudyard, who is actually going bald in his youth -from the strain of his minute observation of life, and the profundity -of his meditations thereon. Our "delectable one!" Our precious Kip! -Who would not join in the chorus of the paragraph-men when they -propound the fond, almost maternally-admiring query, "Where did he -get his ideas about Art from?" And then, when we find out that he -has "artistic" relations; that his papa is, or has been, painting a -ceiling or a wall in Windsor Castle, we naturally feel almost beside -ourselves with delight, because we find our baby's ideas are the result -of heritage, and have nothing to do with that curse of literature, -Imagination. As for me, I weep whenever I turn the sacred leaves of -"Plain Tales from the Hills," because I know I have in its pages all -that ever was or will be excellent in the way of fiction. There is -nothing more to be said—nothing more to come after. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> is a sad -thought that fiction should have culminated here—it is always sad -to think that anything should have an end—but when the end is so -glorious, who shall complain? And so I have sold my set of Waverley -novels (the real Abbotsford edition); I have put my Shakespeare on an -almost unreachable top shelf (I only keep him for reference); I have -sent my Dickens volumes to a hospital, and my Thackeray to a "home for -incurables." I shall not want these things any more. The only natural -reflex of life as it is lived nowadays is to be found in the works of -Rudyard; on Rudyard I mentally feed and thrive. To Kip I cling as the -drowning sailor to a rope; all difficulties and perplexities in Art, -Literature, Science, Politics, Manners and Morals vanish at the touch -of his mighty pen—he is the one, the only Kip;—the crowning splendour -of our time. Why should we make any parliamentary pother over the -preservation of old buildings at Stratford-on-Avon? What do we want -with Stratford-on-Avon? since our Kip was born in India, or we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> believe -he was. Now, India is something like a place for a Genius to be born -in—big, vast, legendary, historical—and yet the American Interviewer, -conscious of Kipling's might, thinks it possible he may have already -exhausted its capabilities for literary treatment; swallowed it off at -one gulp as it were, like the precious pearl Hafiz consumed in his cup -of wine.</p> - -<p>"Do you consider Mr. Kipling has exhausted India?" anxiously inquired -the American Interviewer of Rider Haggard, when the weary author of -"She" landed in New York.</p> - -<p>"India is a big place," was the simple answer, given with a patient -gentleness for which Haggard deserves great credit, seeing how he has -lately been despitefully used and persecuted by the very reviewers who -once flattered him.</p> - -<p>Yes, India <i>is</i> a big place; not too big for our Kip though. He -requires to take life in Gargantuan gulps in order to support the -giant forces of his mind. But Stratford-on-Avon! A mere English -country town—hardly more than a village—what <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>do we care about -it now? Shakespeare, after all, was perhaps only Bacon—but Kip is -Kip—there's no doubt about him—he is his own noble <i>bonâ-fide</i> self, -whose bootlaces we are not worthy to untie. There is "stern strength," -there is "virility," there is a "strong strain of humour," there is -"masculine vigour" in everything he writes. Mark the following passage -from "Watches of the Night":—</p> - -<p>"Platte, the subaltern, being poor, had a Waterbury watch and a plain -leather guard.</p> - -<p>"The Colonel had a Waterbury watch also, and for guard the lip-strap of -a curb chain."</p> - -<p>Now, note that carefully—"<i>The lip-strap of a curb chain.</i>"</p> - -<p>What a luscious flowing sound there is in those few exquisitively -chosen words! "<i>The lip-strap of a curb chain!</i>" It is positively -fascinating. One could dream of it all day and all night too, for that -matter, like Mark Twain's famous refrain of "Punch in the presence -of the passenjare." But going on from this delicious line, which is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> -almost poetry, one finds instant practical information.</p> - -<p>"Lip-straps make the best watch-guards. They are strong and short. -Between a lip-strap and an ordinary leather guard there is no great -difference; between one Waterbury watch and another, none at all."</p> - -<p>Now, there we have the "strain of humour." No difference between one -Waterbury watch and another, "none at all." Ha, ha, ha! No difference -between one—ha, ha, ha!—Waterbury, ha, ha!—watch—ha, ha, ha!—and -another—ha, ha, ha!—none at all. Ha, ha! That "none at all" is so -exquisitely facetious! It comes in so well! Was ever such a delightful -little bit of sly, dry, brilliant, sparkling Wit, with a big W, as this -peculiar manner of our Kip! Turning over the leaves of this glorious, -this immortal "Plain Tales," you cannot help coming upon humour, -spontaneous, rollicking humour everywhere. It bristles out of each -particular page "like quills upon the fretful porcupine." Take this, -for example— </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p> - -<p>"One of the Three men had a cut on his nose, caused by the kick of a -gun. <i>Twelve-bores kick rather curiously.</i>"</p> - -<p>So they do. The remarkable part of this is that twelve-bores <i>do</i> -kick—it is a positive fact—a fact that every one has been dying to -have made public, and "rather curiously" is the exact expression that -suits their mode of behaviour. So true, so quaint is Kip. And here -is another charming bit of expression—a descriptive picture, finely -painted. It is from "The Arrest of Lieutenant Golightly."</p> - -<p>"His boots and breeches were plastered with mud and beer stains. He -wore a muddy-white, dunghill sort of thing on his head, and it hung -down in slips on his shoulders, which were a good deal scratched. He -was half in and half out of a shirt, as nearly in two pieces as it -could be, and he was begging the guard to look at the name on the tail -of it."</p> - -<p>Now this requires thinking over, because it is so subtle. -The "muddy-white, dunghill sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> thing" is really a new -expression—quite new—and beautiful. It suggests so much! But you must -come to the humour—you must remember there was a shirt mentioned, and -that the hero was "begging the guard to look at the name on the tail of -it." I went off into positive convulsions of mirth when I first read -that passage. Falstaff's coarse witticisms seemed unbearable after -it. "To look at the name on the tail of it!" It is simply inimitable. -There is a jovial sound in the very swing of the sentence. And Private -Mulvaney! What a creation! Just listen to him—</p> - -<p>"I'm a born scutt av the barrick-room! The Army's mate and dhrink to -me, bekase I'm wan av the few that can't quit ut. I've put in sivinteen -years an' the pipeclay's in the marrow av me. Av I wud have kept out -av wan big dhrink a month, I wud have been a Hon'ry Lift'nint by -this time—a nuisince to my betthers, a laughin' stock to my equils -an' a curse to meself. Bein 'fwhat I am, I'm Privit Mulvaney wid no -good-conduc' pay an' a devourin' thirst. Always barrin' me little -frind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> Bob Bahadur, I know as much about the Army as most men."</p> - -<p>No wonder, after this, that the ever-watchful purveyors of "Literary -Gossip" rouse themselves up from lachrymose tenderness to positive -passion <i>in re</i> this marvellous Rudyard, and speak of him as "the -stronger Dickens going forth conquering and to conquer."</p> - -<p>The phrase, "the stronger Dickens," is coming it very strong indeed, -but—it's only the paragraph-men. These chroniclers of the time have -pathetically informed us how on one occasion Kip ran away from the -"clamour" (of the paragraph-men) to India to fetch his papa, and how -his papa came back with him, to look after him, I suppose, and protect -him from all the naughty, vicious people who wanted to blow his skin -out into the size of a bull when Nature meant him to keep to the -strict proportions of the other figure in the fable. Good Rudyard! -Already the bloom is off the rye, just slightly, for if we are to -believe the <i>Athenæum</i>, an Eden Phillpotts is "the new Kipling." "O<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> -Eden Phillpotts! Phoebus! What a name! To fill the speaking-trump of -future Fame!" The "loose ungrammatical" Byron's lines fit Phillpotts as -excellent well as Kipling. Phillpotts is really a fine name in every -way—splendidly hideous, and available for all sorts of Savile Club and -<i>Saturday Review</i> witticisms, such as—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Phill the Pott and fill the can</div> -<div>Eden is our Coming Man!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Or this, sung slowly with religious nasal intonation to the well-known -hymeneal melody—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">"The voice that breathed o'er <i>Eden</i>,</div> -<div class="i2">From <i>Athenæum</i> bowers,</div> -<div>Said 'Phillpotts' stories must be praised,</div> -<div class="i2">He is a friend of ours!'"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Think of it, Rudyard! think of it! Art ready to cope with Phill? Wilt -meet Potts on his own ground? Deem not thyself Eden's superior, for -he "understands," according to the <i>Athenæum</i>, "proportion, contrast, -balance, and the value of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> unhalting movement," things that inferior -persons like Scott, Thackeray, Balzac, and others had to study all -their lives long. Moreover, another journal dictatorially announces -that "novel-readers must prepare to welcome" Phillpotts. Mark that -"must"! That "must" would fain seize the Ass-public by the throat, -and make it eat Phillpotts like a turnip. But the Ass is a fastidious -ass sometimes—it likes to nose its food before devouring; it will -nose Phillpotts at its pleasure. Meantime, it is nosing thee, friend -Kipling, dubiously and with a faint touch of derision. Ridicule kills; -beware of it, my boy. And to avoid ridicule and secure dignity, -hist!—a side-whisper, meant kindly—<i>Put down your Boom business!</i> -Stamp it out. Hush it up. If you don't take my advice you'll regret it. -The thing has been over-done. You have had more friends than are good -for you; a few stanch foes would have brought you much more benefit -in the long run. When your ill-advised flatterers quote your jingly -"Barrack-Room Ballads" as though they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> were things immortal—when good -Frank Harris, of <i>Fortnightly</i> prowess, imposes a growling recital of -scraps of your doggerel, "Fuzzy-wuz," on patiently-bored people sitting -at a social meal, with the air of one considering it a finer production -than "The Isles of Greece," or Shelley's "Cloud"—we say with Hamlet, -"Somewhat too much of this." In the year of grace 1900 "Barrack-Boom -Ballads" will have gone the way of all "occasional verse," and not a -line will remain in the memory of the public. The English people know -perfectly well what poetry is, and no critic will ever persuade them -that you can write it. At the same time no one wishes to deny your -surface cleverness or your literary ability. You are on the same rank -with Bret Harte, Frank Harris, Frank Stockton, Anstey, and a host of -others, and there is no objection taken to your standing along with -these; but there is objection, honest objection, made to your being -forced higher aloft than your compeers, by means of a ridiculously -exaggerated, aggressively ubiquitous "boom." When Walter of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> the -<i>Times</i> rushed frantically into a court of law about his copyright in -a Kipling article (he having taken no such heed of any other author's -article till then), the outside public laughed and shrugged their -shoulders at the absurdity of the thing. From the fuss made, one would -have imagined that God Himself read the <i>Times</i> every morning, and was -particularly interested in Kipling. This sort of nonsense never lasts. -The reaction infallibly sets in. Never was a name sent up sky-high -like a rocket, but it did not fall plump down like a stick. And so, -excellent Rudyard, beware! You are not "the greatest English author" by -a long way. In weak moments I admit that the newspaper-gushers work me -into a delirium-tremens of ecstasy about you, and, like my friend Frank -Harris, my hand trembles and my voice takes on a rich growl as I quote -"Fuzzy-wuz" and the "immortal" (alas!) "Tomlinson"—but in these fits -I am not answerable for my words or actions. When I put away "Plain -Tales" and "Life's Handicap," and forget all your press<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> notices, I -can think of you calmly and quite dispassionately, as one literary -labourer among hundreds of others, who are all striving to put their -little brick into the building of the Palace of Art, and I perceive -that yours is a very small brick indeed! I fear it will scarcely be -perceived in the wall twenty years hence. And my present opinion of you -is—would you care to know it? Of course not, but you shall have it all -the same. I consider you, then, to be a talented little fellow with a -good deal of newspaper-reporter "smartness" about you, and an immense -idea of your own cleverness, an idea fostered to a regrettable extent -by the overplus of "beans" which gentle Edmund Yates, among others, is -sorry to have given you. You have some literary skill, and you use a -rough brevity of language which passes for originality in these days -of decadence, but you are shallow, Rudyard; as shallow as the small -mountain brook that makes a great noise in the rapidity of its descent, -but can neither turn a mill-wheel or bear a boat on its surface. Your -men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> characters are mostly coarse bears—unmannerly ruffians in their -speech at least—your women are, on the average, either trifling or -despicable. Though unlovable, they are, however, interesting for the -moment, but only for the moment. Because a good many of us know fellows -who are brave and "virile" and all the rest of it, and yet who are not -obliged to use a slang word in every sentence; and we also know women -who are not solely occupied with the subjugation of the "masculine -persuasion"; and we prefer these decent folk as a rule. But, whatever -your literary failings or attainments, and however you may display -them <i>in futuro</i>, be wise in time and put down your "boom." No man can -live up to a "boom"; it is not humanly possible. As for your "strong -strain of humour," I am disposed to accept that as a fact. It <i>is</i> a -strain—your humour. Your hydraulic pump is for ever going, and if the -result is not always witty, it is flippant enough. And flippancy passes -for wit nowadays. "Chaff" has replaced epigram, except when one finds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> -a <i>bon mot</i> in an old forgotten French play or novel, and passes it off -in English as one's own "to set the table in a roar." As a matter of -fact though, human life is tragic; and the comedy part of it is only -invented hurriedly and inserted by the clowns of the piece.</p> - -<p>And now Kip—though I perceive you are staring at me, wondering who -the d—l I am—I will e'en leave you to your own devices, and, as the -police say, "move on." Not even with the aid of your spectacles can you -peer through the folds of my domino—not till I choose. I am not going -about masked always—oh no! You shall see me face to face one day. And -if, when these attractive features of mine are unveiled to your ken, -you find yourself at all put out by the familiar manner of my speech -to you, why, we will cross the Channel to some convenient scene of -action, and you shall order (if you like) pistols for two and coffee -for one. I am really one of the best of your friends, because I do not -flatter you. The only place on which my observations may hurt you is a -soft spot in every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> man's composition called Conceit. It is a spot that -bruises easily and keeps sore for a long period. But the true artist -requires to have this spot taken out of him if possible. It is as bad -as a cancer, and needs instant cutting. Again I say, I do not flatter -you. And if I had more time, I think I should possibly warn you against -one of <i>your</i> "boomers," and <i>my</i> dear friends, Daddy <i>Lang</i>-legs. He -has the caprices of a fine lady, has Daddy—you can never be sure when -he is going to be pleased or displeased. He may discontinue a promising -young "boom" quite suddenly, or on the other hand he may go on with it -for an indefinite period. Of course he is an adorable creature, only it -is not prudent to judge the position of all Literature by the phases of -his humour.</p> - -<p>And so, ta-ta Rudyard! See you again by and by! Don't inflate that -little literary personality of yours too much, lest it should burst. -Don't you believe you are a "stronger Dickens"; it won't do. It's bad -for you. A little modesty will not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> hurt you; it is an old-fashioned -manner, but is still considered good form. Read and compare the greater -authors who never were "boomed"; who starved and died, some of them, -to win greatness; they who are the positive "Immortals," and whom -neither you nor any of us will ever distance; mistrust your own powers -and "go slow." If there is anything very exceptional in you, time will -prove it; if not, why, Time will sweep you away, my good fellow, as -remorselessly as it has swept away many another pampered and petted -"Press" baby out of the very shadow of remembrance. Don't swallow <i>all</i> -the "beans" my boy! Leave a few. Better die of starvation than surfeit!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XVII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XVII.</span> <span class="smaller">CONCERNING A GREAT FRATERNITY.</span></h2> - -<p>Ha! I spy a Critic. Hail fellow, well met! Whether you have a -strawberry mark on your left arm or not, you are my own, my long, my -never-lost brother. I love you as the very apple of mine eye! And to -speak truly, I love all critics, from the loftiest oracle to the lowest -half-crown paragraphist; they are dear to me as the fibres of my heart, -and I am never so happy as in their company. And why? Why, because I -am a critic myself; one of the mystic band; and, moreover, one of the -joyous throng wearing (for the present moment) the safety-badge marked -"Anonymous"; one of the pleasant personal friend-detectives who watch -the unsuspicious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> author playing his game of literary "baccarat," -and, on the merest hint, decide that he is cheating. I shake the -unsuspicious author's hand, I break his bread, I drink his wine, I -smoke his best havanas; I tell him verbally that he is a first-rate -fellow, almost a genius, in fact, and then?—well, then I sneak -cautiously behind the sheltering sidewall of a leading journal with the -rest of my jolly compeers, and at the first convenient opportunity I -stab him in the back!—"dead for a ducat." And how we all laugh when -he falls, his foolish face turned up in dumb appeal to the callous -stars; he was a star-gazer from the first, we say, chucklingly—these -ambitious dunderheads always are!</p> - -<p>By Heaven! there is nothing in all the length and breadth of literature -so thoroughly enjoyable as the life of a critic, if one were only -better paid. One is member of a sort of "<i>Vehmgericht</i>," or secret -inquisition, where great intellects are broken on the wheel, and small -ones escape scot free, not being dangerous. The only unfortunate thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> -about it is that we are losing power a little. The public read too many -books, and begin to know too much about us and our ways, which is very -regrettable. We like to toss together our own style of literary forage -and force it down the gaping throat of the public, because somehow -we have always considered the public an Ass, whose best food was hay -and thistles. But our Ass has lately turned restive and frequently -refuses to accept our proferred nourishment. It snorts dubiously at our -George Meredith Eccentricity, it kicks at the phonographic utterances -of Browning, and it positively bolts at Ibsen. A disgusting Ass, this -public! It actually devours volumes we have decided to ignore—it -relishes poems which We pretend never to have heard of—it tosses its -head at novels which We recommend, and hangs fondly over those We -abuse; and it even goes and fawns at the feet of certain authors who -show unrestrained passion and idealism in their writings, and whom, -on account of that very passion and idealism, we have determined to -send to Coventry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> My heart sank to zero on a recent occasion when the -editor of the <i>Academy</i> said to me, despondently, "The time is past, my -friend, when criticism can either make or mar an author's reputation." -Good God! I mentally ejaculated; then what am <i>I</i>—what are <i>we</i>—to -do? What becomes of our occupation? If we may neither stuff nor flay -authors, where is our fun? And how are we to get our bread-and-butter? -The selling of three-volume novels alone will not keep us, though we -always add a little to our incomes by that business.</p> - -<p>This is how we generally manage. A Three-volumer comes in "for review," -nicely bound, well got up; we look at the title-page, and if it is -by some individual whom we know to be a power in one or other of -the cliques, we pay strict attention to it, cover its faults, and -quote platitudes as epigrams. But if it is by some one we personally -dislike, or if it is by a woman, we never read it. We simply glance -through it in search of a stray ungrammatical sentence, a misprint, -or a hasty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> slip of the pen. (The misprints we invariably set down -to the author, as though he had personally worked the printing-press -and muddled the type out of sheer malice.) We obtain a vague idea of -the story by this means, and if we find the ungrammatical sentence -or the slip of the pen we are happy—we have quite enough to go -upon. We tuck our Three-volumer under our arm and make straight for -a secondhand book-store (where we are known), and there we sell it, -after somewhat undignified bargaining, for three or five shillings, -perhaps more, if its author has any reputation with the public. Then -we go home and write half a column of "smart" abuse about it, or what -is worse, luke-warm praise, for which we are paid from about five -shillings to half a guinea, which, added to what we have wrested -out of our secondhand bookseller, makes a respectable little sum, -particularly when we get many Three-volumers, and effect many sales. -(Poverty-stricken editors who write all their "reviews" themselves, -or get their young sons and daughters at home to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> do it to save their -pockets, and who sell for their own advantage all the "books received," -naturally make quite a decent thing out of it.) And we can take our -money always with the holy consciousness of having done more than our -duty.</p> - -<p>Yet, considering the earnestness with which we go to work, we are -really very miserably rewarded. We do not make half such big incomes -as the authors we judge and condemn. I say this advisedly, because, -as a positive fact, the men and women writers whom we most hold up to -opprobrium are the wretches who make the most money. The very devil -is in it! The poets we go out of our way to praise, our Oxford and -Cambridge pets and our heavy men, don't "sell"; not as they ought -to (in our opinion), by any manner of means. And then they come to -us—these children of the Muse—and complain bitterly that certain -Press-ignored fellows, who never had a "boom" in their lives, <i>do</i> -sell. And it is all the fault of the Ass-public, and we are supposed to -be responsible for the humours of the Ass. It is too bad. We cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> -help it if the Ass persists in remaining idiotically ignorant of the -astounding wisdom contained behind the thick skull and solemn brow of -a certain dear and choice morsel of mannerism we know, who dwelleth at -Oxford, and who is called by some of his disciples "A Marvel." Aye, -a marvel so marvellous that he hath grown weighty with the burden of -his own wonder. And the phrase "I wonder!" is a frequent and favourite -murmur of this impassive phenomenon; this "leader" of an excessively -narrow literary "set"—this true "heavy father" of the little low -comedy of Clique. For the rest, his voice is mild and dreamy, his -eyes reserved and bilious, his step as of one in doubt, who deems the -morning come when it is yet but night. Of a truth he is a good and -simple goose, well stuffed with savoury learning; but whether the -world will ever benefit by the dish is a matter which only the world -itself can decide. Personally, I like the "Marvel"; I know him for a -harmless soul, a gentlemanly dull <i>poseur</i>, whose posing vexes no one -and amuses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> many. Only I have ceased to try and "write him up," because -I have read his classic novel, and having accomplished that daring and -difficult feat I consider I have done enough.</p> - -<p>Among the minor entertaining experiences in the life of a critic are -the appeals made to one's "quality of mercy" by the tender green -goslings in authorship, who fondly imagine that by a coaxing word, or -a flattery delicately turned, they can persuade Us to praise them. I -saw a young woman striving to beguile my friend Lang in this way on -one occasion, using sundry bewitchments of eye and gesture for the -accomplishment of her fell purpose, and I caught a fragment of her soft -yet desperate petition. "I am sure you will say a good word for my -poems, Mr. Lang!" Her poems! ye gods and goddesses! A woman's poems, -and—Andrew Lang! Surely a Mephistophelian "ha, ha, ha!" rang out in -the infernal regions of log-rolling at such a ridiculous combination, -for when ever did the "Sign of the Ship" wave hopeful encouragement -to a female <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span>rhymester? No, no; Lang, like myself, must know better -than to give any foothold to the "vapid" feminine climber who wantonly -attempts to scale Parnassus (a mountain exclusively set apart for the -masculine gender), and threatens to overcome our "intensely moving, -intensely virile stern strength;" <i>vide</i> publisher's advertisements of -our ever-glorious Kipling.</p> - -<p>Another curious feature of the critical disposition is our rooted -dislike to be known as critics. In this we somewhat resemble those dear -old robbers of legendary lore who went out pillaging and murdering -merrily by night, and were the most perfect fine gentlemen in the -daytime. Such altogether fascinating fellows they were! But we play -our parts almost as cleverly, and I am sure with quite as much ease -and charm. In polite society we claim to be "literary men"; the term -is delightfully vague and may imply anything or everything. Some of -us, however, say boldly out and out that we are not critics, but -poets—<i>i.e.</i>, not judges, but criminals. We feel quite proud and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> glad -when we have said this sort of thing. Take my amiable acquaintance, -William Sharp, for instance. <i>He</i> says he is a poet, and he has a -most refreshingly ingenuous and positive faith in his own statement. -Few agree with him, but what does that matter, provided he is happy? -Then there is Edmund Gosse; he also says he is a poet, and so he is, -in a pretty daff-a-down-dilly, lady-like fashion. Only he sits as -critic on other poets occasionally, and, strange to say, is never -able to find anything in their productions quite equal to the sounds -once evoked from "Lute and Viol." "Young" McCarthy, Justin Huntly (he -is only called "young" lest he should be mistaken for "old"), he who -uttereth oracles concerning plays and playwrights, he not only says -he is a poet, but he once went so far as to call himself Hafiz—Hafiz -in London. Yes; very much in London. Between the real Hafiz and the -sham is a "great gulf fixed," and the ghost of the Persian singer is -more valuable to literature than all the McCarthy substance. Now as to -Edwin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> Arnold—Sir Edwin Arnold, C.S.I. (it never does to forget his -C.S.I.), the admirer of those pretty ladies whose portraits appear on -tea-trays—is he a poet?—is he a critic? Well, some of his own verses -were described in the journal with which he is, or used to be, chiefly -connected, <i>i.e.</i> the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>, as "the finest things that had -appeared since the New Testament." Now, I consider this pretty strong, -and I don't wish to comment upon it. If such an eulogy had been uttered -by some other newspaper we should have said that the reviewer was some -unduly excited personal friend who wanted to "use" Edwin afterwards for -his own private purposes, but in the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>, C.S.I.'s own -pulpit, it suggested—no matter what! Anyway, I am quite sure Edwin was -not in Japan at the time.</p> - -<p>I come now to another point in our careers as critics, and not such a -very pleasant point either. We are the victims of toadyism. The little -men of the Press, the dwarfs of journalism, toady us to the verge of -distraction, as soon as we attain to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> Half-a-Guinea-a-Column power. Of -course we are really somebodies then, and we have to pay the penalty of -greatness. Still it is a bore. We are told all sorts of things that we -know are not true, concerning our "fine literary abilities," our "keen -discrimination," and our "quiet humour," but we are perfectly aware -all the time that such "flattering unction" is merely the distilled -essence of the most strongly concentrated humbug. No sane man, unless -he has some private end in view which he hopes to gain by blandishment, -would dream of giving us credit for "fine literary abilities," because -if we had such abilities we should be doing something more paying than -criticism. But our pigmy flatterers think we can swallow anything. Here -is a small specimen of what I call Press-toadyism, which was bestowed -on my dearest Andrew in <i>Galignani's Messenger</i> by somebody calling -himself a <i>London Correspondent</i>. It purported to be a "review" of that -amazingly dreary production, "The World's Desire," which, whatever its -faults, had at least the effect of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>showing the joint authors thereof -exactly what position they occupied as compared to Homer. Otherwise -they might possibly have made some mistake about precedence. And thus -ran the glib remarks of the <i>London Correspondent</i>:—</p> - -<p>"That some parts are well written (Mr. Lang's) and some badly written -(Mr. Haggard's), and that fights are many and blood is plentiful, -and that there are many bits of delightful verse (Mr. Lang's, of -course), and a cackling old person (the invention of Mr. Haggard -evidently);" but there! I need not go on. The inquisitive individual -who yearns to read the whole so-called "critique" can refer back -to <i>Galignani</i> of December 8, 1890. The gratuitous and unnecessary -insolence to Mr. Haggard, and the equally unnecessary and gratuitous -licking-of-the-boots of Mr. Lang must have been decidedly offensive -to both authors. This <i>London Correspondent</i> may be a man, but he -certainly is not a brother.</p> - -<p><i>Apropos</i> of the subject of Press-toadyism, <i>in re</i> my friend Andrew, -I must not forget here to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> chronicle my boundless admiration for that -elaborate and beautiful witticism once contained in the <i>Saturday -Review</i>. Criticising Andrew's "Essays in Little," the <i>Saturday</i> -said:—"The public may like Little, but they certainly prefer it Lang!" -<i>O mirabile dictu!</i> Shade of Joe Miller, retire discomfited! Was ever -heard the like? What are the quips and cranks of a Yorick compared -to this? Poor and feeble are the epigrammatic sentences of Molière; -miserable to the verge of bathos every "happy thought" beside this -sparkling production of the <i>Saturday</i>; this scintillating firework of -atticism, launched with so much delicacy! Let me wipe my fevered brow, -moist with the dews of ecstasy; I had always hoped the <i>Saturday</i> might -one day be witty, but I never thought to see the fond anticipation -realised. "Moribund," quotha? Never was the Jumbo of Reviews so frisky -or so full of life before! Glorious old <i>Saturday Slasher</i>! As our -American cousins say, "<i>Lang</i> may you wave!" Whoever perpetrated that -delicious conceit on Andrew—Andrew, the very Pythias of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> Damon -worship—let him look me up at the Savile Club, and if I am there when -he chances to call, he shall have such wine and welcome as can only be -offered by a Critic with cash to a Critic of humour! </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XVIII.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>EULOGISETH ANDREW.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XVIII.</span> <span class="smaller">EULOGISETH ANDREW.</span></h2> - -<p>In speaking of Andrew I wish it to be very distinctly understood that -there is only one Andrew; and he is "the" Andrew as pronouncedly and -positively as "the" Mactavish or "the" Mackintosh. He is, to use the -words of the old Scottish song, "Lang, Lang, Lang a'comin'," always -"a'comin'" it in every English printed journal and newspaper under the -sun. His finger is in every literary pie. His shrill piping utterance -is even as the voice of Delphic oracles, pronouncing judgment on all -men and all things. He is the Author's Own Patent Incubator. His -artificial warmth hatches all sorts of small literary fledglings -who might otherwise have perished in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> the shell; and out they come -chirping, all fuss and feathers, with as much good stamina as though -they had been nursed into being under the wings of that despised old -hen, Art. Andrew is better than Art, because he is the imitation of -Art, and he comes cheaper than the real article. The way in which -the old hen hatches her chicks is slow and infinitely laborious; the -Lang Patent Incubator does the work in half the time and ever so much -less worry. If you can only manage to place a literary egg close -enough to the Incubator for him to "take notice" as it were, why -there you are; out comes a chuckling author immediately and begins to -pick his food from the paragraph-men with quite an appetite. He is -quite a curious and wonderful institution in literature, is my dear -Andrew. The pensters have had all sorts of things "occur" to them in -their profession, such as "booms," "blackmail," "puffs," "burkings," -"cliques," "literary societies," and the like, but I believe it has -been left to our time to produce a literary Incubator. Of course -Art goes on hatching<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> strange birds in her own tedious and trying -way—birds that soar sky-high and refuse paragraph-crumbs—but then -they are a special breed that would have died of suffocation in the -Lang Incubator. And they are a troublesome sort of fowl at best; they -will never fly where they are told, never sing when they are bidden, -and are never to be found scratching up dust in the press-yard by -any manner of means. Now the Incubator produces no wild brood of -this kind. He hatches excellent tame chicks, who make the prettiest -little clucking noise imaginable, and scratch among the press-dust -with grateful and satisfied claws, the while they prune each other's -feathers occasionally with the tenderest "Savile" solicitude. Even -timid spinsters could take up such pretty poultry in their aprons -without harm. There are no horrible, snapping, strong-winged eagles -among them? Lord bless you, no! Andrew would never be bothered with -an eagle. It might bite his nose off! Eagles—<i>i.e.</i>, geniuses—are -detestable creatures; you never know where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> to have them. And the -Incubator must know where to have his chicks, else how could he look -after them? Besides, geniuses always cause disaster and confusion -in the press-yard—they find fault with the food there, and object -to roost on the critically appointed perches. Fortunately, however, -they are rare; and when Art does let loose such big troublesome -chickabiddies the world generally lets them forage for themselves. -Andrew certainly never troubles his head about them—indeed, he does -his best to forget the unpleasant fact that they are flying about and -might at any moment pounce on his "yairdie" and make havoc of his own -carefully-incubated little literary brood.</p> - -<p>Needless to say I am devoted to Andrew. He has done me the greatest -kindness in the world. He does not know how kind he has been; in fact, -he has such an open, guileless disposition that I believe he is quite -unconscious of the heavy debt of gratitude I owe him. I have often -thought I would try to express my sentiments towards him in some way, -but my emotions have choked me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> and I have refrained. Besides, great -souls do not require to be thanked, and Andrew has a great soul. A -great soul and "brindled hair." These qualities make him what he is, -worthy of the admiration of all true Scots and inferior men. And of -the "inferior" I will stand second to none in Lang-worship. Have I -not followed him at a respectful distance when he has started off to -rummage old bookstalls in search of literary provender? And have I -not always admired the "pawkie" manner in which he has fathomed the -childlike ignorance of the British public? For are not the contents of -the books he picks up secondhand, forgotten, or unknown by the British -public? and is it not well and seemly that he, Andrew, should revive -them once more as specimens of pure Lang wit and wisdom? Certainly. -No one would do the Incubator the hideous injustice of imagining him -to be capable of any new ideas. New ideas have from time immemorial -been an affront and an offence to the reviewer, and Andrew is not -only a reviewer himself but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> friend of reviewers. New ideas are -therefore very properly tabooed from his list. But for old ideas, -carefully selected and re-worded, no one can beat Andrew. He is a -wandering "complete edition" of ideas taken from "dead" as well as -living authors. As for poetry, I don't suppose any one will dispute the -right he has to the Laureateship. The stamp of immortality rests on -"Ballads in Blue China"—that same immortality which attends Kipling's -"Barrack-Room" marvels. These things will be read what time future -generations ask vaguely, "Who was Tennyson?"</p> - -<p>Yes, Andrew, it is even so. You are a great creature, and a -useful creature too, because you can turn your hand to anything. -You are not dominated by any cerebral monomania. You are a Press -jack-of-all-trades, and, like G. A. S., could write as smartly about -a pin as about a creed. It is very clever of you, and I appreciate -your cleverness thoroughly. I have had the patience to listen to some -lectures of yours, sitting at your feet as at the feet of another -Gamaliel, drinking in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> wisdom of the secondhand bookstalls without -a murmur. Only the most intense admiration of your qualities could -have made me do that. I have even managed to spell out some of your -calligraphy, which resembles nothing so much as the casual pattern -which might be made by a spider crawling on the paper after having -previously fallen into the ink. That was a feat performed in your -honour—a feat of which I am justly proud. Then again I shall always -love you for your frankly-open detestation of literary females. Females -who presume to take up our writing weapons—and use them almost as well -as we do ourselves—these are our pet aversion. We hate scribblers in -petticoats, don't we, good Andrew? Yea, verily! We loathe their verses, -we abominate their novels; we would kick them if we dared. We do kick -them, metaphorically, whenever we can, in whatever journals we command; -but that is not half as much as we would like to do. Almost we envy -Hodge who can (and does) give an interfering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> woman a good dig in the -ribs with his heavy hob-nailed boot whenever she provokes him; and in -the close competition for literary honours we would fain be Hodges too, -every man-jack of us. It is an absurdity that should not be tolerated -in any civilised nation, this admission of women into the literary -profession. What has she done there? What will she ever do? Ask Walter -of the <i>Times</i> (he is a great authority) what he thinks of women who -write. He will tell you that they are merely the weak imitators of men, -and that they are absolutely incapable of humour or epigram. And I am -convinced he is right. Mrs. Browning, Charlotte Bronté, Georges Sand, -George Eliot, and others whose names assume to be "celebrated," are -really nobodies after all. Walter of the <i>Times</i> could himself beat -them out of the field—if he liked. But he is too mercifully disposed -for this: he reserves his genius. Sparkling all over with witticism, he -only permits occasional flashes of it to appear in the columns of his -magnificent journal, lest the public should be too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> much dizzied and -dazzled. No wonder the <i>Times</i> costs threepence; you could not expect -to get even a glimpse of a man like Walter for less. We ought to be -glad and grateful for his opinions at any price.</p> - -<p>And these epithets "glad" and "grateful" occur to me as the only -suitable terms to apply to you, most super-excellent Andrew; my good -friend to whom I owe so much. I am glad and grateful to know that your -"lang" personality is a familiar object at so many newspaper offices. -I am delighted to feel that English literature would come to a dead -halt without your pleasantly long finger to push it on. It rejoices my -heart to realise what a power you are. I am lost in astonishment at -the extraordinary collection of Lilliputian authors you have hatched -by your incubating process. They are the prettiest little brood -imaginable, and what is so charming about them is that they are all so -tame and well-behaved that they will never fly. This is such a comfort. -Just a little scurrying and flopping through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> press-yard is all -they are capable of, and quite enough too. Comfortable hencoop sanity -in literature is the thing; we don't want any of Professor Lombroso's -maniacs in the way of geniuses about. They are dangerous. They do -strange things and break out in strange places, and often succeed in -stopping all the world on its way to look at them. Nothing would alarm -you so much, I assure you, my dear Andrew, as the involuntary hatching -of a genius. In fact, I believe it would be all over with you. You -could not survive.</p> - -<p>But, thanks to a merciful Providence, you run no risk of this. The -old hen Art is a savage bird and lays her eggs among wild thorns and -bracken out in the open, where no man can find them to bring to you -for the artificial bursting heat of a "boom." You only get the dwarf -product of the domestic poultry of the press-yard. And these are -easily incubated by your patent process—in fact, they almost hatch -themselves, they are in such a hurry to chirp forth their claims to -literary distinction. But being fragile of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span>constitution they need -constantly looking after, which I should imagine must be rather a bore. -Relays of paragraph-men have to come and throw corn and savouries all -the while lest your little chicks should die of inanition, they having -no stamina in themselves. Some will die, some are dying, some are -dead; yet weep not, gentle Incubator, for their fate. It better suits -thy purpose that such should perish, so long as thou dost remain to -hatch fresh fowl upon demand. The press-yard relies upon thee for its -stock of guaranteed male birds—its gifted "virile" roosters, whose -"cocksure" literary crowings may wake old Granny Journalism at stated -hours from too-prolonged and loudly-snoring slumbers; but produce no -hens, Andrew, for if thou dost, thou art a mistaken patent and workest -by a wrong process! Continue in the path of wisdom, therefore, and -faithfully incubate only masculine fledglings for the literary coops. -More we do not expect of thee, save that thou continue to be the king -of compilers and the enemy of blue stockings. For myself, personally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> -speaking, admiring thee as I am fain to do, I naturally implore thee to -go on in all the magazines and journals telling me the things I knew -before—the old stories I read when I was a thoughtless child, the -scraps of information familiar to me as copybook maxims, the ancient -jokes at which my elders laughed, the snatches of French romance and -fable I picked up casually at school. For being always a book-lover -it is but natural I should have learned the things wherewith thou -instructest the ignorant world; but thou shalt tell me of them again -and yet again, good Andrew, and yet I will not murmur nor ask of thee -one thought original. Aware of all thou canst say, I still entreat -thee, say it! Say it (to quote the jovial old <i>Saturday</i> once more) in -"little," that I may have it "lang."</p> - -<p>And now, ever famous and beloved Andrew, I must for the moment take -my leave of thee. The glory of thy reputation is as a band of light -around the foggy isles of Britain, and that benighted Europe knows -thee not at all is but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> trifle to us, though a loss to Europe. When -Hall Caine recently found out that he was not celebrated in Germany -he wondered thereat and said the Germans had no taste for English -literature. No—not though they are the finest Shakesperian scholars -in the world and the most ardent lovers of Byron's poesy. "Benighted -Fatherland!" inwardly moaned the writer of "Sagas"—"Benighted -country that knoweth not my works! Benighted people that have never -heard—ye gods, imagine it!—have never heard the name of Kipling!" -Oh, dull, beer-drinking, Wagner-ridden disciples of Goethe, Schiller, -and Heine! To be ignorant of Kipling! To be only capable of a bovine -questioning stare at Caine! To be impervious to the electric name of -Lang! To know nothing about the new "Thucydides," R. L. Stevenson! -Heaven forgive them, for I cannot. I abjure the Rhineland till it has -been to school with Lang's text-books under its arm. Drop Heine, ye -besotted slaves of "lager-bier," and read Kipling. <i>Try</i> to read him, -anyway. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> you can't, my friend Andrew will show you how. Andrew -will show you anything that can be shown in English journals and -newspapers. But beyond these he cannot go. You must not expect him -to expand farther. His incubating work belongs solely to the English -Press Poultry-yard—his name, his power, his influence avail, alas! as -Nothing, out in the wide, wide world!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XIX.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>BYRON LOQUITUR.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XIX.</span> <span class="smaller">BYRON LOQUITUR.</span></h2> - -<p>If I did not believe, or pretend to believe, in Spiritualism, -Theosophism, Buddhism, or some other fashionable "ism" which is totally -opposed to Christianity, I should not be "in the swim" of things. And -of course I would rather perish than not be in the swim of things. -I cannot, if I wish to "go" with my time, admit to any belief in -God; like Zola's Jean Bearnat, I say, "Rien, rien, rien! Quand on -souffle sur le soleil ça sera fini," or, with the reckless Corelli, -I propound to myself the startling question, "Suppose God were dead? -We see that the works of men live ages after their death—why not the -works of God?" The exclamation of "Rien, rien!" is <i>la mode</i>, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> -those who are loudest in its utterance generally take to a belief in -bogies—Blavatsky bogies, Annie Besant bogies, Sinnett bogies, Florence -Marryat bogies, many of which disembodied spirits, by the by, talk -bad grammar and lose control over their H's. My jovial acquaintance, -Captain Andrew Haggard (brother of Rider), and I, have rejoiced in -the society of bogies very frequently. We have called "spirits from -the vasty deep," and sometimes, if all the "influences" have been -in working order, they have come. We know all about them. Haggard, -perhaps, knows more than I do, for I believe he confesses to being -enamoured of a rather pretty bogie—feminine, of course. She has no -substance, so the little flirtation is quite harmless. I regret to -say the "spirits" do not flirt with me. They don't seem to like me, -especially since the Tomkins episode. The Tomkins episode occurred -in this wise. At a certain <i>séance</i> in which I took a somewhat too -obtrusive part a "bogie" appeared who announced himself as Tomkins. -Some one asked for his baptismal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> name, and he said "George." A devil -of mischief prompted me to hazard the remark that I once knew a John -Tomkins, but he was dead.</p> - -<p>"That's me!" said the bogie, hurriedly. "I'm John."</p> - -<p>"How did you come to be George?" I demanded.</p> - -<p>"My second name was George," replied the prompt bogie.</p> - -<p>"That's odd!" I said. "I never knew it."</p> - -<p>"You can't expect to know everything," remarked the bogie, -sententiously.</p> - -<p>"No, I can't," I agreed. "And, what is more, I never knew a Tomkins at -all, John or George, living or dead! You are a fraud, my friend!"</p> - -<p>Confusion ensued, and I was promptly expelled as an "unbeliever" who -disturbed the "influences." And since that affair the "spirits" are shy -of me.</p> - -<p>Whether the memory of the Tompkins episode haunted me, or whether -it was the effect of an excellent dinner enjoyed with "Labby" -just <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span>previously, I do not know, but certain it is that on one -never-to-be-forgotten evening I saw a ghost—a <i>bonâ-fide</i> ghost, -who entered my sleeping apartment without permission, and addressed -me without the assistance of a "medium." He was a ghost of average -height and build, and I observed that he kept one foot very carefully -concealed beneath his long, cloudy draperies, which were disposed -about him in the fashion of the classic Greek. Upon his head, which -was covered with clustering curls fit to adorn the brows of Apollo, he -wore a wreath of laurels whose leaves were traced in light, and these -cast a brilliant circle of supernatural radiance around him. In one -hand he grasped a scroll, and as he turned his face upon me he beckoned -with this scroll, slowly and majestically, after the style of Hamlet's -father on the battlements of Elsinore. I trembled, but had no power to -move. Again he beckoned, and his eyes flashed fire.</p> - -<p>"My lord——!" I stammered, shrinking beneath his indignant gaze, and -fervently hoping that I was not the object of his evident wrath. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Lord me no lords!" said a deep voice that seemed to quiver with -disdain. "Speak, puny mortal! Knowest thou me?"</p> - -<p>Know him! I should think I did. There was no mistaking him. He was -<span class="smcap">Byron</span> all over—Byron, more thoroughly Byronic of aspect -than any portrait has ever made him. Involuntarily I thought of the -present Lord Wentworth and his occasionally flabby allusions to his -"Grandfather," and smiled at the comparison between ancestor and -descendant. My ghostly visitant had a sense of humour, and, reading my -thoughts, smiled too.</p> - -<p>"I see thou hast wit," he was good enough to observe in more pacific -accents. "Hear me, therefore, and mark my every word! There are such -follies in this age—such literary rascals, such damned rogues of -rhymesters—oh, don't be startled! every one swears in Hades—that I -have writ some lines and remodelled others, to suit the exigencies -of the modern school of Shams. Never did Art stand at a premium in -England, but God knows it should not fall to zero as it is rapidly -doing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> Listen! and move not while I speak; my lines shall burn -themselves upon thy brain till thou inscribe and print them for the -world to read; then, and then only, having done my bidding, shalt thou -again be free!"</p> - -<p>I bowed my head submissively and begged the noble Ghost to proceed, -whereupon he unfolded his scroll, and read, with infinite gusto, the -following:—</p> - -<p class="center">"<span class="smcap">English Scribes and Small Reviewers.</span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Still must I hear? Shall <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span> mouth and scream</div> -<div>His wordy couplets in a drunken dream,</div> -<div>And I not sing, lest haply small reviews</div> -<div>Should dub me 'dead' and forthwith damn my muse?</div> -<div>No! My proud spirit shall not suffer wrong;</div> -<div>'Booms' are my theme—let satire be my song.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill,</div> -<div>My soul obeys an influential Will,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span>And I from Hades rise to life again</div> -<div>To wield once more mine own especial pen,</div> -<div>Which none have rivalled in these sickly days</div> -<div>Of tawdry epics and translated plays,</div> -<div>When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail,</div> -<div>And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale.</div> -<div>The petty vices of the time demand</div> -<div>Another scourging from my fearless hand;</div> -<div>Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase,</div> -<div>Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place.</div> -<div>Who dare to pile detraction on my name,</div> -<div>Let such beware, for scribblers are my game!</div> -<div>Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small,</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Watts</span>, <span class="smcap">Brydges</span>, <span class="smcap">Morris</span>, <span class="smcap">Arnold</span>, have at you all!</div> -<div>Remember well how once upon a time</div> -<div>I poured along the town a flood of rhyme</div> -<div>So strong and scathing that the little fry</div> -<div>Of rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die!</div> -<div>Moved by that triumph past, I still pursue</div> -<div>The self-same road, despite the <i>New Review</i></div> -<div>And <i>Quarterly</i>, and other journals silly,</div> -<div>That take dull articles by Mr. <span class="smcap">Lilly</span>.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span>"Most men serve out their time to every trade</div> -<div>Save book-reviewers—these are ready-made.</div> -<div>Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote,</div> -<div>With just enough of memory to misquote;</div> -<div>Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault;</div> -<div>Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt';</div> -<div>Then to the '<i>Speaker</i>' or to <span class="smcap">Henley</span> go</div> -<div>(The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low);</div> -<div>Fear not to lie—'twill seem a ready hit;</div> -<div>Shrink not from blasphemy—'twill pass for wit;</div> -<div>Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest,</div> -<div>And be a critic with the very best!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Will any own such judgment? No, as soon</div> -<div>Trust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon,</div> -<div>Hope that a 'promised' critique will be done</div> -<div>By bland O'Connor of the <i>Sunday Sun</i>,</div> -<div>Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase,</div> -<div>Believe in <span class="smcap">Gladstone's</span> schemes for Ireland's peace,</div> -<div>Or any other thing that's false, before</div> -<div>You trust reviewers, who themselves are sore.</div> -<div>Never let thought or fancy be misled</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span>By <span class="smcap">Lang's</span> cold heart or <span class="smcap">Alfred Austin's</span> head;</div> -<div>While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;</div> -<div>While such are critics, why should I forbear?</div> -<div>And yet so near these modern writers run</div> -<div>'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun,</div> -<div>Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,</div> -<div>The bards and critics are so much alike!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"To bygone times my lingering thoughts are cast;</div> -<div>Good taste and reason with those times are past!</div> -<div>Look round and turn each trifling printed page;</div> -<div>Survey the precious works that please the age;</div> -<div>This truth at least let satire's self allow,</div> -<div>No dearth of pens can be complained of now.</div> -<div>The loaded press beneath its labour groans,</div> -<div>And printers' devils shake their weary bones,</div> -<div>While <span class="smcap">Arnold's</span> epics cram the creaking shelves,</div> -<div>And <span class="smcap">Kipling's</span> ballads shine in hot-pressed twelves</div> -<div>'New' schools of twaddle in their turn arise,</div> -<div>Where jingling rhymsters grapple for the prize,</div> -<div>And for a time these psuedo-bards prevail;</div> -<div>Each public 'library' assists their sale,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span>And, hurling lawful genius from its throne,</div> -<div>Takes up some puny idol of its own,</div> -<div>And judges Poesy as just a cross</div> -<div>'Twixt <span class="smcap">Ashby Sterry</span>, <span class="smcap">Lang</span>, and <span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,</div> -<div>For notice eager, pass in long review;</div> -<div>Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace:</div> -<div>Rhyme and romance maintain an equal race.</div> -<div>The Grand Old Paradox of Hawarden</div> -<div>Seizes in haste his too prolific pen,</div> -<div>And, heedless how the reading world is bored,</div> -<div>Thrusts to the front a <span class="smcap">Mrs. Humphry Ward</span>,</div> -<div>With 'Robert Elsmere' frightened out of faith,</div> -<div>And 'David Grieve' a-prosing us to death;</div> -<div>Next trumpets <span class="smcap">Caine's</span> 'integrity of aim,'</div> -<div>And gives to 'Mademoiselle Ixe' a name.</div> -<div>O Gladstone, Gladstone! 'Boom' it not so strong</div> -<div>Boomers may 'boom' too often and too long!</div> -<div>If thou wilt write on impulse, prithee spare!</div> -<div>More vapid authors were too much to bear;</div> -<div>But if, in spite of all thy friends can say,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span>Thou still wilt boomwards boom thy frantic way,</div> -<div>And in long articles to stupid papers</div> -<div>Thou still wilt cut thy literary capers,</div> -<div>Unhappy Art thy fresh intent may rue;</div> -<div>God save us, Gladstone, from thy next 'review'!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Lo, the mild teacher of the Buddhist school,</div> -<div>The follower of the tamest blank-verse rule,</div> -<div>The simple <span class="smcap">Arnold</span>, with his 'Asia's Light,'</div> -<div>Who wins attention by translation-right;</div> -<div>And both by precept and example shows</div> -<div>That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose,</div> -<div>Convinced himself, by demonstration plain,</div> -<div>There never will be such a book again,</div> -<div>And never such a 'marvellous proper' man</div> -<div>To charm the hearts of ladies in Japan!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Who out at Putney on the common strays,</div> -<div>Unsocial in his converse and his ways?</div> -<div>'Tis <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>, the Catullus of his day,</div> -<div>As sweet but as immoral in his lay.</div> -<div>Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span>Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.</div> -<div>Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;</div> -<div>From grosser incense with disgust she turns.</div> -<div>Mend, <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>, mend thy morals and thy taste;</div> -<div>Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but chaste;</div> -<div>Thy borrowed fancies to Villon restore,</div> -<div>And use old Scripture similes no more!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text!</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Hall Caine's</span> last work, and worst—until his next!</div> -<div>Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays,</div> -<div>Or damns his brother authors with faint praise,</div> -<div>His elephantine style is still the same,</div> -<div>Forever turgid, and forever tame.</div> -<div>Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writ</div> -<div>To suit the measure of the critics' wit;</div> -<div>'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes,</div> -<div>And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose,</div> -<div>Taking himself and all his books on trust,</div> -<div>And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span>"Another book of verses? Who again</div> -<div>Inflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men?</div> -<div>'Tis Orient <span class="smcap">Kipling</span>, the reviewers' boast,</div> -<div>The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast,</div> -<div>Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent,</div> -<div>Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent,</div> -<div>And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' here</div> -<div>And 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere—</div> -<div>'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy!</div> -<div>The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I!</div> -<div>For <span class="smcap">Rudyard's</span> verse, despite his 'boom,' is flat,</div> -<div>Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat—</div> -<div>O <span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span>! Phoebus! What a name</div> -<div>To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!</div> -<div>O <span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span>, for a moment think</div> -<div>What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink!</div> -<div>Thy name already tires the public ear,</div> -<div>One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear;</div> -<div>For though they make a decent show of print</div> -<div>The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'.</div> -<div>O <span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span>! cease to scribble rhymes,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span>And stick to <span class="smcap">Arthur Walter</span> of the <i>Times</i>;</div> -<div>As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,'</div> -<div>But for God's sake leave Poesy alone;</div> -<div>Scratch not the surface of the mystic East</div> -<div>With flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast,</div> -<div>For India's riddle is a riddle still</div> -<div>In spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,'</div> -<div>The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nations</div> -<div>Are not explained in military flirtations,</div> -<div>Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style,</div> -<div>(Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;)</div> -<div>As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run,</div> -<div>Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isle</div> -<div>Relieves his inspiration and his bile,</div> -<div>And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deep</div> -<div>Sends the <i>chef-d'œuvres</i> that make his readers sleep.</div> -<div>The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heaves</div> -<div>O'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves,</div> -<div>And those who never knew that joy before</div> -<div>Yield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span>And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day,</div> -<div>Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.'</div> -<div>Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the pen</div> -<div>That writes him up above all other men;</div> -<div>For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hap</div> -<div>His works ensure a harmless, perfect nap.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Lo, with what pomp the daily prints proclaim</div> -<div>The rival candidates for Attic fame;</div> -<div>In grim array though <span class="smcap">Haggard's</span> Zulus rise,</div> -<div>Yet 'Q' and dull <span class="smcap">Grant Allen</span> share the prize;</div> -<div>Then come the little train of 'Pseudonyms'—</div> -<div>A set of female faddists full of whims—</div> -<div>Who pour their vapid follies o'er the town,</div> -<div>Excusing Vice and sneering Virtue down;</div> -<div>Next see good <span class="smcap">Bentley's</span> list of writers small:</div> -<div>I wonder where the deuce he finds them all?</div> -<div>Some 'novel new' he issues every week,</div> -<div>A fiction of the kind that housemaids seek—</div> -<div>Mild tales of goose-love, which he thinks may please,</div> -<div>Sure only geese would purchase books like these!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span>Broughton's half-vulgar, half-lascivious stories,</div> -<div>And Mrs. Henry Wood's posthumous glories;</div> -<div>Here Madam <span class="smcap">Trollope</span> whirls her small 'Wild Wheel,'</div> -<div>There Mistress <span class="smcap">Henniker</span> unwinds her reel,</div> -<div>And silly 'fictionists' of no repute</div> -<div>Spring up like weeds to wither at the root.</div> -<div>Excellent <span class="smcap">Bentley</span>! stay thy lavish hand,</div> -<div>Continuous trash were more than we could stand;</div> -<div>Give us good authors who deserve their name,</div> -<div>And save thy once distinguished firm from shame;</div> -<div>Give prominence to Genius—publish less,</div> -<div>Or rivals new thy 'house' will dispossess,</div> -<div>In spite of folks who think the works of Shelley</div> -<div>Inferior to romances by <span class="smcap">Corelli</span>.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="smcap">"Grant Allen</span> hath a 'heaven-sent' tale to tell,</div> -<div>But much he fears its utterance would not 'sell'</div> -<div>Wherefore, to be quite certain of his cash,</div> -<div>He writes (regardless of his 'inspiration') trash;</div> -<div>Practical <span class="smcap">Allen</span>! Noble, manly heart!</div> -<div>Wise huckster of small nothings in the mart,—</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span>To what a pitch of prudence dost thou reach</div> -<div>To feel the 'god,' yet give thy thoughts no speech,</div> -<div>All for the sake of vulgar pounds and pence!</div> -<div>God bless thee, <span class="smcap">Allen</span>, for thy common sense!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life</div> -<div>To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!</div> -<div>Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train</div> -<div>Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;</div> -<div>Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot</div> -<div>In double portion swell thy glorious lot!</div> -<div>As long as Albion's silly sons submit</div> -<div>To Scottish censorship on English wit,</div> -<div>So long shall last thy unmolested rule,</div> -<div>And authors, under thee, shall go to school;</div> -<div>Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan</div> -<div>And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Kipling</span> shall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes</div> -<div>Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,</div> -<div>And <span class="smcap">Haggard</span>, too, thy eulogies shall seek,</div> -<div>And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span>And various magazines their aid will lend</div> -<div>To damn thy foe or deify thy friend.</div> -<div>Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,</div> -<div>Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,</div> -<div>Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,</div> -<div>And may all editors increase thy 'pay'—</div> -<div>Yet mark one caution ere thy next review</div> -<div>Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'</div> -<div>Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'</div> -<div>Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair</div> -<div>And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin</div> -<div>With nothing more important than a pin—</div> -<div>A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';</div> -<div>Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?</div> -<div>A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,</div> -<div>Writ by a <span class="smcap">Mistress Schreiner</span>, who elects</div> -<div>A Universal Nothing as her text;</div> -<div>Whereat the <i>Athenæum</i>, doddering soul!</div> -<div>Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'</div> -<div>And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span>How such a work all nations should amaze:</div> -<div>'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be</div> -<div>Like Dreams'—produced by the blasphemous She;</div> -<div>So writes the <i>Athenæum</i> to the few</div> -<div>Who still pay threepence for a bad review,</div> -<div>And watch the hatching of the little plots</div> -<div>Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Charles Dilke!</span> Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,</div> -<div>And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,</div> -<div>With one strong effort snap thy social fetter</div> -<div>And get thy prosy journal managed better!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!</div> -<div>Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!</div> -<div>Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,</div> -<div>Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,</div> -<div>None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,</div> -<div>And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.</div> -<div>Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead Molière</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span>With all the <i>mots</i> of <i>Lady Windermere</i>;</div> -<div>Thou hast swept other novelists away</div> -<div>With the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'</div> -<div>Thine enemies must fly before thy face,</div> -<div>Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!</div> -<div>Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,</div> -<div>Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,</div> -<div>Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,</div> -<div>Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,</div> -<div>Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;</div> -<div>England would lose all splendour, losing thee!</div> -<div>Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!</div> -<div>We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Wise <span class="smcap">Hardy</span>! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:</div> -<div>Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based—</div> -<div>A story of Seduction wins success,</div> -<div>Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'</div> -<div>Pure morals are old-fashioned—Virtue's name</div> -<div>Is a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,</div> -<div>But novels that defy all codes and laws</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span>Of honest cleanness, win the world's applause,</div> -<div>And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,</div> -<div>Blest with approval from all prurient minds.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"See where at <span class="smcap">Horsham</span>, Shelley's muse is crown'd!</div> -<div>Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!</div> -<div>What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!—</div> -<div>Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,</div> -<div>Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wake</div> -<div>At such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;</div> -<div>An <span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span> doth make the day's oration,</div> -<div>Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!</div> -<div>And <span class="smcap">William Sharp</span>, face-buried in his beard,</div> -<div>Thinks his own works should be as much rever'd</div> -<div>As Shelley's, if the world were only wise</div> -<div>And viewed him with his own admiring eyes;</div> -<div>And <span class="smcap">Little</span> (Stanley) doth with <span class="smcap">Gosse</span> combine</div> -<div>To judge the perish'd Poet line by line,</div> -<div>Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,</div> -<div>(Though they could match him easily, each one,)</div> -<div>But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;</div> -<div>'Agreed!' says <span class="smcap">Chairman Hurst</span>, J.P., D.L.!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span>"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,</div> -<div>Brother in golden song, is this the end?</div> -<div>Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,</div> -<div>Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?</div> -<div>No larger honours from the world's chief city,</div> -<div>Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?</div> -<div>Where Names appear upon the muster-roll</div> -<div>But only Names that lack all visible soul;</div> -<div>Conspicuous by his absence, <span class="smcap">Tennyson</span>,</div> -<div>The <span class="smcap">Horsham</span> 'In Memoriam' doth shun;</div> -<div>Next, <span class="smcap">Henry Irving's</span> name doth much attract</div> -<div>(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)</div> -<div>But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away</div> -<div>From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,—</div> -<div>And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,</div> -<div>Save the Methusaleh of song, <span class="smcap">Sims Reeves</span>;</div> -<div>Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?</div> -<div>And must thy Genius such dishonour know?</div> -<div>Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?</div> -<div>Better go unremembered and unwept</div> -<div>Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,</div> -<div>And get 'recited' by an <span class="smcap">Alma Murray</span>!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span>"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell</div> -<div>The public what they all should know full well;</div> -<div>Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage</div> -<div>The host of idiots that infest the age</div> -<div>And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,</div> -<div>Libelling genius if it dare aspire.</div> -<div>Let harmless <span class="smcap">Barrie</span> scrawl a Scottish tale</div> -<div>And English ears with 'dialect' assail,</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">William Archer</span> judge, and bearded <span class="smcap">Sharp</span></div> -<div>Condemn his betters, enviously carp</div> -<div>At living bards (if any), one and all,</div> -<div>Such is the way of versifiers small;</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Morris</span> whine and steal from Tennyson,</div> -<div>The poet King, whose race is nearly run,</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Arnold</span> drivel on, and <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span> rave,</div> -<div>And godly <span class="smcap">Patmore</span> chant a stupid stave,</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Kipling</span>, <span class="smcap">Caine</span>, and <span class="smcap">Hardy</span>, and the rest,</div> -<div>And all the women-writers unrepressed,</div> -<div>Scrawl on till death release us from the strain,</div> -<div>Or Art assume her highest rights again;</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Henley</span>, to assert his tawdry muse,</div> -<div>Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews,</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>Feeding with rancour his congenial mind,</div> -<div>Himself the most cantankerous of his kind;</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span> undaunted, take his stand</div> -<div>Beside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand;</div> -<div>Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs,</div> -<div>Let careful <span class="smcap">Stannard</span> sell her 'Winter' wares,</div> -<div>Let <span class="smcap">Watts</span> 'puff' <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>, <span class="smcap">Swinburne</span> bow to <span class="smcap">Watts</span>,</div> -<div>And Shakespeare be disproved by <span class="smcap">Mrs. Potts</span>;</div> -<div>Let all the brawling folly of the time</div> -<div>Find vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme;</div> -<div>Let scribblers rush into the common mart</div> -<div>With all their mutilated blocks of art,</div> -<div>And take their share of this ephemeral day</div> -<div>With <span class="smcap">Collins</span> and her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay';</div> -<div>And what their end shall be, let others tell;</div> -<div>My time is up and I must say farewell,</div> -<div>Content at least that I have once agen</div> -<div>Poured scorn upon the puny writing men</div> -<div>That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,</div> -<div>And think their trash deserves a lasting name.</div> -<div>Immortal, I behold the passing show</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span>Of little witlings ruling things below,</div> -<div>And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,</div> -<div>The literary tricks I lash'd before,</div> -<div>And lash again, with satisfaction deep;</div> -<div>And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep</div> -<div>For those who on my memory slanders fling,</div> -<div>Envying the songs they have no power to sing!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought,</div> -<div>Where is the fire that once Prometheus brought</div> -<div>To light the world? It warmed <i>my</i> ardent veins,</div> -<div>And still the nations echo forth my strains;</div> -<div>Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dear</div> -<div>And decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier—</div> -<div><span class="smcap">England</span> forgets—but England is no more</div> -<div>The England that our fathers loved of yore—</div> -<div>A huckster's stall—a swarming noisy den</div> -<div>Of bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men—</div> -<div>England, historic England! She is dead,</div> -<div>And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread,</div> -<div>Crowning with shameful glory on her grave,</div> -<div>Some greasy Jew or speculating knave;</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span>While blundering <span class="smcap">Gladstone</span>, double-tongued and sly,</div> -<div>Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> who will never die!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Thus far I've held my undisturbed career</div> -<div>Prepared for rancour—spirits know not fear!</div> -<div>Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?</div> -<div>Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;</div> -<div>Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll—</div> -<div>I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul—</div> -<div>Careless of <span class="smcap">Lang's</span> resentment, <span class="smcap">Gosse's</span> spite,</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Swinburne's</span> small envy, <span class="smcap">Arnold's</span> judgment trite,</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Henley's</span> weak scratch, or <i>Pall Mall</i> petty rage,</div> -<div>Or the dull <i>Saturday's</i> unlessoned page—</div> -<div>Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,</div> -<div>And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'</div> -<div>And by stern Compensation's law shall be</div> -<div>Racked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me!</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sail</div> -<div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span>That wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale,</div> -<div>And many a starry coast and glistening height</div> -<div>And fairy paradise will greet my sight,</div> -<div>And I shall stray through many a golden clime</div> -<div>Where angels wander, crowned with light sublime;</div> -<div>When I am gone away into that land</div> -<div>Publish at once this ghostly reprimand,</div> -<div>And tell the puling scribblers of the town</div> -<div>I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!</div> -<div>Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,</div> -<div>Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,</div> -<div>And though I vanish into finer air</div> -<div>The spirit of my Muse is everywhere;</div> -<div>Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know</div> -<div><span class="smcap">Byron</span> still lives—their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble -Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading -he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an -already published world-famous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> Satire; and I ventured to say as much -in a mild <i>sotto voce</i>.</p> - -<p>"What does that matter?" he demanded angrily. "Do not the names of the -New school of literary goslings fit into my lines as well as the Old?"</p> - -<p>I made haste to admit that they did, with really startling accuracy of -rhythm.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, don't criticise," he continued; "any ass can do that! -Write down what I have read and publish it—or——"</p> - -<p>What fearful alternative he had in store for me I never knew, for just -then he began to dissolve. Slowly, like a melting mist, he grew more -and more transparent, till he completely disappeared into nothingness, -though for some minutes I fancied I still saw the reflection of his -glittering laurel wreath playing in a lambent circle on the floor. -Awed and much troubled in mind, I went to bed and tried to forget my -spectral visitor. In vain! I could not sleep. The lines recited by the -disembodied Poet burned themselves into my memory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> as he had said they -would, and I had to get up again and write them down. Then, and not -till then, did I feel relieved; and though I thought I heard a muttered -"Swear!" from some a "fellow in the cellarage," I knew I had done my -duty too thoroughly to yield to coward fear. And I can only say that -if any of the highly distinguished celebrities mentioned by the ghost -in his wrathful outburst feel sore concerning his expressed opinion of -them, they had better at once look up a good "medium," call forth the -noble lord, and have it out with him themselves. I am not to blame. I -cannot possibly hold myself responsible for "spiritual" manifestations. -No one can. When "spooks" clutch your hand and make you write things, -what are you to do? You must yield. It is no good fighting the air. Ask -people who are qualified to know about "influences" and "astral bodies" -and other uncanny bits of supernatural business, and they will tell -you that when the spirits seize you you must resign yourself. Even so -I have resigned myself. Only I do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> consider I am answerable for a -ghost's estimate of the various literary lustres of the age:—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Byron's opinions these, in every line;</div> -<div>For God's sake, reader, take them not for mine!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The "Struldbrugs" were a race of beings who inhabited the -"Island of Laputa," and were born with a spot on the forehead, a sign -which indicated their total exemption from death. (See Dean Swift's -"Gulliver's Travels.")</p></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold">XX.</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>MAKETH EXIT.</i> </p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XX.</span> <span class="smaller">MAKETH EXIT.</span></h2> - -<p>The hour grows late, dear friends, and I am getting bored. So are you, -no doubt. But though, as I said in the beginning, I take delight in -boring you because I think the majority of you deserve it, I have an -objection to boring myself. Besides, I notice that some of you have -begun to hate me; I can see a few biliously-rolling eyes, angry frowns, -and threatening hands directed towards my masked figure, as I leisurely -begin to make my way out of your noisy, tumultuous, malodorous social -throng. Spare yourselves, good people! Keep cool! I am going. I have -had enough of you, just as you have had enough of me. I told you, -when I first started these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> "remarks aside," that I did not wish to -offend any of you; but it is quite probable that, considering the -overweening opinion you have of your own virtues and excellencies, you -are somewhat thin-skinned, and apt to take merely general observations -as personal ones. Do not err in this respect, I beseech you! If any -fool finds a fool's cap that fits him, I do not ask him to put it on. -I assure you that for Persons I have neither liking nor disliking, -and one of you is no more and no less than t'other. Loathe me an' you -choose, I shall care little; love me, I shall care less. Both your -loathing and your love are sentiments that can only be awakened by -questions of self-interest; and you will gain nothing and lose nothing -by me, as I am the very last person in the world to be "of use" to -anybody. I do not intend to be of use. A useful person is one who is -willing to lie down in the mud for others to walk dryshod over him, or -who will amiably carry a great hulking sluggard across a difficulty -pick-a-back. Now, I object to being<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> "walked over," and if any one -wanted to try "pick-a-back" with me, he would find himself flung in -the nearest gutter. Wherefore, you observe, I am not "Christianly" -disposed, and should not be an advantageous acquaintance. Though, if -I were to tell you all the full extent of my income, I dare say you -would offer me many delicate testimonies of affectionate esteem. Sweet -women's eyes might smile upon me, and manly hands might grip mine in -that warm grasp of true friendship which is the result of a fat balance -at the banker's. But, all the same, these attentions would not affect -me. I am not one to be relied upon for "dinner invitations" or "good -introductions," and I never "lend out" my horses. I keep my opera-box -to myself too, with an absolutely heartless disregard of other people's -desires. I learned the gospel of "looking after Number One" when I -was poor; rich folks taught it me. They never did anything for me or -for anybody else without a leading personal motive, and I now follow -their wise example. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span> live my life as I choose, thinking the thoughts -that come naturally to me, my mind not being the humble reflex of any -one morning or evening newspaper; so I am not surprised that some of -you, whose opinions are the mere mirror of journalism, hang back and -look askance at me, the while I pass by and take amused observation of -your cautious attitudes through the eye-holes of my domino. Certes, -by all the codes of social "sets" you ought to respect me. I am the -member of a House, the adherent of a Party, and the promoter of a -Cause, and your biggest men, both in politics and literature, know me -well enough. I might even claim to have a "mission," if I were only -properly "boomed"—that is, of course, if the Grand Old <i>Struldbrug</i>, -as the irreverent ghost of Lord Byron calls him, Gladdy, were to rub -his noddle against that of Knowles, and emit intellectual sparks about -me in the <i>Nineteenth Century</i>. But I don't suppose I could ever live -"up" to such a dazzling height of fame as this. It would be a wild -jump to the topmost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> peak of Parnassus, such as few mortals would have -strength to endure. So on the whole I think I am better and safer where -I am, as an "unboomed" nobody. And where am I? Dear literary brothers -and sisters, dear "society" friends, I am just now in your very midst; -but I am retiring from among you because—well, because I do not feel -at home in a human menagerie. The noise is as great, the ferocity is as -general, the greed is as unsatisfied, and the odour is as bad as in any -den of the lower animals. I want air and freedom. I would like to see -a few real men and women just by way of a change—men who are manly, -women who are womanly. Such ideal beings may be found in Mars perhaps. -Some scientists assure us there are great discoveries pending there. -Let us hope so. We really require a new planet, for we have almost -exhausted this.</p> - -<p>And now adieu! Who is this that clutches me and says, will I unmask? -What, Labby? Now, Labby, you know very well I would do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> anything to -please you; but on this occasion I must, for the first time in my -life, refuse a request of yours. Presently, my dear fellow, presently! -The domino I wear shall be flung off in your pleasant study in Old -Palace Yard on the earliest possible occasion. Believe it! It would -be worse than useless to try to hide myself from your eagle ken. The -"lady with the lamp" on the cover of <i>Truth</i> shall flash her glittering -searchlight into my eyes, and discover there a friendly smile enough. -Meanwhile, permit me to pass. That's kind of you! A thousand thanks! -And now, with a few steps more, I leave the crowd behind me, and, -loitering on its outskirts, look back and pause. I note its wild -confusion with a smile; I hear its frantic uproar with a sigh. And with -the smile still on my lips, and the sigh still in my heart, I slowly -glide away from the social and literary treadmill where the prisoners -curse each other and groan—away and back to whence I came, out into -the wide open spaces of unfettered thought, the "glorious liberty -of the free." I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> wave my hand to you, dear friends and enemies, in -valediction. I have often laughed at you, but upon my soul, when I -come to think of the lives you lead, full of small effronteries and -shams, I cannot choose but pity you all the same. I would not change -my estate with yours for millions of money. Many of you have secured -what in these trifling days is called fame; many others rejoice in -what are pleasantly termed "world-wide" reputations; but I doubt if -there is any one among you who is as thoroughly happy, as careless, as -independent, and as indifferent to opinion, fate, and fortune, as the -idle masquerader who has strolled casually through your midst, seeking -no favours at your hands, and making no apologies for existence, and -who now leaves you without regret, bidding you a civil "Farewell!"</p> - -<p>Remaining in unabashed candour and good faith, one who is neither your -friend nor enemy,</p> - -<p class="right">THE SILVER DOMINO.</p> -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">The Gresham Press,<br />UNWIN BROTHERS,<br />CHILWORTH AND LONDON.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER DOMINO***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 63446-h.htm or 63446-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/4/4/63446">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/4/4/63446</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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