ACriticinPallMall

By

OscarWilde

THETOMBOFKEATS

(IrishMonthly,July1877.)

As one entersRome from theViaOstiensis by the Porta San Paolo, thefirstobjectthatmeetstheeyeisamarblepyramidwhichstandscloseathandontheleft.

TherearemanyEgyptianobelisks inRome—tall, snakelike spiresof redsandstone, mottled with strange writings, which remind us of the pillars offlamewhichledthechildrenofIsraelthroughthedesertawayfromthelandofthe Pharaohs; but more wonderful than these to look upon is this gaunt,wedge-shapedpyramidstandinghereinthisItaliancity,unshatteredamidtheruins and wrecks of time, looking older than the Eternal City itself, liketerrible impassiveness turned to stone. And so in the Middle Ages mensupposedthistobethesepulchreofRemus,whowasslainbyhisownbrotheratthefoundingofthecity,soancientandmysteriousitappears;butwehavenow,perhapsunfortunately,moreaccurateinformationaboutit,andknowthatit is the tombofoneCaiusCestius, aRomangentlemanof smallnote,whodiedabout30b.c.

Yetthoughwecannotcaremuchforthedeadmanwholiesinlonelystatebeneathit,andwhoisonlyknowntotheworldthroughhissepulchre,stillthispyramidwillbeeverdeartotheeyesofallEnglish-speakingpeople,becauseateveningitsshadowsfallonthetombofonewhowalkswithSpenser,andShakespeare,andByron,andShelley,andElizabethBarrettBrowning in thegreatprocessionofthesweetsingersofEngland.

For at its foot there is agreen sunny slope,knownas theOldProtestantCemetery, and on this a common-looking grave, which bears the followinginscription:

ThisgravecontainsallthatwasmortalofayoungEnglishpoet,whoonhisdeathbed,inthebitternessofhisheart,desiredthesewordstobeengravenonhis tombstone: Here lies one whose name was writ in water. February 24,1821.

AndthenameoftheyoungEnglishpoetisJohnKeats.

Lord Houghton calls this cemetery ‘one of the most beautiful spots onwhichtheeyeandheartofmancanrest,’andShelleyspeaksofitasmakingone‘inlovewithdeath,tothinkthatoneshouldbeburiedinsosweetaplace’;and indeed when I saw the violets and the daisies and the poppies thatovergrowthetomb,Irememberedhowthedeadpoethadoncetoldhisfriendthathethoughtthe‘intensestpleasurehehadreceivedinlifewasinwatching

thegrowthofflowers,’andhowanothertime,afterlyingawhilequitestill,hemurmured in some strange prescience of early death, ‘I feel the flowersgrowingoverme.’

Butthistime-wornstoneandthesewildflowersarebutpoormemorialsofonesogreatasKeats;mostofall,too,inthiscityofRome,whichpayssuchhonourtoherdead;wherepopes,andemperors,andsaints,andcardinalsliehidden in ‘porphyrywombs,’ or couched in baths of jasper and chalcedonyand malachite, ablaze with precious stones and metals, and tended withcontinualservice.Forverynobleisthesite,andworthyofanoblemonument;behind looms the grey pyramid, symbol of theworld’s age, and filledwithmemoriesofthesphinx,andthelotusleaf,andthegloriesofoldNile;infrontis the Monte Testaccio, built, it is said, with the broken fragments of thevesselsinwhichallthenationsoftheEastandtheWestbroughttheirtributetoRome;andalittledistanceoff,alongtheslopeofthehillundertheAurelianwall,sometallgauntcypressesrise,likeburnt-outfuneraltorches,tomarkthespotwhereShelley’sheart(that‘heartofhearts’!)liesintheearth;and,aboveall,thesoilonwhichwetreadisveryRome!

AsIstoodbesidethemeangraveofthisdivineboy,IthoughtofhimasofaPriestofBeautyslainbeforehistime;andthevisionofGuido’sSt.SebastiancamebeforemyeyesasIsawhimatGenoa,alovelybrownboy,withcrisp,clusteringhairand red lips,boundbyhisevil enemies toa tree, and thoughpiercedbyarrows,raisinghiseyeswithdivine,impassionedgazetowardstheEternal Beauty of the opening heavens. And thus my thoughts shapedthemselvestorhyme:

HEUMISERANDEPUER

Ridoftheworld’sinjusticeanditspain,

HerestsatlastbeneathGod’sveilofblue;

Takenfromlifewhilelifeandlovewerenew

Theyoungestofthemartyrshereislain,

FairasSebastianandasfoullyslain.

Nocypressshadeshisgrave,norfuneralyew,

Butred-lippeddaisies,violetsdrenchedwithdew,

Andsleepypoppies,catchtheeveningrain.

Oproudestheartthatbrokeformisery!

Osaddestpoetthattheworldhathseen!

OsweetestsingeroftheEnglishland!

Thynamewaswritinwateronthesand,

Butourtearsshallkeepthymemorygreen,

AndmakeitflourishlikeaBasil-tree.

Rome,1877.

KEATS’SSONNETONBLUE

(CenturyGuildHobbyHorse,July1886.)

During my tour in America I happened one evening to find myself inLouisville,Kentucky.ThesubjectIhadselectedtospeakonwastheMissionof Art in the Nineteenth Century, and in the course of my lecture I hadoccasiontoquoteKeats’sSonnetonBlueasanexampleofthepoet’sdelicatesenseofcolour-harmonies.Whenmylecturewasconcludedtherecameroundtoseemealadyofmiddleage,withasweetgentlemannerandamostmusicalvoice. She introduced herself tome asMrs. Speed, the daughter ofGeorgeKeats, and invited me to come and examine the Keats manuscripts in herpossession.Ispentmostofthenextdaywithher,readingthelettersofKeatstoherfather,someofwhichwereat that timeunpublished,poringover tornyellowleavesandfadedscrapsofpaper,andwonderingatthelittleDanteinwhich Keats had written those marvellous notes on Milton. Some monthsafterwards, when I was in California, I received a letter from Mrs. Speedaskingmy acceptance of the originalmanuscript of the sonnetwhich I hadquotedinmylecture.ThismanuscriptIhavehadreproducedhere,asitseemstometopossessmuchpsychologicalinterest.Itshowsustheconditionsthatprecededtheperfectedform,thegradualgrowth,notoftheconceptionbutoftheexpression,andtheworkingsofthatspiritofselectionwhichisthesecretofstyle.Inthecaseofpoetry,asinthecaseoftheotherarts,whatmayappearto be simply technicalities of method are in their essence spiritual notmechanical,andalthough,inalllovelywork,whatconcernsusistheultimateform, not the conditions that necessitate that form, yet the preference thatprecedesperfection, theevolutionof thebeauty,and themeremakingof themusic,have,ifnottheirartisticvalue,atleasttheirvaluetotheartist.

Itwillberememberedthatthissonnetwasfirstpublishedin1848byLordHoughton in his Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. LordHoughton does not definitely state where he found it, but it was probablyamongtheKeatsmanuscriptsbelongingtoMr.CharlesBrown.Itisevidentlytaken from a version later than that in my possession, as it accepts all thecorrections,andmakesthreevariations.Asinmymanuscript thefirst lineis

tornaway,IgivethesonnethereasitappearsinLordHoughton’sedition.

ANSWERTOASONNETENDINGTHUS:

Darkeyesaredearerfar

Thanthosethatmakethehyacinthinebell.

ByJ.H.Reynolds.

Blue!’Tisthelifeofheaven,—thedomain

OfCynthia,—thewidepalaceofthesun,—

ThetentofHesperusandallhistrain,—

Thebosomerofclouds,gold,greyanddun.

Blue!’Tisthelifeofwaters—ocean

Andallitsvassalstreams:poolsnumberless

Mayrage,andfoam,andfret,butnevercan

Subsideifnottodark-bluenativeness.

Blue!gentlecousinoftheforestgreen,

Marriedtogreeninallthesweetestflowers,

Forget-me-not,—theblue-bell,—and,thatqueen

Ofsecrecy,theviolet:whatstrangepowers

Hastthou,asamereshadow!Buthowgreat,

WheninanEyethouartalivewithfate!

Feb.1818.

IntheAthenæumofthe3rdofJune1876appearedaletterfromMr.A.J.Horwood, stating that he had in his possession a copy of The Garden ofFlorence in which this sonnet was transcribed. Mr. Horwood, who wasunawarethatthesonnethadbeenalreadypublishedbyLordHoughton,givesthe transcript at length. His version reads hue for life in the first line, andbrightforwideinthesecond,andgivesthesixthlinethus:

Withallhistributarystreams,poolsnumberless,

afoottoolong:italsoreadstoforofintheninthline.Mr.BuxtonFormanisofopinionthatthesevariationsaredecidedlygenuine,butindicativeofanearlier state of the poem than that adopted in Lord Houghton’s edition.However, now thatwe have before usKeats’s first draft of his sonnet, it isdifficult to believe that the sixth line inMr. Horwood’s version is really agenuinevariation.Keatsmayhavewritten,

Ocean

Histributarystreams,poolsnumberless,

andthetranscriptmayhavebeencarelesslymade,buthavinggothislineright in his first draft, Keats probably did not spoil it in his second. TheAthenæumversion insertsacommaafterart in the last line,whichseems tomeadecidedimprovement,andeminentlycharacteristicofKeats’smethod.IamgladtoseethatMr.BuxtonFormanhasadoptedit.

Asfor thecorrectionsthatLordHoughton’sversionshowsKeats tohavemadeintheeighthandninthlinesofthissonnet,itisevidentthattheysprangfromKeats’sreluctancetorepeatthesamewordinconsecutivelines,exceptincases where a word’s music or meaning was to be emphasized. Thesubstitutionof‘its’for‘his’inthesixthlineismoredifficultofexplanation.ItwasdueprobablytoadesireonKeats’spartnottomarbyanyechothefinepersonificationofHesperus.

It may be noticed that Keats’s own eyes were brown, and not blue, asstated byMrs. Proctor toLordHoughton.Mrs. Speed showedme a note tothat effectwrittenbyMrs.GeorgeKeats on themarginof thepage inLordHoughton’sLife (p. 100, vol. i.),whereMrs. Proctor’s description is given.CowdenClarkemadeasimilarcorrectioninhisRecollections,andinsomeofthe later editions ofLordHoughton’s book theword ‘blue’ is struckout. InSevern’sportraitsofKeatsalsotheeyesaregivenasbrown.

Theexquisitesenseofcolourexpressedintheninthandtenthlinesmaybeparalleledby

TheOceanwithitsvastness,itsbluegreen,

ofthesonnettoGeorgeKeats.

DINNERSANDDISHES

(PallMallGazette,March7,1885.)

Amancanliveforthreedayswithoutbread,butnomancanliveforoneday without poetry, was an aphorism of Baudelaire. You can live withoutpictures and music but you cannot live without eating, says the author ofDinnersandDishes;andthislatterviewis,nodoubt,themorepopular.Who,indeed, in these degenerate days would hesitate between an ode and anomelette, a sonnet and a salmis? Yet the position is not entirely Philistine;cookery is an art; are not its principles the subject of South Kensingtonlectures, and does not the Royal Academy give a banquet once a year?

Besides,as thecomingdemocracywill,nodoubt, insistonfeedingusallonpennydinners,itiswellthatthelawsofcookeryshouldbeexplained:forwerethe national meal burned, or badly seasoned, or served up with the wrongsauceadreadfulrevolutionmightfollow.

UnderthesecircumstanceswestronglyrecommendDinnersandDishestoeveryone:itisbriefandconciseandmakesnoattemptateloquence,whichisextremely fortunate.Forevenonortolanswhocouldendureoratory? It alsohastheadvantageofnotbeingillustrated.Thesubjectofaworkofarthas,ofcourse, nothing to do with its beauty, but still there is always somethingdepressingaboutthecolouredlithographofalegofmutton.

Asregardstheauthor’sparticularviews,weentirelyagreewithhimontheimportantquestionofmacaroni.‘Never,’hesays,‘askmetobackabillforamanwhohasgivenmeamacaronipudding.’Macaroniisessentiallyasavourydish andmay be served with cheese or tomatoes but never with sugar andmilk.There is alsoausefuldescriptionofhow tocook risotto—adelightfuldishtoorarelyseeninEngland;anexcellentchapteronthedifferentkindsofsalads, which should be carefully studied by those many hostesses whoseimaginationsneverpassbeyondlettuceandbeetroot;andactuallyarecipeformakingBrusselssproutseatable.Thelastis,ofcourse,amasterpiece.

Therealdifficultythatweallhavetofaceinlifeisnotsomuchthescienceofcookeryas thestupidityofcooks.And in this littlehandbook topracticalEpicureanism the tyrantof theEnglishkitchen is shown inherproper light.Herentireignoranceofherbs,herpassionforextractsandessences,hertotalinabilitytomakeasoupwhichisanythingmorethanacombinationofpepperandgravy,herinveteratehabitofsendingupbreadpoulticeswithpheasants,—all these sins and many others are ruthlessly unmasked by the author.Ruthlesslyandrightly.FortheBritishcookisafoolishwomanwhoshouldbeturnedforheriniquitiesintoapillarofsaltwhichsheneverknowshowtouse.

Butourauthorisnotlocalmerely.Hehasbeeninmanylands;hehaseatenback-hendlatViennaandkulibatschatSt.Petersburg;hehashadthecouragetofacethebuffalovealofRoumaniaandtodinewithaGermanfamilyatoneo’clock; he has serious views on the rightmethod of cooking those famouswhite truffles ofTurin ofwhichAlexandreDumaswas so fond; and, in thefaceoftheOrientalClub,declaresthatBombaycurryisbetterthanthecurryofBengal. In fact he seems tohavehad experienceof almost everykindofmealexceptthe‘squaremeal’oftheAmericans.Thisheshouldstudyatonce;there isagreatfieldfor thephilosophicepicure in theUnitedStates.Bostonbeansmay be dismissed at once as delusions, but soft-shell crabs, terrapin,canvas-back ducks, blue fish and the pompono of New Orleans are allwonderfuldelicacies,particularlywhenonegetsthematDelmonico’s.Indeed,the two most remarkable bits of scenery in the States are undoubtedly

Delmonico’sandtheYosemitéValley;andtheformerplacehasdonemoretopromoteagoodfeelingbetweenEnglandandAmericathananythingelsehasinthiscentury.

Wehope the‘Wanderer’willgo theresoonandaddachapter toDinnersandDishes,andthathisbookwillhaveinEnglandtheinfluenceitdeserves.Thereare twentywaysofcookingapotatoand threehundredandsixty-fiveways of cooking an egg, yet the British cook, up to the present moment,knowsonlythreemethodsofsendingupeitheroneortheother.

SHAKESPEAREONSCENERY

(DramaticReview,March14,1885.)

IhaveoftenheardpeoplewonderwhatShakespearewouldsay,couldheseeMr. Irving’sproductionofhisMuchAdoAboutNothing,orMr.WilsonBarrett’s setting of his Hamlet.Would he take pleasure in the glory of thesceneryandthemarvelofthecolour?WouldhebeinterestedintheCathedralofMessina,andthebattlementsofElsinore?Orwouldhebeindifferent,andsaytheplay,andtheplayonly,isthething?

Speculations like these are always pleasurable, and in the present casehappentobeprofitablealso.For it isnotdifficult toseewhatShakespeare’sattitudewouldbe;notdifficult,thatistosay,ifonereadsShakespearehimself,insteadofreadingmerelywhatiswrittenabouthim.

Speaking, for instance, directly, as the manager of a London theatre,through the lipsof thechorus inHenryV.,hecomplainsof thesmallnessofthestageonwhichhehastoproducethepageantofabighistoricalplay,andof the want of scenery which obliges him to cut out many of its mostpicturesqueincidents,apologisesforthescantynumberofsuperswhohadtoplay the soldiers, and for the shabbiness of the properties, and, finally,expresseshisregretatbeingunabletobringonrealhorses.

In the Midsummer Night’s Dream, again, he gives us a most amusingpictureofthestraitstowhichtheatricalmanagersofhisdaywerereducedbythewantofproperscenery.Infact,itisimpossibletoreadhimwithoutseeingthat he is constantly protesting against the two special limitations of theElizabethan stage—the lack of suitable scenery, and the fashion of menplayingwomen’sparts,justasheprotestsagainstotherdifficultieswithwhichmanagers of theatres have still to contend, such as actors who do notunderstand theirwords;actorswhomiss theircues;actorswhooveract theirparts;actorswhomouth;actorswhogag;actorswhoplaytothegallery,and

amateuractors.

And, indeed, a great dramatist, as he was, could not but have felt verymuchhamperedatbeingobligedcontinuallytointerrupttheprogressofaplayinordertosendonsomeonetoexplaintotheaudiencethatthescenewastobechangedtoaparticularplaceontheentranceofaparticularcharacter,andafterhisexittosomewhereelse;thatthestagewastorepresentthedeckofaship in a storm,or the interiorof aGreek temple,or the streetsof a certaintown,toallofwhichinartisticdevicesShakespeareisreduced,andforwhichhe always amply apologizes. Besides this clumsymethod, Shakespeare hadtwo other substitutes for scenery—the hanging out of a placard, and hisdescriptions. The first of these could hardly have satisfied his passion forpicturesqueness and his feeling for beauty, and certainly did not satisfy thedramaticcriticofhisday.Butas regards thedescription, to thoseofuswholookonShakespearenotmerelyasaplaywrightbutasapoet,andwhoenjoyreadinghimathomejustasmuchasweenjoyseeinghimacted,itmaybeamatter of congratulation that he had not at his command such skilledmachinists as are in use now at the Princess’s and at the Lyceum. For hadCleopatra’sbarge,forinstance,beenastructureofcanvasandDutchmetal,itwouldprobablyhavebeenpaintedoverorbrokenupafter thewithdrawalofthepiece,and,evenhaditsurvivedtoourownday,would,Iamafraid,havebecome extremely shabbyby this time.Whereas now the beaten gold of itspoopisstillbright,andthepurpleofitssailsstillbeautiful;itssilveroarsarenot tired of keeping time to the music of the flutes they follow, nor theNereid’sflower-softhandsoftouchingitssilkentackle;themermaidstillliesat itshelm,andstillon itsdeckstand theboyswith theircolouredfans.Yetlovely as all Shakespeare’s descriptive passages are, a description is in itsessenceundramatic.Theatricalaudiencesarefarmoreimpressedbywhattheylookat thanbywhat they listen to;and themoderndramatist, inhaving thesurroundings of his play visibly presented to the audiencewhen the curtainrises,enjoysanadvantageforwhichShakespeareoftenexpresseshisdesire.ItistruethatShakespeare’sdescriptionsarenotwhatdescriptionsareinmodernplays—accountsofwhattheaudiencecanobserveforthemselves;theyaretheimaginative method by which he creates in the mind of the spectators theimageof thatwhichhedesires themtosee.Still, thequalityof thedramaisaction. It is always dangerous to pause for picturesqueness. And theintroductionofself-explanatorysceneryenablesthemodernmethodtobefarmoredirect,whilethelovelinessofformandcolourwhichitgivesus,seemstomeoftentocreateanartistictemperamentintheaudience,andtoproducethat joyinbeautyforbeauty’ssake,withoutwhichthegreatmasterpiecesofart can never be understood, to which, and to which only, are they everrevealed.

Totalkofthepassionofaplaybeinghiddenbythepaint,andofsentiment

beingkilledbyscenery, ismereemptinessandfollyofwords.Anobleplay,noblymounted,givesusdoubleartisticpleasure.Theeyeaswellastheearisgratified,andthewholenatureismadeexquisitelyreceptiveoftheinfluenceof imaginativework.And as regards a bad play, havewe not all seen largeaudiences lured by the loveliness of scenic effect into listening to rhetoricposing as poetry, and to vulgarity doing duty for realism?Whether this begood or evil for the public Iwill not here discuss, but it is evident that theplaywright,atanyrate,neversuffers.

Indeed,theartistwhoreallyhassufferedthroughthemodernmountingofplays is not the dramatist at all, but the scene-painter proper. He is rapidlybeingdisplacedbythestage-carpenter.Nowandthen,atDruryLane,Ihaveseenbeautifuloldfrontclothsletdown,asperfectaspicturessomeofthem,andpurepainter’swork,andtherearemanywhichweallrememberatothertheatres,infrontofwhichsomedialoguewasreducedtogracefuldumb-showthrough the hammer and tin-tacks behind. But as a rule the stage isovercrowded with enormous properties, which are not merely far moreexpensiveandcumbersomethanscene-paintings,butfarlessbeautiful,andfarless true.Propertieskillperspective.Apainteddoor ismore likea realdoorthana realdoor is itself, for theproperconditionsof lightandshadecanbegiventoit;andtheexcessiveuseofbuilt-upstructuresalwaysmakesthestagetooglaring,forastheyhavetobelitfrombehind,aswellasfromthefront,thegas-jetsbecometheabsolutelightofthesceneinsteadofthemeansmerelybywhichweperceivetheconditionsoflightandshadowwhichthepainterhasdesiredtoshowus.

So,insteadofbemoaningthepositionoftheplaywright,itwerebetterforthecriticstoexertwhateverinfluencetheymaypossesstowardsrestoringthescene-painter to his proper position as an artist, and not allowing him to bebuiltoverbythepropertyman,orhammeredtodeathbythecarpenter.Ihavenever seen any reasonmyselfwhy such artists asMr. Beverley,Mr.WalterHann, andMr.Telbin shouldnotbe entitled tobecomeAcademicians.Theyhave certainly as good a claim as have many of those R.A.’s whose totalinabilitytopaintwecanseeeveryMayforashilling.

Andlastly,letthosecriticswhoholdupforouradmirationthesimplicityoftheElizabethanstagerememberthattheyarelaudingaconditionofthingsagainst which Shakespeare himself, in the spirit of a true artist, alwaysstronglyprotested.

HENRYTHEFOURTHATOXFORD

(DramaticReview,May23,1885.)

IhavebeentoldthattheambitionofeveryDramaticClubistoactHenryIV.Iamnotsurprised.Thespiritofcomedyisasferventinthisplayasisthespiritofchivalry; it isanheroicpageantaswellasanheroicpoem,andlikemostofShakespeare’shistoricaldramas it containsanextraordinarynumberof thoroughly good acting parts, each of which is absolutely individual incharacter,andeachofwhichcontributestotheevolutionoftheplot.

ToOxford belongs the honour of having been the first to present on thestagethisnobleplay,andtheproductionwhichIsawlastweekwasineverywayworthyofthatlovelytown,thatmotherofsweetnessandoflight.For,inspiteoftheroaringoftheyounglionsattheUnion,andthescreamingoftherabbits in the home of the vivisector, in spite of Keble College, and thetramways, and the sporting prints, Oxford still remains the most beautifulthinginEngland,andnowhereelsearelifeandartsoexquisitelyblended,soperfectly made one. Indeed, in most other towns art has often to presentherself in the formofa reactionagainst thesordiduglinessof ignoble lives,butatOxfordshecomestousasanexquisiteflowerbornofthebeautyoflifeandexpressiveoflife’sjoy.ShefindsherhomebytheIsisasonceshedidbytheIlissus;theMagdalenwalksandtheMagdalencloistersareasdeartoheraswereeverthesilverolivesofColonusandthegoldengatewayofthehouseofPallas:shecoverswithfanliketracerythevaultedentrancetoChristChurchHall, and looks out from the windows ofMerton; her feet have stirred theCumnor cowslips, and she gathers fritillaries in the river-fields. To her theclamourof the schools and thedullness of the lecture-roomare awearinessandavexationofspirit;sheseeksnottodefinevirtue,andcareslittleforthecategories;shesmilesontheswiftathletewhoseplasticgracehaspleasedher,and rejoices in theyoungBarbariansat theirgames; shewatches the rowersfromthereedybankandgivesmyrtle toher lovers,andlaurels toherpoets,andruetothosewhotalkwiselyinthestreet;shemakestheearthlovelytoallwhodreamwithKeats;sheopenshighheaven toallwhosoarwithShelley;and turning away her head from pedant, proctor and Philistine, she haswelcomed to her shrine a band of youthful actors, knowing that they havesoughtwithmuchardourforthesternsecretofMelpomene,andcaughtwithmuchgladness the sweet laughter ofThalia.And tome this ardour and thisgladnesswere the twomost fascinatingqualitiesof theOxfordperformance,as indeed they are qualities which are necessary to any fine dramaticproduction. For without quick and imaginative observation of life the mostbeautiful play becomes dull in presentation, and what is not conceived indelightbytheactorcangivenodelightatalltoothers.

IknowthattherearemanywhoconsiderthatShakespeareismoreforthestudy than for the stage. With this view I do not for a moment agree.

Shakespearewrotetheplaystobeacted,andwehavenorighttoaltertheformwhichhehimselfselectedforthefullexpressionofhiswork.Indeed,manyofthebeautiesof thatworkcanbeadequatelyconveyedtousonlythroughtheactor’sart.AsIsatintheTownHallofOxfordtheothernight,themajestyofthemighty linesof theplayseemedtometogainnewmusicfromtheclearyoungvoices that uttered them, and the ideal grandeurof theheroism tobemademorerealtothespectatorsbythechivalrousbearing,thenoblegestureand the fine passion of its exponents. Even the dresses had their dramaticvalue.Their archæological accuracygaveus, immediatelyon the riseof thecurtain,aperfectpictureofthetime.Astheknightsandnoblesmovedacrossthestageintheflowingrobesofpeaceandintheburnishedsteelofbattle,weneedednodrearychorus to tellus inwhatageor land theplay’sactionwaspassing,forthefifteenthcenturyinallthedignityandgraceofitsapparelwaslivingactuallybeforeus,andthedelicateharmoniesofcolourstruckfromthefirst a dominant note of beauty which added to the intellectual realism ofarchæologythesensuouscharmofart.

Ihaverarelyseenaproductionbetterstage-managed.Indeed,Ihope thatthe University will take some official notice of this delightful work of art.Why should not degrees be granted for good acting?Are they not given tothosewhomisunderstand Plato andwhomistranslateAristotle?And shouldtheartistbepassedover?No.ToPrinceHal,Hotspur andFalstaff,D.C.L.’sshouldbegracefullyoffered.Ifeelsuretheywouldbegracefullyaccepted.Totherestofthecompanythecrimsonorthesheepskinhoodmightbeassignedhonoris causâ to the eternal confusion of the Philistine, and the rage of theindustriousandthedull.ThuswouldOxfordconferhonouronherself,andtheartistbeplacedinhisproperposition.However,whetherornotConvocationrecognizestheclaimsofculture,IhopethattheOxfordDramaticSocietywillproduceeverysummerforussomenobleplaylikeHenryIV.For,inplaysofthis kind, playswhich dealwith bygone times, there is always this peculiarcharm, that they combine inone exquisite presentation thepassions that arelivingwith thepicturesqueness that isdead.Andwhenwehave themodernspiritgiventousinanantiqueform,theveryremotenessofthatformcanbemade a method of increased realism. This was Shakespeare’s own attitudetowardstheancientworld,thisistheattitudeweinthiscenturyshouldadopttowardshisplays,andwitha feelingakin to this it seemed tome that thesebrilliantyoungOxonianswereworking.Ifitwasso,theiraimistherightone.Forwhilewelooktothedramatisttogiveromancetorealism,weaskoftheactortogiverealismtoromance.

AHANDBOOKTOMARRIAGE

(PallMallGazette,November18,1885.)

In spite of its somewhat alarming title this book may be highlyrecommendedtoeveryone.Asfortheauthoritiestheauthorquotes,theyarealmostnumberless,andrangefromSocratesdowntoArtemusWard.Hetellsus of the wicked bachelor who spoke of marriage as ‘a very harmlessamusement’ and advised a young friend of his to ‘marry early and marryoften’;ofDr.JohnsonwhoproposedthatmarriageshouldbearrangedbytheLord Chancellor, without the parties concerned having any choice in thematter;of theSussexlabourerwhoasked,‘WhyshouldIgiveawomanhalfmyvictualsforcookingtheotherhalf?’andofLordVerulamwhothoughtthatunmarried men did the best public work. And, indeed, marriage is the onesubjectonwhichallwomenagreeandallmendisagree.Ourauthor,however,isclearlyofthesameopinionastheScotchlassiewho,onherfatherwarningherwhatasolemnthingitwastogetmarried,answered,‘Ikenthat,father,butit’sagreatdealsolemnertobesingle.’Hemayberegardedasthechampionofthemarried life. Indeed,hehasamost interestingchapteronmarriage-mademen,andthoughhedissents,andwethinkrightly,fromtheviewrecentlyputforwardbyaladyortwoontheWomen’sRightsplatformthatSolomonowedallhiswisdomtothenumberofhiswives,stillheappealstoBismarck,JohnStuartMill,Mahommed, andLordBeaconsfield, as instancesofmenwhosesuccesscanbetracedtotheinfluenceofthewomentheymarried.ArchbishopWhatelyoncedefinedwomanas‘acreaturethatdoesnotreasonandpokesthefire from the top,’ but since his day the higher education of women hasconsiderably altered their position. Women have always had an emotionalsympathy with those they love; Girton and Newnham have renderedintellectual sympathy also possible. In our day it is best for a man to bemarried,andmenmustgiveupthetyrannyinmarriedlifewhichwasoncesodeartothem,andwhich,weareafraid,lingersstill,hereandthere.

‘Doyouwishtobemywife,Mabel?’saidalittleboy.‘Yes,’incautiouslyansweredMabel.‘Thenpulloffmyboots.’

On marriage vows our author has, too, very sensible views and veryamusing stories. He tells of a nervous bridegroom who, confusing thebaptismal and marriage ceremonies, replied when asked if he consented totakethebrideforhiswife:‘Irenouncethemall’;ofaHampshirerusticwho,whengivingthering,saidsolemnlytothebride:‘WithmybodyItheewashup,andwithallmyhurdlegoodsItheeandthou’;ofanotherwhowhenaskedwhether he would take his partner to be his wedded wife, replied withshamefulindecision:‘Yes,I’mwillin’;butI’dasightratherhavehersister’;and of a Scotch ladywho, on the occasion of her daughter’swedding,wasaskedbyanoldfriendwhethershemightcongratulateheron theevent,and

answered: ‘Yes,yes,upon thewhole it isverysatisfactory; it is trueJeanniehates her gudeman, but then there’s always a something!’ Indeed, the goodstories contained in this book are quite endless and make it very pleasantreading,whilethegoodadviceisonallpointsadmirable.

Most young married people nowadays start in life with a dreadfulcollection of ormolu inkstands coveredwith shamonyxes, orwith a perfectmuseumofsalt-cellars.Westronglyrecommendthisbookasoneofthebestofwedding presents. It is a complete handbook to an earthly Paradise, and itsauthormayberegardedastheMurrayofmatrimonyandtheBaedekerofbliss.

TOREADORNOTTOREAD

(PallMallGazette,February8,1886.)

Books,Ifancy,maybeconvenientlydividedintothreeclasses:

1.Bookstoread,suchasCicero’sLetters,Suetonius,Vasari’sLivesofthePainters,theAutobiographyofBenvenutoCellini,SirJohnMandeville,MarcoPolo,St.Simon’sMemoirs,Mommsen,and(tillwegetabetterone)Grote’sHistoryofGreece.

2.Books to re-read,suchasPlatoandKeats: in thesphereofpoetry, themasters not the minstrels; in the sphere of philosophy, the seers not thesavants.

3. Books not to read at all, such as Thomson’s Seasons, Rogers’s Italy,Paley’sEvidences, all theFathers exceptSt.Augustine, all JohnStuartMillexcept the essay on Liberty, all Voltaire’s plays without any exception,Butler’s Analogy, Grant’s Aristotle, Hume’s England, Lewes’s History ofPhilosophy,allargumentativebooksandallbooksthattrytoproveanything.

Thethirdclassisbyfarthemostimportant.Totellpeoplewhattoreadis,as a rule, either useless or harmful; for, the appreciation of literature is aquestionoftemperamentnotofteaching;toParnassusthereisnoprimerandnothingthatonecanlearniseverworthlearning.Buttotellpeoplewhatnottoreadisaverydifferentmatter,andIventuretorecommenditasamissiontotheUniversityExtensionScheme.

Indeed, it isone that iseminentlyneeded in thisageofours,anage thatreadssomuch,thatithasnotimetoadmire,andwritessomuch,thatithasnotime to think.Whoeverwill select out of the chaosof ourmodern curricula‘TheWorst Hundred Books,’ and publish a list of them,will confer on therisinggenerationarealandlastingbenefit.

AfterexpressingtheseviewsIsupposeIshouldnotofferanysuggestionsatallwithregardto‘TheBestHundredBooks,’butIhopeyouwillallowmethepleasureofbeinginconsistent,asIamanxioustoputinaclaimforabookthat has been strangely omitted by most of the excellent judges who havecontributed to your columns. I mean the Greek Anthology. The beautifulpoemscontainedinthiscollectionseemtometoholdthesamepositionwithregardtoGreekdramaticliteratureasdothedelicatelittlefigurinesofTanagrato the Phidian marbles, and to be quite as necessary for the completeunderstandingoftheGreekspirit.

IamalsoamazedtofindthatEdgarAllanPoehasbeenpassedover.Surelythismarvellous lordof rhythmicexpressiondeservesaplace? If, inorder tomake room for him, it be necessary to elbow out some one else, I shouldelbowoutSouthey,andIthinkthatBaudelairemightbemostadvantageouslysubstitutedforKeble.

Nodoubt,bothintheCurseofKehamaandintheChristianYeartherearepoeticqualitiesofacertainkind,butabsolutecatholicityoftasteisnotwithoutitsdangers.Itisonlyanauctioneerwhoshouldadmireallschoolsofart.

THELETTERSOFAGREATWOMAN

(PallMallGazette,March6,1886.)

Ofthemanycollectionsoflettersthathaveappearedinthiscenturyfew,ifany, can rival for fascination of style and variety of incident the letters ofGeorgeSandwhichhaverecentlybeentranslatedintoEnglishbyM.LedosdeBeaufort. They extend over a space ofmore than sixty years, from1812 to1876, infact,andcomprisethefirst lettersofAuroreDupin,achildofeightyearsold,aswellasthelastlettersofGeorgeSand,awomanofseventy-two.The very early letters, those of the child and of the youngmarriedwoman,possess,ofcourse,merelyapsychologicalinterest;butfrom1831,thedateofMadameDudevant’sseparationfromherhusbandandherfirstentryintoParislife, the interest becomes universal, and the literary and political history ofFranceismirroredineverypage.

ForGeorgeSandwasanindefatigablecorrespondent;shelongsinoneofher letters, it is true, for ‘a planetwhere reading andwriting are absolutelyunknown,’ but still she had a real pleasure in letter-writing. Her greatestdelightwasthecommunicationofideas,andsheisalwaysintheheartofthebattle.ShediscussespauperismwithLouisNapoleoninhisprisonatHam,andliberty with Armand Barbes in his dungeon at Vincennes; she writes to

Lamennais on philosophy, to Mazzini on socialism, to Lamartine ondemocracy,andtoLedru-Rollinonjustice.Herlettersrevealtousnotmerelythelifeofagreatnovelistbutthesoulofagreatwoman,ofawomanwhowasone with all the noblest movements of her day and whose sympathy withhumanity was boundless absolutely. For the aristocracy of intellect she hadalways the deepest veneration, but the democracy of suffering touched hermore.Shepreachedtheregenerationofmankind,notwiththenoisyardourofthepaid advocate, butwith the enthusiasmof the true evangelist.Of all theartists of this century she was the most altruistic; she felt every one’smisfortunesexceptherown.Herfaithneverlefther;totheendofherlife,asshe tells us, she was able to believe without illusions. But the peopledisappointed her a little. She saw that they followed persons not principles,andfor‘thegreatmantheory’GeorgeSandhadnorespect.‘Propernamesaretheenemiesofprinciples’isoneofheraphorisms.

Sofrom1850herlettersaremoredistinctlyliterary.Shediscussesmodernrealism with Flaubert, and play-writing with Dumas fils; and protests withpassionatevehemenceagainstthedoctrineofL’artpourl’art.‘Artforthesakeofitselfisanidlesentence,’shewrites;‘artforthesakeoftruth,forthesakeofwhat is beautiful and good, that is the creed I seek.’And in a delightfullettertoM.CharlesPoncysherepeatsthesameideaverycharmingly.‘Peoplesaythatbirdssingforthesakeofsinging,butIdoubtit.Theysingtheirlovesandhappiness,andinthattheyareinkeepingwithnature.Butmanmustdosomethingmore, and poets only sing in order tomove people and tomakethemthink.’ShewantedM.Poncy tobe thepoetof thepeopleand, ifgoodadvicewereallthathadbeenneeded,hewouldcertainlyhavebeentheBurnsoftheworkshop.ShedrewoutadelightfulschemeforavolumetobecalledSongs of all Trades and saw the possibilities of making handicrafts poetic.Perhaps she valued good intentions in art a little toomuch, and she hardlyunderstoodthatartforart’ssakeisnotmeanttoexpressthefinalcauseofartbutismerelyaformulaofcreation;but,assheherselfhadscaledParnassus,wemustnotquarrelatherbringingProletarianismwithher.ForGeorgeSandmust be ranked among our poetic geniuses. She regarded the novel as stillwithin the domain of poetry.Her heroes are not dead photographs; they aregreat possibilities.Modern novels are dissections; hers are dreams. ‘Imakepopulartypes,’shewrites,‘suchasIdonolongersee,butsuchastheyshouldandmightbe.’Forrealism,inM.Zola’sacceptationoftheword,shehadnoadmiration. Art to her was a mirror that transfigured truths but did notrepresentrealities.Henceshecouldnotunderstandartwithoutpersonality.‘Iamaware,’shewrites toFlaubert, ‘thatyouareopposedto theexpositionofpersonal doctrine in literature. Are you right? Does not your oppositionproceedratherfromawantofconvictionthanfromaprincipleofæsthetics?Ifwehaveanyphilosophyinourbrainitmustneedsbreakforthinourwritings.

Butyou,assoonasyouhandleliterature,youseemanxious,Iknownotwhy,tobeanotherman,theonewhomustdisappear,whoannihilateshimselfandisnomore.What a singularmania!What a deficient taste! The worth of ourproductions depends entirely on our own. Besides, if wewithhold our ownopinionsrespectingthepersonageswecreate,wenaturallyleavethereaderinuncertaintyastotheopinionheshouldhimselfformofthem.Thatamountstowishing not to be understood, and the result of this is that the reader getswearyofusandleavesus.’

Sheherself, however,maybe said tohave suffered from toodominant apersonality,andthiswasthereasonofthefailureofmostofherplays.

Ofthedramainthesenseofdisinterestedpresentationshehadnoidea,andwhat is the strength and life-blood of her novels is the weakness of herdramatic works. But in the main she was right. Art without personality isimpossible.Andyet theaimofart isnot torevealpersonality,but toplease.Thisshehardlyrecognizedinheræsthetics,thoughsherealizeditinherwork.On literary style she has some excellent remarks. She dislikes theextravagances of the romantic school and sees the beauty of simplicity.‘Simplicity,’shewrites,‘isthemostdifficultthingtosecureinthisworld:itisthelast limitofexperienceandthelasteffortofgenius.’Shehatedtheslangand argot of Paris life, and loved the words used by the peasants in theprovinces.‘Theprovinces,’sheremarks,‘preservethetraditionoftheoriginaltongueandcreatebutfewnewwords.Ifeelmuchrespectforthelanguageofthepeasantry;inmyestimationitisthemorecorrect.’

She thought Flaubert toomuch preoccupiedwith the sense of form, andmakestheseexcellentobservationstohim—perhapsherbestpieceofliterarycriticism. ‘You consider the form as the aim, whereas it is but the effect.Happy expressions are only the outcome of emotion and emotion itselfproceeds from a conviction.We are onlymoved by thatwhichwe ardentlybelieve in.’ Literary schools she distrusted. Individualism was to her thekeystoneofartaswellasoflife.‘Donotbelongtoanyschool:donotimitateanymodel,’isheradvice.Yetsheneverencouragedeccentricity.‘Becorrect,’shewrites toEugènePelletan, ‘that is rarer thanbeingeccentric,as the timegoes.Itismuchmorecommontopleasebybadtastethantoreceivethecrossofhonour.’

Onthewhole,her literaryadviceissoundandhealthy.Shenevershrieksand she never sneers. She is the incarnation of good sense. And thewholecollectionofherlettersisaperfect treasure-houseofsuggestionsbothonartandonpolitics.

BÉRANGERINENGLAND

(PallMallGazette,April21,1886.)

A philosophic politician once remarked that the best possible form ofgovernmentisanabsolutemonarchytemperedbystreetballads.

Without at all agreeingwith this aphorismwe still cannotbut regret thatthe new democracy does not use poetry as a means for the expression ofpoliticalopinion.TheSocialists, it is true,havebeenheard singing the laterpoemsofMr.WilliamMorris,butthestreetballadisreallydeadinEngland.Thefactisthatmostmodernpoetryissoartificialinitsform,soindividualinitsessenceandsoliteraryinitsstyle,thatthepeopleasabodyarelittlemovedby it, andwhen they have grievances against the capitalist or the aristocrattheypreferstrikestosonnetsandriotingtorondels.

Possibly,Mr.WilliamToynbee’spleasantlittlevolumeoftranslationsfromBéranger may be the herald of a new school. Béranger had all thequalificationsforapopularpoet.Hewrotetobesungmorethantoberead;hepreferredthePontNeuftoParnassus;hewaspatrioticaswellasromantic,andhumorous as well as humane. Translations of poetry as a rule are merelymisrepresentations,butthemuseofBérangerissosimpleandnaïvethatshecanwear our English dresswith ease and grace, andMr. Toynbee has keptmuchofthemirthandmusicoftheoriginal.Hereandthere,undoubtedly,thetranslation could be improved upon; ‘rapiers’ for instance is an abominablerhymeto‘forefathers’;‘thehatedarmsofAlbion’inthesamepoemisaveryfeeblerenderingof‘leléoparddel’Anglais,’andsuchaverseas

’MidFrance’smiraclesofart,

Raretrophieswonfromart’sownland,

I’velivedtoseewithburningheart

Thefog-bredpoortriumphantstand,

reproducesveryinadequatelythecharmoftheoriginal:

Dansnospalais,où,prèsdelavictoire,

Brillaientlesarts,douxfruitsdesbeauxclimats,

J’aivuduNordlespeupladessansgloire,

Deleursmanteauxsecouerlesfrimas.

On the whole, however, Mr. Toynbee’s work is good; Les Champs, forexample,isverywelltranslated,andsoarethetwodelightfulpoemsRosetteand Ma République; and there is a good deal of spirit in Le Marquis de

Carabas:

Whomhavewehereinconqueror’srôle?

Ourgrandoldmarquis,blesshissoul!

Whosegrandoldcharger(markhisbone!)

Hasbornehimbacktoclaimhisown.

Note,ifyouplease,thegrandoldstyle

Inwhichhenearshisgrandoldpile;

Withwhatanairofgrandoldstate

Hewavesthatbladeimmaculate!

Hatsoff,hatsoff,formylordtopass,

ThegrandoldMarquisofCarabas!—

though ‘that blade immaculate’ has hardly got the sting of ‘un sabreinnocent’;and in the fourthverseof thesamepoem, ‘Marquise,you’llhavethe bed-chamber’ does not very clearly convey the sense of the line ‘LaMarquisealetabouret.’BérangerisnotnearlywellenoughknowninEngland,and though it isalwaysbetter to readapoet in theoriginal, still translationshavetheirvalueasechoeshavetheirmusic.

THEPOETRYOFTHEPEOPLE

(PallMallGazette,May13,1886.)

The Countess Martinengo deserves well of all poets, peasants andpublishers. Folk-lore is so often treated nowadaysmerely from the point ofviewofthecomparativemythologist,thatitisreallydelightfultocomeacrossabookthatdealswiththesubjectsimplyasliterature.FortheFolk-taleisthefather of all fiction as the Folk-song is themother of all poetry; and in thegames,thetalesandtheballadsofprimitivepeopleitiseasytoseethegermsof suchperfected formsofart as thedrama, thenoveland theepic. It is,ofcourse,truethatthehighestexpressionoflifeistobefoundnotinthepopularsongs,howeverpoetical,ofanynation,but in thegreatmasterpiecesofself-consciousArt;yetitispleasantsometimestoleavethesummitofParnassustolookat thewildflowers in thevalley, and to turn from the lyreofApollo tolisten to the reed of Pan.We can still listen to it. To this day, the vineyarddressersofCalabriawillmockthepasser-bywithsatiricalversesastheyusedtodointheoldpagandays,andthepeasantsoftheolivewoodsofProvence

answer each other in amœbæan strains. The Sicilian shepherd has not yetthrownhispipeaside, and thechildrenofmodernGreece sing the swallow-song through the villages in spring-time, thoughTheognis ismore than twothousand years dead. Nor is this popular poetry merely the rhythmicexpression of joy and sorrow; it is in the highest degree imaginative; andtakingitsinspirationdirectlyfromnatureitaboundsinrealisticmetaphorandinpicturesqueandfantasticimagery.Itmust,ofcourse,beadmittedthatthereis a conventionality of nature as there is a conventionality of art, and thatcertainformsofutteranceareapttobecomestereotypedbytooconstantuse;yet,onthewhole,itisimpossiblenottorecognizeintheFolk-songsthattheCountess Martinengo has brought together one strong dominant note offerventandflawlesssincerity.Indeed,itisonlyinthemoreterribledramasoftheElizabethanagethatwecanfindanyparalleltotheCorsicanvoceriwiththeirshrillintensityofpassion,theirawfulfrenziesofgriefandhate.Andyet,ardentasthefeelingis,theformisnearlyalwaysbeautiful.Nowandthen,inthepoemsoftheextremeSouthonemeetswithacuriouscrudityofrealism,but,asarule,thesenseofbeautyprevails.

SomeoftheFolk-poemsinthisbookhaveallthelightnessandlovelinessoflyrics,allofthemhavethatsweetsimplicityofpuresongbywhichmirthfindsitsownmelodyandmourningitsownmusic,andevenwherethereareconceits of thought and expression they are conceits born of fancy not ofaffectation. Herrick himself might have envied that wonderful love-song ofProvence:

Ifthouwiltbethefallingdew

Andfallonmealway,

ThenIwillbethewhite,whiterose

Onyonderthornyspray.

Ifthouwiltbethewhite,whiterose

Onyonderthornyspray,

ThenIwillbethehoney-bee

Andkisstheealltheday.

Ifthouwiltbethehoney-bee

Andkissmealltheday,

ThenIwillbeinyonderheaven

Thestarofbrightestray.

Ifthouwiltbeinyonderheaven

Thestarofbrightestray,

ThenIwillbethedawn,andwe

Shallmeetatbreakofday.

HowcharmingalsoisthislullabybywhichtheCorsicanmothersingsherbabetosleep!

Goldandpearlsmyvessellade,

Silkandcloththecargobe,

Allthesailsareofbrocade

Comingfrombeyondthesea;

Andthehelmoffinestgold,

Madeawondertobehold.

Fastawhileinslumberlie;

Sleep,mychild,andhushaby.

Afteryouwerebornfullsoon,

Youwerechristenedallaright;

Godmothershewasthemoon,

Godfatherthesunsobright.

Allthestarsinheaventold

Woretheirnecklacesofgold.

Fastawhileinslumberlie;

Sleep,mychild,andhushaby.

OrthisfromRoumania:

Sleep,mydaughter,sleepanhour;

Mother’sdarlinggilliflower.

Motherrocksthee,standingnear,

Shewillwashtheeintheclear

Watersthatfromfountainsrun,

Toprotecttheefromthesun.

Sleep,mydarling,sleepanhour,

Growthouasthegilliflower.

Asatear-dropbethouwhite,

Asawillowtallandslight;

Gentleasthering-dovesare,

Andbelovelyasastar!

WehardlyknowwhatpoemsaresungtoEnglishbabies,butwehopetheyareasbeautifulasthesetwo.Blakemighthavewrittenthem.

TheCountessMartinengohascertainlygivenusamostfascinatingbook.Inavolumeofmoderatedimensions,nottoolongtobetiresomenortoobrieftobedisappointing, shehas collected together thebest examplesofmodernFolk-songs,andwithherasaguidethelazyreader lounginginhisarmchairmaywanderfromthemelancholypine-forestsoftheNorthtoSicily’sorange-grovesandthepomegranategardensofArmenia,andlistentothesingingofthose towhompoetry is a passion, not a profession, andwhose art, comingfrominspirationandnotfromschools,ifithasthelimitations,atleasthasalsothelovelinessofitsorigin,andisonewithblowinggrassesandtheflowersofthefield.

THECENCI

(DramaticReview,May15,1886.)

The production of The Cenci last week at the Grand Theatre, Islington,maybesaidtohavebeenaneraintheliteraryhistoryofthiscentury,andtheShelley Society deserves the highest praise and warmest thanks of all forhavinggivenusanopportunityofseeingShelley’splayundertheconditionshehimselfdesiredforit.ForTheCenciwaswrittenabsolutelywithaviewtotheatricpresentation,andhadShelley’sownwishesbeencarriedoutitwouldhavebeenproducedduringhislifetimeatCoventGarden,withEdmundKeanandMissO’Neillintheprincipalparts.Inworkingouthisconception,Shelleyhad studied very carefully the æsthetics of dramatic art. He saw that theessenceofthedramaisdisinterestedpresentation,andthatthecharactersmustnotbemerelymouthpiecesforsplendidpoetrybutmustbelivingsubjectsforterror and for pity. ‘I have endeavoured,’ he says, ‘as nearly as possible torepresent thecharactersas theyprobablywere,andhavesought toavoidtheerrorofmakingthemactuatedbymyownconceptionofrightorwrong,falseor true: thusundera thinveil convertingnamesandactionsof the sixteenthcenturyintocoldimpersonationsofmyownmind....

‘I have avoided with great care the introduction of what is commonly

called mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detachedsimile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice’s description of thechasmappointedforherfather’smurdershouldbejudgedtobeofthatnature.’

He recognized that a dramatist must be allowed far greater freedom ofexpressionthanwhatisconcededtoapoet.‘Inadramaticcomposition,’tousehis own words, ‘the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate oneanother, the former being reserved simply for the full development andillustration of the latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which shouldassume flesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is thus that the mostremoteandthemostfamiliar imagerymayalikebefitfordramaticpurposeswhenemployedintheillustrationofstrongfeeling,whichraiseswhatislow,andlevelstotheapprehensionthatwhichislofty,castingoveralltheshadowofitsowngreatness.InotherrespectsIhavewrittenmorecarelessly,thatis,without an over-fastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect Ientirelyagreewiththosemoderncriticswhoassertthatinordertomovementotruesympathywemustusethefamiliarlanguageofmen.’

Heknewthatifthedramatististoteachatallitmustbebyexample,notbyprecept.

‘Thehighestmoralpurpose,’heremarks,‘aimedat inthehighestspeciesof the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies andantipathies, theknowledgeof itself; inproportiontothepossessionofwhichknowledge every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. Ifdogmascandomoreitiswell:butadramaisnofitplacefortheenforcementof them.’ He fully realizes that it is by a conflict between our artisticsympathies and our moral judgment that the greatest dramatic effects areproduced.‘ItisintherestlessandanatomizingcasuistrywithwhichmenseekthejustificationofBeatrice,yetfeelthatshehasdonewhatneedsjustification;itisinthesuperstitioushorrorwithwhichtheycontemplatealikeherwrongsand their revenge, that the dramatic character of what she did and sufferedconsists.’

InfactnoonehasmoreclearlyunderstoodthanShelleythemissionofthedramatistandthemeaningofthedrama.

BALZACINENGLISH

(PallMallGazette,September13,1886.)

Many years ago, in a number of All the Year Round, Charles Dickenscomplained that Balzacwas very little read in England, and although since

then the public has become more familiar with the great masterpieces ofFrenchfiction,stillitmaybedoubtedwhethertheComédieHumaineisatallappreciatedorunderstoodbythegeneralrunofnovelreaders.Itisreallythegreatestmonument that literaturehasproduced inourcentury,andM.Tainehardlyexaggerateswhenhe says that, afterShakespeare,Balzac isourmostimportantmagazineofdocumentsonhumannature.Balzac’saim,infact,wasto do for humanity what Buffon had done for the animal creation. As thenaturaliststudiedlionsandtigers,sothenoveliststudiedmenandwomen.Yethe was no mere reporter. Photography and procès-verbal were not theessentialsofhismethod.Observationgavehimthefactsoflife,buthisgeniusconverted facts into truths, and truths into truth. He was, in a word, amarvellouscombinationof theartistic temperamentwith thescientific spirit.Thelatterhebequeathedtohisdisciples;theformerwasentirelyhisown.ThedistinctionbetweensuchabookasM.Zola’sL’AssommoirandsuchabookasBalzac’sIllusionsPerduesisthedistinctionbetweenunimaginativerealismandimaginativereality.‘AllBalzac’scharacters,’saidBaudelaire,‘aregiftedwith the same ardour of life that animated himself. All his fictions are asdeeplycolouredasdreams.Everymindisaweaponloadedtothemuzzlewithwill. The very scullions have genius.’ He was, of course, accused of beingimmoral. Few writers who deal directly with life escape that charge. Hisanswer to the accusation was characteristic and conclusive. ‘Whoevercontributeshisstonetotheedificeofideas,’hewrote,‘whoeverproclaimsanabuse,whoeversetshismarkuponaneviltobeabolished,alwayspassesforimmoral.Ifyouaretrueinyourportraits,if,bydintofdailyandnightlytoil,you succeed in writing the most difficult language in the world, the wordimmoralisthrowninyourface.’ThemoralsofthepersonagesoftheComédieHumainearesimply themoralsof theworldaroundus.Theyarepartof theartist’ssubject-matter;theyarenotpartofhismethod.Iftherebeanyneedofcensureitistolife,nottoliterature,thatitshouldbegiven.Balzac,besides,isessentially universal. He sees life from every point of view. He has nopreferencesandnoprejudices.Hedoesnottrytoproveanything.Hefeelsthatthespectacleoflifecontainsitsownsecret.‘Ilcréeunmondeetsetait.’

Andwhataworlditis!Whatapanoramaofpassions!Whatapell-mellofmenandwomen!ItwassaidofTrollopethatheincreasedthenumberofouracquaintances without adding to our visiting list; but after the ComédieHumaineonebegins tobelieve that theonly realpeopleare thepeoplewhonever existed. Lucien de Rubempré, le Père Goriot, Ursule Mirouët,Marguerite Claës, the Baron Hulot,MadameMarneffe, le Cousin Pons, DeMarsay—allbringwiththemakindofcontagiousillusionoflife.Theyhaveafiercevitalityaboutthem:theirexistenceisferventandfiery-coloured;wenotmerely feel for them but we see them—they dominate our fancy and defyscepticism.AsteadycourseofBalzacreducesour livingfriendstoshadows,

andouracquaintancestotheshadowsofshades.WhowouldcaretogoouttoaneveningpartytomeetTomkins,thefriendofone’sboyhood,whenonecansit at homewithLuciendeRubempré? It ispleasanter tohave the entrée toBalzac’ssocietythantoreceivecardsfromalltheduchessesinMayfair.

In spite of this, there are many people who have declared the ComédieHumaine to be indigestible. Perhaps it is: but then what about truffles?Balzac’s publisher refused to be disturbed by any such criticism as that.‘Indigestible, is it?’ he exclaimedwithwhat, for a publisher,was rare goodsense.‘Well,Ishouldhopeso;whoeverthinksofadinnerthatisn’t?’

BENJONSON

(PallMallGazette,September20,1886.)

AsforMr.Symonds’estimateofJonson’sgenius,itisinmanypointsquiteexcellent.Herankshimwiththegiantsratherthanwiththegods,withthosewho compel our admiration by their untiring energy and huge strength ofintellectual muscle, not with those ‘who share the divine gifts of creativeimagination and inevitable instinct.’ Here he is right. Pelion more thanParnassuswasJonson’shome.Hisarthastoomucheffortaboutit,toomuchdefinite intention.Hisstyle lacksthecharmofchance.Mr.SymondsisrightalsointhestresshelaysontheextraordinarycombinationinJonson’sworkofthe most concentrated realism with encyclopædic erudition. In Jonson’scomediesLondon slang and learned scholarship go hand in hand.Literaturewasaslivingathingtohimaslifeitself.Heusedhisclassicallorenotmerelyto give form to his verse, but to give flesh and blood to the persons of hisplays.Hecouldbuildupabreathingcreatureoutofquotations.HemadethepoetsofGreeceandRometerriblymodern,andintroducedthemtotheoddestcompany.Hisverycultureisanelementinhiscoarseness.Therearemomentswhenoneistemptedtolikenhimtoabeastthathasfedoffbooks.

Wecannot, however, agreewithMr.Symondswhenhe says that Jonson‘rarely touchedmore than theoutsideofcharacter,’ thathismenandwomenare ‘the incarnationsof abstractproperties rather than livinghumanbeings,’thattheyareinfactmere‘masqueradersandmechanicalpuppets.’Eloquenceis a beautiful thing but rhetoric ruins many a critic, and Mr. Symonds isessentially rhetorical. When, for instance, he tells us that ‘Jonson mademasks,’while‘DekkerandHeywoodcreatedsouls,’wefeelthatheisaskingustoacceptacrudejudgmentforthesakeofasmartantithesis.Itis,ofcourse,truethatwedonotfindinJonsonthesamegrowthofcharacterthatwefindinShakespeare,andwemayadmitthatmostofthecharactersinJonson’splays

are, so to speak, ready-made.But a ready-made character is not necessarilyeithermechanicalorwooden,twoepithetsMr.Symondsusesconstantlyinhiscriticism.

Wecannottell,andShakespearehimselfdoesnottellus,whyIagoisevil,whyReganandGonerilhavehardhearts,orwhySirAndrewAguecheekisafool.Itissufficientthattheyarewhattheyare,andthatnaturegiveswarrantfortheirexistence.Ifacharacterinaplayislifelike,ifwerecognizeitastruetonature,wehavenorighttoinsistontheauthorexplainingitsgenesistous.We must accept it as it is: and in the hands of a good dramatist merepresentation can take the place of analysis, and indeed is often a moredramaticmethod,becauseamoredirectone.AndJonson’scharactersaretruetonature.Theyare innosenseabstractions; theyare types.CaptainBobadilandCaptain Tucca, Sir JohnDaw and SirAmorous La Foole,Volpone andMosca,SubtleandSirEpicureMammon,Mrs.PurecraftandtheRabbiBusyare all creatures of flesh and blood, none the less lifelike because they arelabelled.InthispointMr.SymondsseemstousunjusttowardsJonson.

Wethink,also,thataspecialchaptermighthavebeendevotedtoJonsonasa literary critic. The creative activity of theEnglishRenaissance is so greatthat its achievements in the sphere of criticism are often overlooked by thestudent.Then, for the first time,was language treatedasanart.The lawsofexpression and composition were investigated and formularized. Theimportanceofwordswas recognized.Romanticism,RealismandClassicismfoughttheirfirstbattles.Thedramatistsarefullofliteraryandartcriticisms,and amused the publicwith slashing articles on one another in the form ofplays.

MR.SYMONDS’HISTORYOFTHERENAISSANCE

(PallMallGazette,November10,1886.)

Mr.SymondshasatlastfinishedhishistoryoftheItalianRenaissance.ThetwovolumesjustpublisheddealwiththeintellectualandmoralconditionsinItaly during the seventy years of the sixteenth century which followed thecoronationofCharlestheFifthatBologna,aneratowhichMr.Symondsgivesthe name of theCatholic Reaction, and they contain amost interesting andvaluableaccountofthepositionofSpainintheItalianpeninsula,theconductoftheTridentineCouncil,thespecificorganizationoftheHolyOfficeandtheCompany of Jesus, and the state of society upon which those forces werebroughttobear.InhispreviousvolumesMr.Symondshadregardedthepastratherasapicturetobepaintedthanasaproblemtobesolved.Inthesetwo

lastvolumes,however,heshowsaclearerappreciationoftheofficeofhistory.The art of the picturesque chronicler is completed by something like thescienceofthetruehistorian,thecriticalspiritbeginstomanifestitself,andlifeisnottreatedasamerespectacle,butthelawsofitsevolutionandprogressareinvestigatedalso.Weadmit that thedesire torepresent lifeatallcostsunderdramatic conditions still accompanies Mr. Symonds, and that he hardlyrealizes thatwhat seems romance touswasharsh reality to thosewhowereengaged in it. Like most dramatists, also, he is more interested in thepsychological exceptions than in the general rule. He has something ofShakespeare’s sovereign contempt of the masses. The people stir him verylittle,butheisfascinatedbygreatpersonalities.Yetitisonlyfairtorememberthattheageitselfwasoneofexaggeratedindividualism,andthatliteraturehadnotyetbecomeamouthpiecefortheutterancesofhumanity.Menappreciatedthearistocracyof intellect, butwith thedemocracyof suffering theyhadnosympathy. The cry from the brickfields had still to be heard.Mr. Symonds’style, too, has much improved. Here and there, it is true, we come acrosstracesoftheoldmanner,asintheapocalypticvisionofthesevendevilsthatentered Italy with the Spaniard, and the description of the Inquisition as aBelial-Moloch, a ‘hideous idol whose face was blackened with soot fromburninghumanflesh.’Suchasentence,also,as‘overtheDeadSeaofsocialputrefactionfloatedthesickeningoilofJesuiticalhypocrisy,’remindsusthatrhetorichasnotyet lost itscharmsforMr.Symonds.Still,onthewhole, thestyleshowsfarmore reserve,balanceandsobriety, thancanbe found in theearliervolumeswhereviolentantithesisformsthepredominantcharacteristic,andaccuracyisoftensacrificedtoanadjective.

Amongst the most interesting chapters of the book are those on theInquisition, on Sarpi, the great champion of the severance of Church fromState,andonGiordanoBruno.Indeed,thestoryofBruno’slife,fromhisvisittoLondonandOxford,hissojourninParisandwanderingsthroughGermany,down tohis betrayal atVenice andmartyrdomatRome, ismost powerfullytold,andtheestimateofthevalueofhisphilosophyandtherelationheholdsto modern science, is at once just and appreciative. The account also ofIgnatiusLoyolaand the riseof theSocietyof Jesus isextremely interesting,thoughwecannotthinkthatMr.SymondsisveryhappyinhiscomparisonoftheJesuits to ‘fanatics layingstonesupona railway’or ‘dynamitersblowingupanemperororacornerofWestminsterHall.’SuchajudgmentisharshandcrudeinexpressionandmoresuitabletotheclamouroftheProtestantUnionthan to the dignity of the true historian. Mr. Symonds, however, is rarelydeliberately unfair, and there is no doubt but that hiswork on the CatholicReaction is a most valuable contribution to modern history—so valuable,indeed, that in theaccounthegivesof the Inquisition inVenice itwouldbewell worth his while to bring the picturesque fiction of the text into some

harmonywiththeplainfactsofthefootnote.

OnthepoetryofthesixteenthcenturyMr.Symondshas,ofcourse,agreatdeal to say, and on such subjects he always writes with ease, grace, anddelicacy of perception.We admit thatweweary sometimes of the continualapplicationtoliteratureofepithetsappropriatetoplasticandpictorialart.Theconceptionoftheunityoftheartsiscertainlyofgreatvalue,butinthepresentconditionofcriticismitseemstousthatitwouldbemoreusefultoemphasizethe fact that each art has its separate method of expression. The essay onTasso,however,isdelightfulreading,andthepositionthepoetholdstowardsmodern music and modern sentiment is analysed with much subtlety. TheessayonMarinoalsoisfullofinterest.Wehaveoftenwonderedwhetherthosewho talk so glibly of Euphuism andMarinism in literature have ever readeitherEuphuesortheAdone.TothelattertheycanhavenobetterguidethanMr.Symonds,whosedescriptionofthepoemismostfascinating.Marino,likemanygreatermen,hassufferedmuchfromhisdisciples,buthehimselfwasamasterofgraceful fancyandofexquisitefelicityofphrase;not,ofcourse,agreat poet but certainly an artist in poetry and one to whom language isindebted.EventhoseconceitsthatMr.Symondsfeelsboundtocensurehavesomething charming about them. The continual use of periphrases isundoubtedlyagravefaultinstyle,yetwhobutapedantwouldreallyquarrelwith such periphrases as sirena de’ boschi for the nightingale, or il novelloEdimioneforGalileo?

FromthepoetsMr.Symondspassestothepainters:notthosegreatartistsofFlorenceandVeniceofwhomhehasalreadywritten,but theEclecticsofBologna,theNaturalistsofNaplesandRome.Thischapteristoopolemicaltobe pleasant.Theone onmusic ismuchbetter, andMr.Symonds gives us amost interestingdescriptionof thegradual stepsbywhich the Italiangeniuspassedfrompoetryandpaintingtomelodyandsong,tillthewholeofEuropethrilledwith themarvelandmysteryof thisnewlanguageof thesoul.Somesmalldetailsshouldperhapsbenoticed.It ishardlyaccurate,forinstance,tosay that Monteverde’s Orfeo was the first form of the recitative-Opera, asPeri’s Dafne and Euridice and Cavaliere’s Rappresentazione preceded it bysomeyears,and it issomewhatexaggerated tosay that ‘under theregimeofthe Commonwealth the national growth of English music received a checkfromwhichitneverafterwardsrecovered,’asitwaswithCromwell’sauspicesthatthefirstEnglishOperawasproduced,thirteenyearsbeforeanyOperawasregularly established in Paris. The fact that England did not make suchdevelopment inmusic as Italy andGermany did,must be ascribed to othercausesthan‘theprevalenceofPuritanopinion.’

These, however, are minor points. Mr. Symonds is to be warmlycongratulatedonthecompletionofhishistoryoftheRenaissanceinItaly.Itis

amostwonderfulmonumentofliterarylabour,anditsvaluetothestudentofHumanismcannotbedoubted.WehaveoftenhadoccasiontodifferfromMr.Symondsonquestionsofdetail,andwehavemorethanoncefeltitourdutytoprotest against the rhetoric and over-emphasis of his style, but we fullyrecognize the importance of his work and the impetus he has given to thestudyofoneofthevitalperiodsoftheworld’shistory.Mr.Symonds’learninghas not made him a pedant; his culture has widened not narrowed hissympathies,and thoughhecanhardlybecalledagreathistorian,yethewillalwaysoccupyaplace inEnglish literatureasoneof theremarkablemenoflettersinthenineteenthcentury.

MR.MORRIS’SODYSSEY

(PallMallGazette,April26,1887.)

Ofallourmodernpoets,Mr.WilliamMorris is theonebestqualifiedbynatureandbyarttotranslateforusthemarvellousepicofthewanderingsofOdysseus. For he is our only true story-singer since Chaucer; if he is aSocialist, he is also a Saga-man; and there was a time when he was neverwearied of telling us strange legends of gods and men, wonderful tales ofchivalryandromance.Masterasheisofdecorativeanddescriptiveverse,hehasalltheGreek’sjoyinthevisibleaspectofthings,alltheGreek’ssenseofdelicateanddelightfuldetail,alltheGreek’spleasureinbeautifultexturesandexquisitematerials and imaginative designs; nor can any one have a keenersympathywith theHomericadmirationfor theworkersand thecraftsmen inthe various arts, from the stainers in white ivory and the embroiderers inpurpleandgold,totheweaversittingbytheloomandthedyerdippinginthevat, thechaserofshieldandhelmet, thecarverofwoodorstone.And toallthisisaddedthetruetemperofhighromance,thepowertomakethepastasreal to us as the present, the subtle instinct to discern passion, the swiftimpulsetoportraylife.

It is no wonder the lovers of Greek literature have so eagerly lookedforward toMr.Morris’sversionof theOdysseanepic,andnowthat thefirstvolume has appeared, it is not extravagant to say that of all our Englishtranslations this is the most perfect and the most satisfying. In spite ofColeridge’s well-known views on the subject, we have always held thatChapman’sOdysseyisimmeasurablyinferiortohisIliad,themeredifferenceofmetrealonebeingsufficienttosettheformerinasecondaryplace;Pope’sOdyssey,with its glittering rhetoric and smart antithesis, has nothing of thegrand manner of the original; Cowper is dull, and Bryant dreadful, and

Worsley too full of Spenserian prettinesses; while excellent thoughMessrs.Butcher and Lang’s version undoubtedly is in many respects, still, on thewhole,itgivesusmerelythefactsoftheOdysseywithoutprovidinganythingof itsartisticeffect.Avia’s translationeven, thoughbetter thanalmostall itspredecessors in the same field, is not worthy of taking rank beside Mr.Morris’s, for here we have a true work of art, a rendering not merely oflanguage into language, butofpoetry intopoetry, and though thenew spiritadded in the transfusion may seem to many rather Norse than Greek, and,perhapsattimes,moreboisterousthanbeautiful,thereisyetavigouroflifeineveryline,asplendidardourthrougheachcanto,thatstirsthebloodwhileonereadslikethesoundofatrumpet,andthat,producingaphysicalaswellasaspiritual delight, exults the senses no less than it exalts the soul. Itmay beadmittedatoncethat,hereandthere,Mr.MorrishasmissedsomethingofthemarvellousdignityoftheHomericverse,andthat,inhisdesireforrushingandringingmetre,hehasoccasionallysacrificedmajestytomovement,andmadestateliness give place to speed; but it is really only in such blank verse asMilton’s that this effect of calm and loftymusic can be attained, and in allotherrespectsblankverseisthemostinadequatemediumforreproducingthefull flow and fervour of the Greek hexameter. One merit, at any rate, Mr.Morris’s version entirely and absolutely possesses. It is, in no sense of theword, literary; itseemstodeal immediatelywith life itself,and to takefromthe realityof things itsownformandcolour; it isalwaysdirectandsimple,andatitsbesthassomethingofthe‘largeutteranceoftheearlygods.’

As for individual passages of beauty, nothing could be better than thewonderfuldescriptionofthehouseofthePhœacianking,orthewholetellingofthelovelylegendofCirce,orthemannerinwhichthepageantofthepalephantomsinHadesisbroughtbeforeoureyes.Perhapsthehugeepichumourof the escape from the Cyclops is hardly realized, but there is always alinguistic difficulty about rendering this fascinating story into English, andwherewe are given somuchpoetrywe should not complain about losing apun; and the exquisite idyll of themeetingandpartingwith thedaughterofAlcinous is really delightfully told. How good, for instance, is this passagetakenatrandomfromtheSixthBook:

ButtherewithuntothehandmaidsgoodlyOdysseusspake:

‘StandoffIbidyou,damsels,whiletheworkinhandItake,

Andwashthebrinefrommyshoulders,andsleekthemallaround.

Sinceverilynowthislongwhilesweetoiltheyhavenotfound.

ButbeforeyounoughtwillIwashme,forshameIhaveindeed,

Amidstoffair-tresseddamselstobeallbareofweed.’

Sohespakeandalooftheygatthem,andthereoftheytoldthemay,

ButOdysseuswiththeriverfromhisbodywashedaway

Thebrinefromhisbackandshoulderswroughtbroadandmightily,

Andfromhisheadwashewipingthefoamoftheuntilledsea;

Butwhenhehadthoroughlywashedhim,andtheoilabouthimhadshed,

Hedidupontheraimentthegiftofthemaidunwed.

ButAthene,Zeus-begotten,dealtwithhiminsuchwise

Thatbiggeryetwashisseeming,andmightiertoalleyes,

Withthehaironhisheadcrispcurlingasthebloomofthedaffodil.

Andaswhenthesilverwithgoldiso’erlaidbyamanofskill,

Yea,acraftsmanwhomHephæstusandPallasAthenehavetaught

Tobemasterovermasters,andlovelyworkhehathwrought;

Sosheroundhisheadandhisshouldersshedgraceabundantly.

Itmaybeobjectedbysomethattheline

Withthehaironhisheadcrispcurlingasthebloomofthedaffodil,

isaratherfancifulversionof

ουλαςηκεκομας,ύακινθίνωανθειομοιασ

anditcertainlyseemsprobablethattheallusionistothedarkcolourofthehero’shair; still, thepoint isnotoneofmuch importance, though itmaybeworthnoting thatasimilarexpressionoccurs inOgilby’ssuperbly illustratedtranslation of theOdyssey, published in 1665,whereCharles ii.’sMaster oftheRevelsinIrelandgivesthepassagethus:

Minervarendershimmoretallandfair,

Curlinginringslikedaffodilshishair.

No anthology, however, can show the true merit of Mr. Morris’stranslation,whoserealmeritdoesnotdependonstraybeauties,norisrevealedbychance selections, but lies in the absolute rightness andcoherenceof thewhole, in its purity and justice of touch, its freedom from affectation andcommonplace,itsharmonyofformandmatter.Itissufficienttosaythatthisisapoet’sversionofapoet,andforsuchsurelyweshouldbethankful.Intheselatter days of coarse and vulgar literature, it is something to havemade thegreatsea-epicoftheSouthnativeandnaturaltoournorthernisle,somethingtohave shown that ourEnglish speechmaybe a pipe throughwhichGreeklipscanblow,somethingtohavetaughtNausicaatospeakthesamelanguage

asPerdita.

RUSSIANNOVELISTS

(PallMallGazette,May2,1887.)

Of the threegreatRussiannovelistsofour timeTourgenieff isby far thefinest artist.He has that spirit of exquisite selection, that delicate choice ofdetail, which is the essence of style; his work is entirely free from anypersonalintention;andbytakingexistenceatitsmostfiery-colouredmomentshecandistilintoafewpagesofperfectprosethemoodsandpassionsofmanylives.

Count Tolstoi’s method is much larger, and his field of vision moreextended. He reminds us sometimes of Paul Veronese, and, like that greatpainter, can crowd, without over-crowding, the giant canvas on which heworks.WemaynotatfirstgainfromhisworksthatartisticunityofimpressionwhichisTourgenieff’schiefcharm,butoncethatwehavemasteredthedetailsthe whole seems to have the grandeur and the simplicity of an epic.Dostoieffskidifferswidelyfrombothhisrivals.HeisnotsofineanartistasTourgenieff,forhedealsmorewiththefactsthanwiththeeffectsoflife;norhasheTolstoi’slargenessofvisionandepicdignity;buthehasqualitiesthataredistinctivelyandabsolutelyhisown,suchasafierceintensityofpassionandconcentrationofimpulse,apowerofdealingwiththedeepestmysteriesofpsychologyandthemosthiddenspringsoflife,andarealismthatispitilessinitsfidelity,andterriblebecauseitistrue.Sometimeagowehadoccasiontodrawattention tohismarvellousnovelCrimeandPunishment,where in thehauntofimpurityandviceaharlotandanassassinmeettogethertoreadthestory of Dives and Lazarus, and the outcast girl leads the sinner to makeatonementforhissin;noristhebookentitledInjuryandInsultatallinferiortothat great masterpiece. Mean and ordinary though the surroundings of thestorymayseem,theheroineNatashaislikeoneofthenoblevictimsofGreektragedy; she isAntigonewith thepassionofPhædra, and it is impossible toapproachherwithout a feelingof awe.Greek also is the gloomofNemesisthathangsovereachcharacter,onlyitisaNemesisthatdoesnotstandoutsideof life, but is part of our ownnature andof the samematerial as life itself.Aleósha, the beautiful young lad whom Natasha follows to her doom, is asecondTitoMelema,andhasallTito’scharmandgraceandfascination.Yethe is different. He would never have denied Baldassare in the Square atFlorence,nor lied toRomolaaboutTessa.Hehasamagnificent,momentarysincerity, a boyish unconsciousness of all that life signifies, an ardent

enthusiasmforallthatlifecannotgive.Thereisnothingcalculatingabouthim.Heneverthinksevil,heonlydoesit.Fromapsychologicalpointofviewheisoneofthemostinterestingcharactersofmodernfiction,asfromanartisticheis one of the most attractive. As we grow to know him he stirs strangequestions for us, and makes us feel that it is not the wicked only who dowrong,northebadalonewhoworkevil.

And by what a subtle objective method does Dostoieffski show us hischaracters! He never tickets them with a list nor labels them with adescription.Wegrowtoknowthemverygradually,asweknowpeoplewhomwemeet in society, at first by little tricks of manner, personal appearance,fancies indress, and the like; and afterwardsby their deeds andwords; andeventhentheyconstantlyeludeus,forthoughDostoieffskimaylaybareforusthesecretsoftheirnature,yetheneverexplainshispersonagesaway;theyarealwayssurprisingusbysomethingthattheysayordo,andkeeptotheendtheeternalmysteryoflife.

Irrespective of its value as a work of art, this novel possesses a deepautobiographicalinterestalso,asthecharacterofVania,thepoorstudentwholoves Natasha through all her sin and shame, is Dostoieffski’s study ofhimself. Goethe once had to delay the completion of one of his novels tillexperiencehad furnishedhimwithnewsituations,but almostbeforehehadarrivedatmanhoodDostoieffskiknewlifeinitsmostrealforms;povertyandsuffering,painandmisery,prison,exile,andlove,weresoonfamiliartohim,and by the lips of Vania he has told his own story. This note of personalfeeling, this harsh reality of actual experience, undoubtedly gives the booksomething of its strange fervour and terrible passion, yet it has notmade itegotistic;weseethingsfromeverypointofview,andwefeel,notthatfictionhas been trammelled by fact, but that fact itself has become ideal andimaginative.Pitiless,too,thoughDostoieffskiisinhismethodasanartist,asamanheisfullofhumanpityforall,forthosewhodoevilaswellasforthosewhosufferit,fortheselfishnolessthanforthosewhoselivesarewreckedforothersandwhosesacrificeisinvain.SinceAdamBedeandLePèreGoriotnomorepowerfulnovelhasbeenwrittenthanInsultandInjury.

MR.PATER’SIMAGINARYPORTRAITS

(PallMallGazette,June11,1887.)

Toconveyideasthroughthemediumofimageshasalwaysbeentheaimofthosewhoareartists aswell as thinkers in literature, and it is to adesire togiveasensuousenvironmenttointellectualconceptsthatweoweMr.Pater’s

last volume. For these Imaginary or, as we should prefer to call them,ImaginativePortraitsofhis,formaseriesofphilosophicstudiesinwhichthephilosophyis temperedbypersonality,andthe thoughtshownundervaryingconditions of mood and manner, the very permanence of each principlegainingsomethingthroughthechangeandcolourofthelifethroughwhichitfindsexpression.Themostfascinatingofallthesepicturesisundoubtedlythatof Sebastian Van Storck. The account of Watteau is perhaps a little toofanciful, and the description of him as onewhowas ‘always a seeker aftersomething in theworld, that is there innosatisfyingmeasure,ornotatall,’seems to usmore applicable to himwho sawMona Lisa sitting among therocksthanthegayanddebonairpeintredesfêtesgalantes.ButSebastian,thegraveyoungDutchphilosopher, ischarminglydrawn.Fromthefirstglimpsewegetofhim, skatingover thewater-meadowswithhisplumeof squirrel’stailandhisfurmuff, inall themodestpleasantnessofboyhood,downtohisstrangedeathinthedesolatehouseamidthesandsoftheHelder,weseemtosee him, to know him, almost to hear the lowmusic of his voice. He is adreamer,asthecommonphrasegoes,andyetheispoeticalinthissense,thathistheoremsshapelifeforhim,directly.Earlyinyouthheisstirredbyafinesaying of Spinoza, and sets himself to realize the ideal of an intellectualdisinterestedness,separatinghimselfmoreandmorefromthetransientworldof sensation, accident and even affection, till what is finite and relativebecomesofnointeresttohim,andhefeelsthatasnatureisbutathoughtofhis, so he himself is but a passing thought ofGod. This conception, of thepowerofameremetaphysicalabstractionoverthemindofonesofortunatelyendowedforthereceptionofthesensibleworld,isexceedinglydelightful,andMr. Pater has neverwritten amore subtle psychological study, the fact thatSebastiandiesinanattempttosavethelifeofalittlechildgivingtothewholestoryatouchofpoignantpathosandsadirony.

Denysl’Auxerroisissuggestedbyafigurefound,orsaidtobefound,onsomeold tapestries inAuxerre, the figureof a ‘flaxenand flowerycreature,sometimes well-nigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes muffled inskinsagainst thecold, sometimes in thedressof amonk,but alwayswithastrongimpressofrealcharacterandincidentfromtheveritablestreets’ofthetown itself. From this strange design Mr. Pater has fashioned a curiousmediæval myth of the return of Dionysus among men, a myth steeped incolourandpassionandoldromance,fullofwonderandfullofworship,Denyshimself being half animal and half god,making theworldmadwith a newecstasyofliving,stirringtheartistssimplybyhisvisiblepresence,drawingthemarvelofmusicfromreedandpipe,andslainatlastinastage-playbythosewhohadlovedhim.InitsrichaffluenceofimagerythisstoryislikeapicturebyMantegna,and indeedMantegnamighthavesuggested thedescriptionofthepageant inwhichDenysridesuponagaily-paintedchariot, insoftsilken

raimentand,forhead-dress,astrangeelephantscalpwithgildedtusks.

IfDenys l’Auxerrois symbolizes thepassionof the senses andSebastianVanStorck thephilosophicpassion, as theycertainly seem todo, thoughnomereformulaordefinitioncanadequatelyexpressthefreedomandvarietyofthe life that they portray, the passion for the imaginativeworld of art is thebasisofthestoryofDukeCarlofRosenmold.DukeCarlisnotunlikethelateKingofBavaria,inhisloveofFrance,hisadmirationfortheGrandMonarqueand his fantastic desire to amaze and to bewilder, but the resemblance ispossiblyonlyachanceone.InfactMr.Pater’syoungheroistheprecursorofthe Aufklärung of the last century, the German precursor of Herder andLessing and Goethe himself, and finds the forms of art ready to his handwithoutanynationalspirittofillthemormakethemvitalandresponsive.Hetoodies,trampledtodeathbythesoldiersofthecountryhesomuchadmired,on the night of hismarriagewith a peasant girl, the very failure of his lifelendinghimacertainmelancholygraceanddramaticinterest.

On the whole, then, this is a singularly attractive book.Mr. Pater is anintellectualimpressionist.Hedoesnotwearyuswithanydefinitedoctrineorseek to suit life to any formal creed. He is always looking for exquisitemoments and,whenhe has found them, he analyses themwith delicate anddelightful art and then passes on, often to the opposite pole of thought orfeeling, knowing that every mood has its own quality and charm and isjustified by its mere existence. He has taken the sensationalism of Greekphilosophyandmade it anewmethodofart criticism.As forhis style, it iscuriously ascetic. Now and then, we come across phrases with a strangesensuousnessofexpression,aswhenhetellsushowDenysl’Auxerrois,onhisreturn from a long journey, ‘ate flesh for the first time, tearing the hot, redmorselswithhisdelicate fingers inakindofwildgreed,’but suchpassagesarerare.Asceticismis thekeynoteofMr.Pater’sprose;at times it isalmosttoosevereinitsself-controlandmakesuslongforalittlemorefreedom.Forindeed, thedangerof suchproseashis is that it isapt tobecomesomewhatlaborious. Here and there, one is tempted to say ofMr. Pater that he is ‘aseekeraftersomething in language, that is there innosatisfyingmeasure,ornot at all.’ The continual preoccupation with phrase and epithet has itsdrawbacks aswell as its virtues.And yet,when all is said,whatwonderfulproseitis,withitssubtlepreferences,itsfastidiouspurity,itsrejectionofwhatiscommonorordinary!Mr.Paterhasthetruespiritofselection,thetrueartofomission.Ifhebenotamongthegreatestprosewritersofourliteratureheis,atleast,ourgreatestartistinprose;andthoughitmaybeadmittedthatthebeststyle is thatwhich seemsanunconscious result rather thanaconsciousaim,still in these latter days when violent rhetoric does duty for eloquence andvulgarity usurps the name of nature, we should be grateful for a style thatdeliberately aims at perfection of form, that seeks to produce its effect by

artisticmeansandsetsbeforeitselfanidealofgraveandchastenedbeauty.

AGERMANPRINCESS

(Woman’sWorld,November1887.)

The Princess Christian’s translation of the Memoirs of Wilhelmine,Margravine of Baireuth, is a most fascinating and delightful book. TheMargravineandherbrother,FredericktheGreat,were,asthePrincessherselfpoints out in an admirably written introduction, ‘among the first of thosequestioningmindsthatstroveafterspiritualfreedom’inthelastcentury.‘Theyhadstudied,’saysthePrincess,‘theEnglishphilosophers,Newton,Locke,andShaftesbury, andwere roused to enthusiasm by thewritings ofVoltaire andRousseau. Their whole lives bore the impress of the influence of Frenchthoughton theburningquestionsof theday. In theeighteenthcenturybeganthatgreatstruggleofphilosophyagainst tyrannyandworn-outabuseswhichculminatedintheFrenchRevolution.Thenoblestmindswereengagedinthestruggle,and,likemostreformers,theypushedtheirconclusionstoextremes,and too often lost sight of the need of a due proportion in things. TheMargravine’s influence on the intellectual development of her country isuntold. She formed at Baireuth a centre of culture and learning which hadbeforebeenundreamtofinGermany.’

Thehistoricalvalueof theseMemoirs is,of course,wellknown.Carlylespeaks of them as being ‘by far the best authority’ on the early life ofFrederick theGreat.Butconsideredmerelyas theautobiographyofacleverandcharmingwoman, they areno less interesting, andeven thosewhocarenothing for eighteenth-century politics, and look upon history itself as anunattractive formof fiction,cannot fail tobe fascinatedby theMargravine’swit, vivacity and humour, by her keen powers of observation, and by herbrilliant and assertive egotism.Not that her lifewas by anymeans a happyone. Her father, to quote the Princess Christian, ‘ruled his family with thesame harsh despotism with which he ruled his country, taking pleasure inmakinghispowerfeltbyallinthemostgallingmanner,’andtheMargravineandherbrother‘hadmuchtosuffer,notonlyfromhisungovernable temper,but also from the real privations towhich theywere subjected.’ Indeed, thepicturetheMargravinegivesoftheKingisquiteextraordinary.‘Hedespisedall learning,’ shewrites, ‘andwishedme tooccupymyselfwithnothingbutneedlework and household duties or details. Had he found me writing orreading,hewouldprobablyhavewhippedme.’He‘consideredmusicacapitaloffence, andmaintained that everyone shoulddevotehimself tooneobject:

mentothemilitaryservice,andwomentotheirhouseholdduties.Scienceandthe arts he counted among the “seven deadly sins.”’ Sometimes he took toreligion,‘andthen,’saystheMargravine,‘welivedliketrappists,tothegreatgriefofmybrotherandmyself.EveryafternoontheKingpreachedasermon,towhichwehadtolistenasattentivelyasifitproceededfromanApostle.Mybrother and Iwereoften seizedwith suchan intense senseof the ridiculousthatweburstoutlaughing,uponwhichanapostoliccursewaspouredoutonour heads,whichwehad to acceptwith a showof humility and penitence.’Economy and soldierswere his only topics of conversation; his chief socialamusement was to make his guests intoxicated; and as for his temper, theaccounts theMargravinegivesof itwouldbealmost incredible if theywerenot amply corroborated from other sources. Suetonius has written of thestrangemadnessthatcomesonkings,buteveninhismelodramaticchroniclesthereishardlyanythingthatrivalswhattheMargravinehastotellus.HereisoneofherpicturesoffamilylifeataRoyalCourtinthelastcentury,anditisnotbyanymeanstheworstsceneshedescribes:

Ononeoccasion,whenhistemperwasmorethanusuallybad,hetoldtheQueen that he had received letters from Anspach, in which the MargraveannouncedhisarrivalatBerlinforthebeginningofMay.Hewascomingtherefor thepurposeofmarryingmysister,andoneofhisministerswouldarrivepreviouslywiththebetrothalring.Myfatheraskedmysisterwhethershewerepleasedatthisprospect,andhowshewouldarrangeherhousehold.Nowmysister had alwaysmade a point of tellinghimwhatever came into her head,even the greatest home-truths, and he had never taken her outspokennessamiss.Onthisoccasion,therefore,relyingonformerexperience,sheansweredhimasfollows:‘WhenIhaveahouseofmyown,Ishalltakecaretohaveawell-appointeddinner-table,betterthanyoursis,andifIhavechildrenofmyown,Ishallnotplaguethemasyoudoyours,andforcethemtoeatthingstheythoroughlydislike!’

‘Whatisamisswithmydinner-table?’theKingenquired,gettingveryredintheface.

‘Youaskwhatisthematterwithit,’mysisterreplied;‘thereisnotenoughonitforustoeat,andwhatthereisiscabbageandcarrots,whichwedetest.’Herfirstanswerhadalreadyangeredmyfather,butnowhegavevent tohisfury.But instead of punishingmy sister he poured it all onmymother,mybrother, andmyself.To beginwith he threwhis plate atmybrother’s head,whowouldhavebeenstruckhadhenotgotoutoftheway;asecondonehethrew atme,which I also happily escaped; then torrents of abuse followedthesefirstsignsofhostility.HereproachedtheQueenwithhavingbroughtupherchildrensobadly.‘Youwillcurseyourmother,’hesaidtomybrother,‘forhavingmadeyousuchagood-for-nothingcreature.’...AsmybrotherandI

passednearhimtoleavetheroom,hehitoutatuswithhiscrutch.Happilyweescaped theblow, for itwouldcertainlyhavestruckusdown,andweat lastescapedwithoutharm.

Yet,asthePrincessChristianremarks,‘despitethealmostcrueltreatmentWilhelmine received from her father, it is noticeable that throughout hermemoirs she speaks of himwith the greatest affection. Shemakes constantreference to his “good heart”’; and says that his faults ‘weremore those oftemperthanofnature.’Norcouldallthemiseryandwretchednessofherhomelifedullthebrightnessofherintellect.Whatwouldhavemadeothersmorbid,made her satirical. Instead ofweeping over her own personal tragedies, shelaughsat thegeneralcomedyoflife.Here,for instance, isherdescriptionofPetertheGreatandhiswife,whoarrivedatBerlinin1718:

The Czarina was small, broad, and brown-looking, without the slightestdignityor appearance.Youhadonly to look at her todetect her loworigin.Shemight have passed for aGerman actress, she had decked herself out insuchamanner.Herdresshadbeenboughtsecond-hand,andwastrimmedwithsomedirty lookingsilverembroidery; thebodicewas trimmedwithpreciousstones,arrangedinsuchamannerastorepresentthedoubleeagle.Sheworeadozenorders;androundthebottomofherdresshungquantitiesofrelicsandpictures of saints, which rattled when she walked, and reminded one of asmartlyharnessedmule.Theorderstoomadeagreatnoise,knockingagainsteachother.

TheCzar, on the other hand,was tall andwell grown,with a handsomeface,buthisexpressionwascoarse,and impressedonewithfear.Heworeasimplesailor’sdress.Hiswife,whospokeGermanverybadly,calledhercourtjestertoheraid,andspokeRussianwithher.ThispoorcreaturewasaPrincessGallizin,whohadbeenobligedtoundertakethissorryofficetosaveherlife,asshehadbeenmixedupinaconspiracyagainsttheCzar,andhadtwicebeenfloggedwiththeknout!

****

The following day [the Czar] visited all the sights of Berlin, amongstothers the very curious collection of coins and antiques.Amongst these lastnamedwasastatue,representingaheathengod.Itwasanythingbutattractive,butwas themostvaluable in thecollection.TheCzaradmired itverymuch,and insistedon theCzarinakissing it.Onher refusing,hesaid toher inbadGermanthatsheshouldloseherheadifshedidnotatonceobeyhim.BeingterrifiedattheCzar’sangersheimmediatelycompliedwithhisorderswithouttheleasthesitation.TheCzaraskedtheKingtogivehimthisandotherstatues,a request which he could not refuse. The same thing happened about acupboard,inlaidwithamber.Itwastheonlyoneofitskind,andhadcostKing

FrederickI.anenormoussum,andtheconsternationwasgeneralonitshavingtobesenttoPetersburg.

ThisbarbarousCourthappilyleftaftertwodays.TheQueenrushedatonceto Monbijou, which she found in a state resembling that of the fall ofJerusalem. I never saw such a sight. Everything was destroyed, so that theQueenwasobligedtorebuildthewholehouse.

Nor are theMargravine’s descriptions of her reception as a bride in theprincipalityofBaireuthlessamusing.Hofwasthefirsttownshecameto,andadeputationofnobleswaswaitingtheretowelcomeher.Thisisheraccountofthem:

Their faces would have frightened little children, and, to add to theirbeauty, they had arranged their hair to resemble thewigs that were then infashion.Theirdressesclearlydenoted theantiquityof their families, as theywerecomposedofheirlooms,andwerecutaccordingly,sothatmostofthemdidnotfit.Inspiteoftheircostumesbeingthe‘CourtDresses,’thegoldandsilvertrimmingsweresoblackthatyouhadadifficultyinmakingoutofwhatthey were made. The manners of these nobles suited their faces and theirclothes. They might have passed for peasants. I could scarcely restrain mylaughterwhenIfirstbeheldthesestrangefigures.Ispoketoeachinturn,butnone of them understood what I said, and their replies sounded to me likeHebrew,becausethedialectoftheEmpireisquitedifferentfromthatspokeninBrandenburg.

The clergy also presented themselves. These were totally differentcreatures.Roundtheirneckstheyworegreatruffs,whichresembledwashingbaskets.Theyspokeveryslowly,so that Imightbeable tounderstand thembetter.Theysaidthemostfoolishthings,anditwasonlywithmuchdifficultythatIwasabletopreventmyselffromlaughing.AtlastIgotridofall thesepeople,andwesatdowntodinner. I triedmybest toconversewith thoseattable,butitwasuseless.AtlastItouchedonagriculturaltopics,andthentheybegan to thaw. I was at once informed of all their different farmsteads andherdsofcattle.Analmostinterestingdiscussiontookplaceastowhethertheoxenintheupperpartofthecountrywerefatterthanthoseinthelowlands.

****

Iwas told that as the next daywasSunday, Imust spend it atHof, andlisten toa sermon.Neverbeforehad Iheard sucha sermon!TheclergymanbeganbygivingusanaccountofallthemarriagesthathadtakenplacefromAdam’stimetothatofNoah.Weweresparednodetail,sothatthegentlemenalllaughedandthepoorladiesblushed.Thedinnerwentoffasonthepreviousday. In the afternoon all the ladies came to payme their respects.Graciousheavens!Whatladies,too!Theywereallasuglyasthegentlemen,andtheir

head-dresses were so curious that swallows might have built their nests inthem.

As for Baireuth itself, and its petty Court, the picture she gives of it isexceedinglycurious.Herfather-in-law,thereigningMargrave,wasanarrow-minded mediocrity, whose conversation ‘resembled that of a sermon readaloud for thepurposeof sending the listener to sleep,’ andhehadonly twotopics, Telemachus, and Amelot de la Houssaye’s Roman History. TheMinisters, from Baron von Stein, who always said ‘yes’ to everything, toBaronvonVoit,whoalwayssaid‘no,’werenotbyanymeansanintellectualsetofmen.‘Theirchiefamusement,’saystheMargravine,‘wasdrinkingfrommorningtillnight,’andhorsesandcattlewerealltheytalkedabout.Thepalaceitselfwasshabby,decayedanddirty.‘Iwaslikealambamongwolves,’criesthepoorMargravine;‘Iwassettledinastrangecountry,ataCourtwhichmoreresembled a peasant’s farm, surrounded by coarse, bad, dangerous, andtiresomepeople.’

Yet her esprit never deserted her. She is always clever, witty, andentertaining. Her stories about the endless squabbles over precedence areextremelyamusing.Thesocietyofherdaycaredverylittleforgoodmanners,knew,indeed,verylittleaboutthem,butallquestionsofetiquettewereofvitalimportance,andtheMargravineherself,thoughshesawtheshallownessofthewholesystem,wasfar tooproudnot toassertherrightswhencircumstancesdemanded it, as the description she gives of her visit to the Empress ofGermany shows very clearly. When this meeting was first proposed, theMargravinedeclinedpositivelytoentertaintheidea.‘Therewasnoprecedent,’shewrites, ‘ofaKing’sdaughterand theEmpresshavingmet,andIdidnotknowtowhatrightsIoughttolayclaim.’Finally,however,sheisinducedtoconsent,butshelaysdownthreeconditionsforherreception:

IdesiredfirstofallthattheEmpress’sCourtshouldreceivemeatthefootof the stairs, secondly, that she shouldmeetmeat thedoorofherbedroom,and,thirdly,thatsheshouldoffermeanarmchairtositon.

****

TheydisputedalldayovertheconditionsIhadmade.Thetwofirstweregrantedme,butall thatcouldbeobtainedwith respect to the thirdwas, thattheEmpresswouldusequiteasmallarmchair,whilstshegavemeachair.

NextdayIsawthisRoyalpersonage.IownthathadIbeeninherplaceIwouldhavemadeall the rulesof etiquette andceremony the excuse fornotbeing obliged to appear. TheEmpresswas small and stout, round as a ball,veryugly,andwithoutdignityormanner.Hermindcorrespondedtoherbody.Shewasterriblybigoted,andspentherwholedaypraying.TheoldanduglyaregenerallytheAlmighty’sportion.Shereceivedmetremblingallover,and

wassoupsetthatshecouldnotsayaword.

AftersomesilenceIbegantheconversationinFrench.SheansweredmeinherAustriandialect that she couldnot speak in that language, andbegged IwouldspeakinGerman.Theconversationdidnot last long,for theAustrianand low Saxon tongues are so different from each other that to thoseacquaintedwithonlyonetheotherisunintelligible.Thisiswhathappenedtous. A third person would have laughed at our misunderstandings, for wecaught only a word here and there, and had to guess the rest. The poorEmpress was such a slave to etiquette that she would have thought it hightreasonhad she spoken tome in a foreign language, though she understoodFrenchquitewell.

Manyotherextractsmightbegivenfromthisdelightfulbook,butfromthefew that have been selected some idea can be formed of the vivacity andpicturesquenessoftheMargravine’sstyle.Asforhercharacter,itisverywellsummed up by the Princess Christian, who, while admitting that she oftenappearsalmostheartlessandinconsiderate,yetclaimsthat,‘takenasawhole,she stands out inmarked prominence among themost giftedwomen of theeighteenth century, not only by hermental powers, but by her goodness ofheart,herself-sacrificingdevotion,andtruefriendship.’Aninterestingsequelto herMemoirs would be her correspondence with Voltaire, and it is to behoped that we may shortly see a translation of these letters from the sameaccomplishedpentowhichweowethepresentvolume.

AVILLAGETRAGEDY

OneofthemostpowerfulandpatheticnovelsthathasrecentlyappearedisAVillageTragedy byMargaret L.Woods. To find any parallel to this luridlittle story, onemust go toDostoieffski or toGuy deMaupassant.Not thatMrs.Woods can be said to have taken either of these two greatmasters offiction as her model, but there is something in her work that recalls theirmethod;shehasnotalittleoftheirfierceintensity,theirterribleconcentration,theirpassionlessyetpoignantobjectivity;likethem,sheseemstoallowlifetosuggest its ownmode of presentation; and, like them, she recognizes that afrankacceptanceofthefactsoflifeisthetruebasisofallmodernimitativeart.ThesceneofMrs.Woods’sstorylies inoneof thevillagesnearOxford; thecharacters are very few in number, and the plot is extremely simple. It is aromanceofmodernArcadia—a taleof the loveofa farm-labourer foragirlwho,thoughslightlyabovehiminsocialstationandeducation,isyetherselfalso a servant on a farm. True Arcadians they are, both of them, and their

ignoranceandisolationserveonlytointensifythetragedythatgivesthestoryits title. It is the fashion nowadays to label literature, so, no doubt, Mrs.Woods’s novel will be spoken of as ‘realistic.’ Its realism, however, is therealism of the artist, not of the reporter; its tact of treatment, subtlety ofperception,andfinedistinctionofstyle,makeitratherapoemthanaprocès-verbal; and though it lays bare to us the mere misery of life, it suggestssomethingoflife’smysteryalso.Verydelicate,too,isthehandlingofexternalNature.Therearenoformalguide-bookdescriptionsofscenery,noranythingof what Byron petulantly called ‘twaddling about trees,’ but we seem tobreathe the atmosphere of the country, to catch the exquisite scent of thebeanfields,sofamiliartoallwhohaveeverwanderedthroughtheOxfordshirelanes in June; to hear the birds singing in the thicket, and the sheep-bellstinklingfromthehill.

Characterization, that enemyof literary form, is suchanessentialpartofthemethodofthemodernwriteroffiction,thatNaturehasalmostbecometothe novelist what light and shade are to the painter—the one permanentelementofstyle;andifthepowerofAVillageTragedybeduetoitsportrayalof human life, no small portion of its charm comes from its Theocriteansetting.

MR.MORRIS’SCOMPLETIONOFTHEODYSSEY

(PallMallGazette,November24,1887.)

Mr. Morris’s second volume brings the great romantic epic of Greekliteraturetoitsperfectconclusion,andalthoughtherecanneverbeanultimatetranslation of either Iliad orOdyssey, as each successive age is sure to findpleasure in rendering the twopoems in itsownmannerandaccording to itsowncanonsof taste, still it isnot toomuch tosay thatMr.Morris’sversionwill always be a true classic amongst our classical translations. It is not, ofcourse,flawless.InournoticeofthefirstvolumeweventuredtosaythatMr.MorriswassometimesfarmoreNorse thanGreek,nordoes thevolume thatnow lies before us make us alter that opinion. The particular metre, also,selected byMr.Morris, although admirably adapted to express ‘the strong-wingedmusicofHomer,’asfarasitsflowandfreedomareconcerned,missessomethingofitsdignityandcalm.Here,itmustbeadmitted,wefeeladistinctloss,forthereisinHomernotalittleofMilton’sloftymanner,andifswiftnessbeanessentialoftheGreekhexameter,statelinessisoneofitsdistinguishingqualitiesinHomer’shands.Thisdefect,however, ifwemustcall itadefect,seems almost unavoidable, as for certain metrical reasons a majestic

movementinEnglishverseisnecessarilyaslowmovement;and,afterallthatcanbe said is said,howreallyadmirable is thiswhole translation! Ifwesetaside its noble qualities as a poem and look on it purely from the scholar’spointofview,howstraightforwarditis,howhonestanddirect!Itsfidelitytotheoriginal isfarbeyondthatofanyotherverse-translationinourliterature,andyetitisnotthefidelityofapedanttohistextbutratherthefineloyaltyofpoettopoet.

WhenMr.Morris’sfirstvolumeappearedmanyof thecriticscomplainedthathisoccasionaluseof archaicwords andunusual expressions robbedhisversionofthetrueHomericsimplicity.This,however,isnotaveryfelicitouscriticism, for while Homer is undoubtedly simple in his clearness andlargeness of vision, hiswonderful power of direct narration, hiswholesomesanity, and the purity and precision of his method, simple in language heundoubtedlyisnot.Whathewastohiscontemporarieswehave,ofcourse,nomeans of judging, but we know that the Athenian of the fifth century b.c.foundhiminmanyplacesdifficult tounderstand,andwhen thecreativeagewassucceededbytheageofcriticismandAlexandriabegantotaketheplaceof Athens as the centre of culture for the Hellenistic world, Homericdictionaries and glossaries seem to have been constantly published. Indeed,Athenæus tells us of awonderfulByzantineblue-stocking, a précieuse fromthePropontis,whowrotealonghexameterpoem,calledMnemosyne,fullofingeniouscommentariesondifficultiesinHomer,andinfact,itisevidentthat,as far as the language is concerned, such a phrase as ‘Homeric simplicity’wouldhaveratheramazedanancientGreek.AsforMr.Morris’stendencytoemphasize the etymologicalmeaning ofwords, a point commented onwithsomewhatflippantseverityinarecentnumberofMacmillan’sMagazine,hereMr.Morrisseemstoustobeincompleteaccord,notmerelywiththespiritofHomer,butwiththespiritofallearlypoetry.It isquite truethat languageisapttodegenerateintoasystemofalmostalgebraicsymbols,andthemoderncity-manwho takesa ticket forBlackfriarsBridge,naturallynever thinksofthe Dominican monks who once had their monastery by Thames-side, andafterwhom the spot is named.But in earlier times itwasnot so.Menwerethen keenly conscious of the real meaning of words, and early poetry,especially,isfullofthisfeeling,and,indeed,maybesaidtoowetoitnosmallportionofitspoeticpowerandcharm.Theseoldwords,then,andthisolduseofwordswhichwefindinMr.Morris’sOdysseycanbeamplyjustifieduponhistorical grounds, and as for their artistic effect, it is quite excellent. PopetriedtoputHomerintotheordinarylanguageofhisday,withwhatresultweknowonlytoowell;butMr.Morris,whouseshisarchaismswiththetactofatrue artist, and towhom indeed they seem to come absolutelynaturally, hassucceededingivingtohisversionbytheiraidthattouch,notof‘quaintness,’forHomer is never quaint, but of old-world romance and old-world beauty,

whichwemoderns find sopleasurable, and towhich theGreeks themselvesweresokeenlysensitive.

Asforindividualpassagesofspecialmerit,Mr.Morris’stranslationisnorobeofragssewnwithpurplepatchesforcriticstosample.Itsrealvalueliesintheabsoluterightnessandcoherenceofthewhole,inthegrandarchitectureoftheswift,strongverse,andinthefactthatthestandardisnotmerelyhighbuteverywheresustained.Itisimpossible,however,toresistthetemptationofquoting Mr. Morris’s rendering of that famous passage in the twenty-thirdbookoftheepic,inwhichOdysseuseludesthetraplaidforhimbyPenelope,whoseveryfaithinthecertaintyofherhusband’sreturnmakesherscepticalofhis identitywhenhe standsbeforeher; an instance,by theway,ofHomer’swonderful psychological knowledge of human nature, as it is always thedreamerhimselfwhoismostsurprisedwhenhisdreamcomestrue.

Thusshespaketoproveherhusband;butOdysseus,grievedatheart,

Spakethusuntohisbed-matewell-skilledingainfulart:

‘Owoman,thousayestawordexceedinggrievoustome!

Whohathotherwhereshiftedmybedstead?fullhardforhimshoulditbe,

Forasdeftashewere,unlesssoothlyaveryGodcomehere,

Whoeasily,ifhewilledit,mightshiftitotherwhere.

Butnomortalmanisliving,howstrongsoe’erinhisyouth,

Whoshalllightlyhaleitelsewhere,sinceamightywonderforsooth

Iswroughtinthatfashionedbedstead,andIwroughtit,andIalone.

Intheclosegrewathicketofolive,along-leavedtreefull-grown,

Thatflourishedandgrewgoodlyasbigasapillarabout,

SorounditIbuiltmybride-room,tillIdidtheworkrightout

Withashlarstoneclose-fitting;andIroofeditoverhead,

AndtheretojoineddoorsImademe,well-fittingintheirstead.

ThenIloppedawaytheboughsofthelong-leafedolive-tree,

And,shearingthebolefromtherootupfullwellandcunningly,

Iplaneditaboutwiththebrass,andsettherulethereto,

Andshapingthereofabed-post,withthewimbleIboreditthrough.

Sobeginning,Iwroughtoutthebedstead,andfinisheditutterly,

Andwithgoldenwroughtitabout,andwithsilverandivory,

Andstretchedonitathongofoxhidewiththepurpledyemadebright.

ThusthenthesignIhaveshownthee;nor,woman,knowIaright

Ifmybedyetbidethsteadfast,oriftoanotherplace

Somemanhathmovedit,andsmittentheolive-bolefromitsbase.’

These last twelve books of the Odyssey have not the same marvel ofromance, adventure and colour that we find in the earlier part of the epic.There is nothing in them that we can compare to the exquisite idyll ofNausicaa or to the Titanic humour of the episode in the Cyclops’ cave.PenelopehasnottheglamourofCirce,andthesongoftheSirensmaysoundsweeterthanthewhizzofthearrowsofOdysseusashestandsonthethresholdofhishall.Yet, for sheer intensityofpassionatepower, forconcentrationofintellectualinterestandformasterlydramaticconstruction,theselatterbooksarequiteunequalled.Indeed,theyshowveryclearlyhowitwasthat,asGreekart developed, the epos passed into the drama. The whole scheme of theargument, the returnof thehero indisguise, his disclosureof himself to hisson, his terrible vengeance on his enemies and his final recognition by hiswife,remindsusoftheplotofmorethanoneGreekplay,andshowsuswhatthegreatAthenianpoetmeantwhenhesaidthathisowndramasweremerelyscrapsfromHomer’stable.InrenderingthissplendidpoemintoEnglishverse,Mr.Morrishasdoneourliteratureaservicethatcanhardlybeover-estimated,and it ispleasant to think that,evenshould theclassicsbeentirelyexcludedfrom our educational systems, the English boy will still be able to knowsomethingofHomer’sdelightfultales,tocatchanechoofhisgrandmusicandtowanderwiththewiseOdysseusround‘theshoresofoldromance.’

MRS.SOMERVILLE

(PallMallGazette,November30,1887.)

PhyllisBrowne’sLifeofMrs.Somervilleformspartofaveryinterestinglittle series, called ‘TheWorld’sWorkers’—acollectionof shortbiographiescatholic enough to include personalities so widely different as Turner andRichardCobden,HandelandSirTitusSalt,RobertStephensonandFlorenceNightingale,andyetpossessingacertaindefiniteaim.Asamathematiciananda scientist, the translator and popularizer of LaMécanique Céleste, and theauthor of an important book on physical geography,Mrs. Somerville is, ofcourse,wellknown.ThescientificbodiesofEuropecoveredherwithhonours;her bust stands in the hall of the Royal Society, and one of the Women’sColleges atOxford bears her name.Yet, considered simply in the light of a

wife and a mother, she is no less admirable; and those who consider thatstupidity is the proper basis for the domestic virtues, and that intellectualwomenmustofnecessitybehelplesswith theirhands,cannotdobetter thanread Phyllis Browne’s pleasant little book, in which they will find that thegreatestwoman-mathematicianofanyagewasacleverneedlewoman,agoodhousekeeper,andamostskilfulcook.Indeed,Mrs.Somervilleseemstohavebeen quite renowned for her cookery. The discoverers of the North-WestPassagechristenedanisland‘Somerville,’notasatributetothedistinguishedmathematician, but as a recognition of the excellence of some orangemarmaladewhichthedistinguishedmathematicianhadpreparedwithherownhandsandpresentedtotheshipsbeforetheyleftEngland;andtothefactthatshe was able tomake currant jelly at a very criticalmoment she owed theaffection of some of her husband’s relatives, who up to that time had beenratherprejudicedagainstheronthegroundthatshewasmerelyanunpracticalBlue-stocking.

Nor did her scientific knowledge ever warp or dull the tenderness andhumanityofhernature.Forbirdsandanimalsshehadalwaysagreatlove.Wehearofherasalittlegirlwatchingwitheagereyestheswallowsastheybuilttheir nests in summer or prepared for their flight in the autumn; andwhensnowwasonthegroundsheusedtoopenthewindowstolettherobinshopinandpick crumbson the breakfast-table.Onone occasion shewentwith herfatheronatourintheHighlands,andfoundonherreturnthatapetgoldfinch,whichhadbeenleftinthechargeoftheservants,hadbeenneglectedbythemandhaddiedofstarvation.Shewasalmostheart-brokenat theevent,and inwritingherRecollections,seventyyearsafter,shementioneditandsaidthat,asshewrote,shefeltdeeppain.Herchiefpetinheroldagewasamountainsparrow,whichusedtoperchonherarmandgotosleeptherewhileshewaswriting.Onedaythesparrowfellintothewater-jugandwasdrowned,tothegreat grief of itsmistresswho could hardly be consoled for its loss, thoughlater on we hear of a beautiful paroquet taking the place of le moineaud’Uranie,andbecomingMrs.Somerville’sconstantcompanion.Shewasalsovery energetic, PhyllisBrowne tells us, in trying to get a law passed in theItalianParliamentfortheprotectionofanimals,andsaidonce,withreferencetothissubject,‘WeEnglishcannotboastofhumanitysolongasoursportsmenfind pleasure in shooting down tame pigeons as they fly terrified out of acage’—a remark with which I entirely agree. Mr. Herbert’s Bill for theprotectionoflandbirdsgaveherimmensepleasure,though,toquoteherownwords,shewas‘grievedtofindthat“thelark,whichatheaven’sgatesings,”isthought unworthy of man’s protection’; and she took a great fancy to agentlemanwho,onbeingtoldof thenumberofsingingbirdsthat iseateninItaly—nightingales, goldfinches, and robins—exclaimed in horror, ‘What!robins!ourhouseholdbirds!Iwouldassooneatachild!’Indeed,shebelieved

to some extent in the immortality of animals on the ground that, if animalshave no future, it would seem as if some were created for uncompensatedmisery—an idea which does not seem to me to be either extravagant orfantastic, though itmustbe admitted that theoptimismonwhich it is basedreceivesabsolutelynosupportfromscience.

On the whole, Phyllis Browne’s book is very pleasant reading. Its onlyfaultisthatitisfartooshort,andthisisafaultsorareinmodernliteraturethatitalmostamounts toadistinction.However,PhyllisBrownehasmanagedtocrowd into the narrow limits at her disposal a great many interestinganecdotes. The picture she gives of Mrs. Somerville working away at hertranslationofLaplace in the same roomwithher children isverycharming,andremindsoneofwhatistoldofGeorgeSand;thereisanamusingaccountofMrs.Somerville’svisittothewidowoftheyoungPretender,theCountessofAlbany,who,aftertalkingwithherforsometime,exclaimed,‘Soyoudon’tspeakItalian.Youmusthavehadaverybadeducation’!AndthisstoryabouttheWaverleyNovelsmaypossiblybenewtosomeofmyreaders:

A very amusing circumstance in connection with Mrs. Somerville’sacquaintance with Sir Walter arose out of the childish inquisitiveness ofWoronzowGreig,Mrs.Somerville’slittleboy.

During the time Mrs. Somerville was visiting Abbotsford theWaverleyNovelswereappearing,andwerecreatingagreatsensation;yetevenScott’sintimatefriendsdidnotknowthathewastheauthor;heenjoyedkeepingtheaffairamystery.ButlittleWoronzowdiscoveredwhathewasabout.OnedaywhenMrs.Somervillewastalkingaboutanovelthathadjustbeenpublished,Woronzowsaid,‘Iknewallthesestorieslongago,forMr.Scottwritesonthedinner-table;whenhehasfinishedheputsthegreenclothwiththepapersinacornerofthedining-room,andwhenhegoesoutCharlieScottandIreadthestories.’

PhyllisBrowneremarksthatthisincidentshows‘thatpersonswhowanttokeepasecretoughttobeverycarefulwhenchildrenareabout’;butthestoryseemstometobefartoocharmingtorequireanymoralofthekind.

Bound up in the same volume is a Life of Miss Mary Carpenter, alsowrittenbyPhyllisBrowne.MissCarpenterdoesnotseemtome tohave thecharmand fascinationofMrs.Somerville.There is always something aboutherthatisformal,limited,andprecise.Whenshewasabouttwoyearsoldsheinsistedonbeingcalled‘DoctorCarpenter’inthenursery;attheageoftwelveshe is described by a friend as a sedate little girl,who always spoke like abook; andbefore she enteredonher educational schemes shewrote downasolemndedicationofherselftotheserviceofhumanity.However,shewasoneof the practical, hardworking saints of the nineteenth century, and it is no

doubt quite right that the saints should take themselves very seriously. It isonlyfairalsotorememberthatherworkofrescueandreformationwascarriedonundergreatdifficulties.Here,forinstance,isthepictureMissCobbegivesusofoneoftheBristolnight-schools:

ItwasawonderfulspectacletoseeMaryCarpentersittingpatientlybeforethe large school gallery in St. James’s Back, teaching, singing, and prayingwith the wild street-boys, in spite of endless interruptions caused by suchproceedingsasshootingmarblesatanyobjectbehindher,whistling,stamping,fighting,shriekingout‘Amen’inthemiddleofaprayer,andsometimesrisingenmasseandtearinglikeatroopofbisonsinhob-nailedshoesdownfromthegallery, round thegreatschoolroom,anddownthestairs,and into thestreet.Theseirrepressibleoutbreakssheborewithinfinitegoodhumour.

Her own account is somewhat pleasanter, and shows that ‘the troop ofbisonsinhob-nailedshoes’wasnotalwayssobarbarous.

I had taken tomyclass on theprecedingweek some specimensof fernsneatlygummedonwhitepaper....ThistimeItookapieceofcoal-shale,withimpressionsofferns,toshowthem....Itoldeachtoexaminethespecimen,and tellmewhathe thought itwas.W.gave sobrighta smile that I sawheknew; none of the others could tell; he said they were ferns, like what Ishowedthemlastweek,buthethoughttheywerechiselledonthestone.TheirsurpriseandpleasureweregreatwhenIexplainedthemattertothem.

ThehistoryofJoseph:theyallfoundadifficultyinrealizingthatthishadactuallyoccurred.Oneasked ifEgyptexistednow,and ifpeople lived in it.WhenItoldthemthatbuildingsnowstoodwhichhadbeenerectedaboutthetimeofJoseph,onesaidthatitwasimpossible,astheymusthavefallendownere this. Ishowed themtheformofapyramid,and theyweresatisfied.Oneaskedifallbooksweretrue.

ThestoryofMacbethimpressedthemverymuch.TheyknewthenameofShakespeare,havingseenhisnameoverapublic-house.

Aboydefinedconscienceas‘athingagentlemanhasn’tgot,who,whenaboyfindshispurseandgivesitbacktohim,doesn’tgivetheboysixpence.’

Anotherboywasasked,afteraSundayeveninglectureon‘Thankfulness,’what pleasure he enjoyedmost in the course of a year.He replied candidly,‘Cock-fightin’, ma’am; there’s a pit up by the “Black Boy” as is worthanythinkinBrissel.’

There is something a little pathetic in the attempt to civilize the roughstreet-boy bymeans of the refining influence of ferns and fossils, and it isdifficulttohelpfeelingthatMissCarpenterratherover-estimatedthevalueofelementary education. The poor are not to be fed upon facts. Even

Shakespeare and the Pyramids are not sufficient; nor is there much use ingivingthemtheresultsofculture,unlesswealsogivethemthoseconditionsunderwhichculturecanberealized.Inthesecold,crowdedcitiesoftheNorth,theproperbasisformorals,usingthewordinitswideHellenicsignification,istobefoundinarchitecture,notinbooks.

Still,itwouldbeungenerousnottorecognizethatMaryCarpentergavetothechildrenofthepoornotmerelyherlearning,butherlove.Inearlylife,herbiographer tells us, she had longed for the happiness of being awife and amother;butlatershebecamecontentthatheraffectioncouldbefreelygiventoallwhoneededit,andtheverseintheprophecies,‘Ihavegiventheechildrenwhomthouhastnotborne,’seemedtohertoindicatewhatwastobehertruemission.Indeed,sheratherinclinedtoBacon’sopinion,thatunmarriedpeopledothebestpublicwork.‘Itisquitestriking,’shesaysinoneofherletters,‘toobservehowmuchtheusefulpowerandinfluenceofwomanhasdevelopedoflate years. Unattached ladies, such as widows and unmarried women, havequiteampleworktodointheworldforthegoodofotherstoabsorballtheirpowers.WivesandmothershaveaverynobleworkgiventhembyGod,andwant nomore.’ The whole passage is extremely interesting, and the phrase‘unattachedladies’isquitedelightful,andremindsoneofCharlesLamb.

ARISTOTLEATAFTERNOONTEA

(PallMallGazette,December16,1887.)

Insociety,saysMr.Mahaffy,everycivilizedmanandwomanoughttofeelittheirdutytosaysomething,evenwhenthereishardlyanythingtobesaid,and, in order to encourage this delightful art of brilliant chatter, he haspublished a social guide without which no débutante or dandy should everdreamofgoingouttodine.NotthatMr.Mahaffy’sbookcanbesaidtobe,inany sense of the word, popular. In discussing this important subject ofconversation, he has notmerely followed the scientificmethod of Aristotlewhichis,perhaps,excusable,buthehasadoptedtheliterarystyleofAristotlefor which no excuse is possible. There is, also, hardly a single anecdote,hardlyasingleillustration,andthereaderislefttoputtheProfessor’sabstractrules intopractice,withouteither theexamplesor thewarningsofhistory toencourage or to dissuade him in his reckless career. Still, the book can bewarmlyrecommendedtoallwhoproposetosubstitutetheviceofverbosityforthestupidityofsilence.Itfascinatesinspiteofitsformandpleasesinspiteofitspedantry,andisthenearestapproach,thatweknowof,inmodernliteraturetomeetingAristotleatanafternoontea.

As regards physical conditions, the only one that is considered by Mr.Mahaffy as being absolutely essential to a good conversationalist, is thepossessionofamusicalvoice.Somelearnedwritershavebeenofopinionthata slight stammer often gives peculiar zest to conversation, butMr.Mahaffyrejects thisviewand isextremelysevereoneveryeccentricity fromanativebrogue to an artificial catchword.With his remarks on the latter point, themeaningless repetition of phrases, we entirely agree. Nothing can be moreirritating than thescientificpersonwho isalwayssaying‘Exactlyso,’or thecommonplacepersonwhoendseverysentencewith‘Don’tyouknow?’orthepseudo-artistic personwhomurmurs ‘Charming, charming,’ on the smallest-provocation. It is, however, with the mental and moral qualifications forconversation that Mr. Mahaffy specially deals. Knowledge he, naturally,regardsasanabsoluteessential, for,ashemost justlyobserves, ‘an ignorantman is seldom agreeable, except as a butt.’ Upon the other hand, strictaccuracyshouldbeavoided.‘Evenaconsummateliar,’saysMr.Mahaffy,isabetter ingredient in a company than ‘the scrupulously truthful man, whoweighseverystatement,questionseveryfact,andcorrectseveryinaccuracy.’The liar at any rate recognizes that recreation, not instruction, is the aimofconversation,andisafarmorecivilizedbeingthantheblockheadwholoudlyexpresseshisdisbeliefinastorywhichistoldsimplyfortheamusementofthecompany.Mr.Mahaffy,however,makesanexceptioninfavouroftheeminentspecialistandtellsusthatintelligentquestionsaddressedtoanastronomer,ora pure mathematician, will elicit many curious facts which will pleasantlybeguile the time. Here, in the interest of Society, we feel bound to enter aformalprotest.Nobody,evenintheprovinces,shouldeverbeallowedtoaskan intelligent question about pure mathematics across a dinner-table. Aquestionofthiskindisquiteasbadasinquiringsuddenlyaboutthestateofaman’ssoul,asortofcoupwhich,asMr.Mahaffyremarkselsewhere, ‘manypiouspeoplehaveactuallythoughtadecentintroductiontoaconversation.’

Asforthemoralqualificationsofagoodtalker,Mr.Mahaffy,followingtheexampleofhisgreatmaster,warnsusagainstanydisproportionateexcessofvirtue. Modesty, for instance, may easily become a social vice, and to becontinually apologizing for one’s ignorance or stupidity is a grave injury toconversation, for, ‘what we want to learn from each member is his freeopinion on the subject in hand, not his own estimate of the value of thatopinion.’Simplicity, too, isnotwithout itsdangers.Theenfant terrible,withhisshameless loveof truth, the rawcountry-bredgirlwhoalwayssayswhatshemeans,andtheplain,bluntmanwhomakesapointofspeakinghismindoneverypossibleoccasion,withouteverconsideringwhetherhehasamindatall,arethefatalexamplesofwhatsimplicityleadsto.Shynessmaybeaformofvanity,andreserveadevelopmentofpride,andasforsympathy,whatcanbe more detestable than the man, or woman, who insists on agreeing with

everybody,andsomakes‘adiscussion,whichimpliesdifferencesinopinion,’absolutely impossible? Even the unselfish listener is apt to become a bore.‘These silent people,’ saysMr. Mahaffy, ‘not only take all they can get inSocietyfornothing,but they take itwithout thesmallestgratitude,andhavethe audacity afterwards to censure those who have laboured for theiramusement.’Tact,which isanexquisitesenseof thesymmetryof things, is,accordingtoMr.Mahaffy,thehighestandbestofallthemoralconditionsforconversation. The man of tact, he most wisely remarks, ‘will instinctivelyavoid jokes aboutBlueBeard’ in the company of awomanwho is aman’sthirdwife;hewillneverbeguiltyoftalkinglikeabook,butwillratheravoidtoo careful an attention to grammar and the rounding of periods; he willcultivatetheartofgracefulinterruption,soastopreventasubjectbeingwornthreadbare by the aged or the inexperienced; and should he be desirous oftellingastory,hewilllookroundandconsidereachmemberoftheparty,andif there be a single stranger present will forgo the pleasure of anecdotageratherthanmakethesocialmistakeofhurtingevenoneoftheguests.Asforpreparedorpremeditatedart,Mr.Mahaffyhasagreatcontemptforitandtellsus of a certain college don (let us hope not at Oxford or Cambridge) whoalwayscarriedajest-bookinhispocketandhadtorefertoitwhenhewishedtomakearepartee.Greatwits, too,areoftenverycruel,andgreathumoristsoften very vulgar, so it will be better to try and ‘make good conversationwithoutanylargehelpfromthesebrilliantbutdangerousgifts.’

Inatête-à-têteoneshouldtalkaboutpersons,andingeneralSocietyaboutthings. The state of the weather is always an excusable exordium, but it isconvenient tohaveaparadoxorheresyon thesubjectalwaysreadysoas todirecttheconversationintootherchannels.Reallydomesticpeoplearealmostinvariably bad talkers as their very virtues in home life have dulled theirinterestinouterthings.Theverybestmotherswillinsistonchatteringoftheirbabiesandprattlingabout infanteducation.Infact,mostwomendonot takesufficientinterestinpolitics,justasmostmenaredeficientingeneralreading.Still, anybody can be made to talk, except the very obstinate, and even acommercial travellermaybedrawnoutandbecomequite interesting.AsforSocietysmalltalk,itisimpossible,Mr.Mahaffytellsus,foranysoundtheoryof conversation to depreciate gossip, ‘which is perhaps the main factor inagreeabletalkthroughoutSociety.’Theretailingofsmallpersonalpointsaboutgreatpeoplealwaysgivespleasure,andifoneisnotfortunateenoughtobeanArctic traveller or an escapedNihilist, thebest thingone cando is to relatesome anecdote of ‘Prince Bismarck, or King Victor Emmanuel, or Mr.Gladstone.’ In the case ofmeeting a genius and aDuke at dinner, the goodtalkerwilltrytoraisehimselftotheleveloftheformerandtobringthelatterdown to his own level. To succeed among one’s social superiors one musthave no hesitation in contradicting them. Indeed, one should make bold

criticismsandintroduceabrightandfreetoneintoaSocietywhosegrandeurand extreme respectabilitymake it,Mr.Mahaffy remarks, as pathetically asinaccurately, ‘perhaps somewhat dull.’ The best conversationalists are thosewhoseancestorshavebeenbilingual,liketheFrenchandIrish,buttheartofconversationisreallywithinthereachofalmosteveryone,exceptthosewhoaremorbidlytruthful,orwhosehighmoralworthrequirestobesustainedbyapermanentgravityofdemeanourandageneraldullnessofmind.

These are the broad principles contained in Mr. Mahaffy’s clever littlebook,andmanyofthemwill,nodoubt,commendthemselvestoourreaders.The maxim, ‘If you find the company dull, blame yourself,’ seems to ussomewhat optimistic, andwe have no sympathy at allwith the professionalstorytellerwhoisreallyagreatboreatadinner-table;butMr.Mahaffyisquiterightininsistingthatnobrightsocialintercourseispossiblewithoutequality,anditisnoobjectiontohisbooktosaythatitwillnotteachpeoplehowtotalkcleverly. It isnot logic thatmakesmen reasonable,nor thescienceofethicsthatmakesmengood,butitisalwaysusefultoanalyse,toformularizeandtoinvestigate.Theonlythingtoberegrettedinthevolumeisthearidandjejunecharacterof thestyle. IfMr.Mahaffywouldonlywriteashe talks,hisbookwouldbemuchpleasanterreading.

EARLYCHRISTIANARTINIRELAND

(PallMallGazette,December17,1887.)

ThewantofagoodseriesofpopularhandbooksonIrisharthaslongbeenfelt, theworks of SirWilliamWilde, Petrie and others being somewhat tooelaborate for the ordinary student; sowe are glad to notice the appearance,under the auspices of the Committee of Council on Education, of MissMargaretStokes’susefullittlevolumeontheearlyChristianartofhercountry.There is, of course, nothing particularly original inMiss Stokes’s book, norcanshebesaidtobeaveryattractiveorpleasingwriter,butitisunfairtolookfororiginalityinprimers,andthecharmoftheillustrationsfullyatonesforthesomewhatheavyandpedanticcharacterofthestyle.

This early Christian art of Ireland is full of interest to the artist, thearchæologistandthehistorian.Initsrudestforms,suchasthelittleironhand-bell, theplainstonechaliceand theroughwoodenstaff, itbringsusback tothe simplicity of the primitive Christian Church, while to the period of itshighestdevelopmentweowethegreatmasterpiecesofCelticmetal-work.Thestonechalice isnowreplacedby thechaliceofsilverandgold; the ironbellhas its jewel-studded shrine, and the rough staff its gorgeous casing; rich

caskets and splendid bindings preserve the holy books of the Saints and,insteadof the rudelycarved symbolof theearlymissionaries,wehave suchbeautifulworksofartastheprocessionalcrossofCongAbbey.Beautifulthiscross certainly is with its delicate intricacy of ornamentation, its grace ofproportionanditsmarvelofmereworkmanship,noristhereanydoubtaboutitshistory.Fromtheinscriptionsonit,whicharecorroboratedbytheannalsofInnisfallenandthebookofClonmacnoise,welearnthatitwasmadeforKingTurlough O’Connor by a native artist under the superintendence of BishopO’Duffy, itsprimaryobjectbeing toenshrineaportionof the truecross thatwas sent to the king in 1123. Brought to Cong some years afterwards,probablyby thearchbishop,whodied there in1150, itwasconcealedat thetimeoftheReformation,butatthebeginningofthepresentcenturywasstillin the possession of the last abbot, and at his death it was purchased byProfessorMacCullaghandpresentedbyhimtothemuseumoftheRoyalIrishAcademy.ThiswonderfulworkisalonewellworthavisittoDublin,butnotless lovely is the chalice of Ardagh, a two-handled silver cup, absolutelyclassicalinitsperfectpurityofform,anddecoratedwithgoldandamberandcrystal and with varieties of cloisonné and champlevé enamel. There is nomentionof thiscup,orof theso-calledTarabrooch, inancient Irishhistory.Allthatweknowofthemisthattheywerefoundaccidentally,theformerbyaboywhowas digging potatoes near the oldRath ofArdagh, the latter by apoor childwho picked it up near the seashore. They both, however, belongprobablytothetenthcentury.

Ofall theseworks,aswellasofthebellshrines,book-covers,sculpturedcrossesandilluminateddesignsinmanuscripts,excellentpicturesaregiveninMissStokes’shandbook.TheextremelyinterestingFiachalPhadrig,orshrineof St. Patrick’s tooth, might have been figured and noted as an interestingexample of the survival of ornament, and one of the old miniatures of thescribe or Evangelist writing would have given an additional interest to thechapteron IrishMSS.On thewhole,however, thebook iswonderfullywellillustrated, and the ordinary art student will be able to get some usefulsuggestionsfromit. Indeed,MissStokes,echoingtheaspirationsofmanyofthe great Irish archæologists, looks forward to the revival of a native Irishschoolinarchitecture,sculpture,metal-workandpainting.Suchanaspirationis, of course, very laudable, but there is always a danger of these revivalsbeingmerely artificial reproductions, and itmay be questionedwhether thepeculiar formsof Irishornamentationcouldbemadeatallexpressiveof themodernspirit.ArecentwriteronhousedecorationhasgravelysuggestedthattheBritishhouseholdershouldtakehismealsinaCelticdining-roomadornedwithadadoofOghaminscriptions,andsuchwickedproposalsmayserveasawarningtoallwhofancythatthereproductionofaformnecessarilyimpliesarevival of the spirit that gave the form life and meaning, and who fail to

recognize the difference between art and anachronisms. Miss Stokes’sproposalforanark-shapedchurchinwhichthemuralpainteristorepeatthearcadesand ‘follow thearchitectural compositionsof thegrandpagesof theEusebiancanonsintheBookofKells,’has,ofcourse,nothinggrotesqueaboutit,but it isnotprobable that theartisticgeniusof theIrishpeoplewill,evenwhen ‘the land has rest,’ find in such interesting imitations its healthiest orbestexpression.Still, therearecertainelementsofbeautyinancientIrishartthat the modern artist would do well to study. The value of the intricateilluminations in the Book of Kells, as far as their adaptability to moderndesignsandmodernmaterialgoes,hasbeenverymuchoverrated,but in theancientIrishtorques,brooches,pins,claspsandthelike,themoderngoldsmithwillfindarichand,comparativelyspeaking,anuntouchedfield;andnowthattheCelticspirithasbecometheleavenofourpolitics,thereisnoreasonwhyitshould not contribute something to our decorative art. This result, however,willnotbeobtainedbyapatrioticmisuseofolddesigns,andeven themostenthusiasticHomeRulermustnotbeallowedtodecoratehisdining-roomwithadadoofOghams.

MADAMERISTORI

(Woman’sWorld,January1888.)

MadameRistori’sEtudesetSouvenirsisoneofthemostdelightfulbookson the stage thathasappeared sinceLadyMartin’scharmingvolumeon theShakespearianheroines.Itisoftensaidthatactorsleavenothingbehindthembut a barrennameand awitheredwreath; that they subsist simplyupon theapplauseofthemoment;thattheyareultimatelydoomedtotheoblivionofoldplay-bills;andthat theirart, inaword,dieswith them,andshares theirownmortality. ‘Chippendale, the cabinet-maker,’ says the clever authorofObiterDicta, ‘is more potent than Garrick the actor. The vivacity of the latter nolonger charms (save in Boswell); the chairs of the former still render restimpossible in a hundred homes.’ This view, however, seems to me to beexaggerated.Itrestsontheassumptionthatactingissimplyamimeticart,andtakesno account of its imaginative and intellectual basis. It is quite true, ofcourse, that the personality of the player passes away, and with it thatpleasure-givingpowerbyvirtueofwhichtheartsexist.Yettheartisticmethodof a great actor survives. It lives on in tradition, and becomes part of thescienceofaschool.Ithasalltheintellectuallifeofaprinciple.InEngland,atthepresentmoment,theinfluenceofGarrickonouractorsisfarstrongerthanthatofReynoldsonourpaintersofportraits,andifweturntoFranceitiseasytodiscernthetraditionofTalma,butwhereisthetraditionofDavid?

MadameRistori’smemoirs, then,havenotmerely thecharm that alwaysattachestotheautobiographyofabrilliantandbeautifulwoman,buthavealsoa definite and distinct artistic value. Her analysis of the character of LadyMacbeth,forinstance,isfullofpsychologicalinterest,andshowsusthatthesubtletiesofShakespeariancriticismarenotnecessarilyconfinedtothosewhohaveviewsonweakendingsandrhymingtags,butmayalsobesuggestedbytheartofactingitself.TheauthorofObiterDictaseekstodenytoactorsallcriticalinsightandallliteraryappreciation.Theactor,hetellsus,isart’sslave,notherchild,andlivesentirelyoutsideliterature,‘withitswordsforeveronhislips,andnoneofitstruthsengravenonhisheart.’Butthisseemstometobeaharshandrecklessgeneralization.Indeed,sofarfromagreeingwithit,Iwouldbeinclinedtosaythatthemereartisticprocessofacting,thetranslationof literature back again into life, and the presentation of thought under theconditionsofaction,isinitselfacriticalmethodofaveryhighorder;nordoIthinkthatastudyofthecareersofourgreatEnglishactorswillreallysustainthechargeofwantofliteraryappreciation.Itmaybetruethatactorspasstooquicklyawayfromtheform,inordertogetatthefeelingthatgivestheformbeautyandcolour,andthat,wheretheliterarycriticstudiesthelanguage,theactor looks simply for the life; and yet, how well the great actors haveappreciatedthatmarvellousmusicofwords,whichinShakespeare,atanyrate,is sovitalanelementofpoeticpower, if, indeed, itbenotequally so in thecaseofallwhohaveanyclaimtoberegardedastruepoets.‘Thesensuallifeof verse,’ says Keats, in a dramatic criticism published in the Champion,‘springs warm from the lips of Kean, and to one learned in Shakespearianhieroglyphics, learned in the spiritual portion of those lines to which Keanaddsasensualgrandeur,histonguemustseemtohaverobbedtheHyblabeesand left them honeyless.’ This particular feeling, of which Keats speaks, isfamiliartoallwhohaveheardSalvini,SarahBernhardt,Ristori,oranyofthegreatartistsofourday,anditisafeelingthatonecannot,Ithink,gainmerelybyreadingthepassagetooneself.Formyownpart,Imustconfessthatitwasnot until I heard Sarah Bernhardt in Phèdre that I absolutely realized thesweetness of themusic ofRacine.As forMr.Birrell’s statement that actorshave the words of literature for ever on their lips, but none of its truthsengravedontheirhearts,allthatonecansayisthat,ifitbetrue,itisadefectwhichactorssharewiththemajorityofliterarycritics.

The account Madame Ristori gives of her own struggles, voyages andadventures,isverypleasantreadingindeed.Thechildofpooractors,shemadeher first appearancewhen shewas threemonths old, being brought on in ahamperasaNewYear’sgifttoaselfisholdgentlemanwhowouldnotforgivehisdaughterforhavingmarriedforlove.As,however,shebegantocrylongbefore thehamperwasopened, the comedybecamea farce, to the immenseamusementofthepublic.Shenextappearedinamediævalmelodrama,being

thenthreeyearsofage,andwassoterrifiedatthemachinationsofthevillainthat she ran away at the most critical moment. However, her stage-frightseemstohavedisappeared,andwefindherplayingSilvioPellico’sFrancescadaRiminiatfifteen,andateighteenmakingherdébutasMarieStuart.Atthistime the naturalism of the French method was gradually displacing theartificialelocutionandacademicposesoftheItalianschoolofacting.MadameRistoriseemstohavetriedtocombinesimplicitywithstyle,andthepassionofnature with the self-restraint of the artist. ‘J’ai voulu fondre les deuxmanières,’shetellsus,‘car jesentaisquetouteschosesétantsusceptiblesdeprogrès, l’art dramatique aussi était appelé à subir des transformations.’Thenaturaldevelopment,however,oftheItaliandramawasalmostarrestedbytheridiculous censorship of plays then existing in each town underAustrian orPapalrule.Theslightestallusiontothesentimentofnationalityorthespiritoffreedomwas prohibited. Even theword patriawas regarded as treasonable,andMadameRistori tellsusanamusingstoryof the indignationofacensorwhowasaskedtolicenseaplay,inwhichadumbmanreturnshomeafteranabsence ofmany years, and on his entrance upon the stagemakes gesturesexpressive of his joy in seeing his native land oncemore. ‘Gestures of thiskind,’ said the censor, ‘are obviously of a very revolutionary tendency, andcannotpossiblybeallowed.TheonlygesturesthatIcouldthinkofpermittingwouldbegesturesexpressiveofadumbman’sdelight inscenerygenerally.’The stage directions were accordingly altered, and the word ‘landscape’substituted for ‘native land’! Another censor was extremely severe on anunfortunatepoetwhohadused theexpression‘thebeautiful Italiansky,’andexplained to him that ‘thebeautifulLombardo-Venetian sky’was theproperofficial expression to use. Poor Gregory in Romeo and Juliet had to berechristened,becauseGregoryisanamedeartothePopes;andthe

HereIhaveapilot’sthumb,

Wreckedashomewardhedidcome,

of the first witch inMacbethwas ruthlessly struck out as containing anobvious allusion to the steersman of St. Peter’s bark. Finally, bored andbotheredbythepoliticalandtheologicalDogberrysoftheday,withtheirinaneprejudices,theirsolemnstupidity,andtheirentireignoranceoftheconditionsnecessaryforthegrowthofsaneandhealthyart,MadameRistorimadeuphermindtoleavethestage.She,however,wasextremelyanxioustoappearoncebefore a Parisian audience, Paris being at that time the centre of dramaticactivity, and after some consideration left Italy for France in the year 1855.There she seems to have been a great success, particularly in the part ofMyrrha; classical without being cold, artistic without being academic, shebrought to the interpretation of the character of Alfieri’s great heroine thecolour-elementofpassion,theform-elementofstyle.JulesJaninwasloudin

his praises, the Emperor begged Ristori to join the troupe of the ComédieFrançaise, and Rachel, with the strange narrow jealousy of her nature,trembled for her laurels. Myrrha was followed byMarie Stuart, andMarieStuart by Medea. In the latter part Madame Ristori excited the greatestenthusiasm.ArySchefferdesignedher costumes forher; and theNiobe thatstands in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, suggested to Madame Ristori herfamousposeinthescenewiththechildren.Shewouldnotconsent,however,to remain in France, andwe find her subsequently playing in almost everycountryintheworldfromEgypttoMexico,fromDenmarktoHonolulu.Herrepresentations of classical plays seem to have been always immenselyadmired. When she played at Athens, the King offered to arrange for aperformance in thebeautifulold theatreofDionysos, andduringher tour inPortugal she produced Medea before the University of Coimbra. Herdescriptionofthelatterengagementisextremelyinteresting.OnherarrivalattheUniversity,shewasreceivedbytheentirebodyoftheundergraduates,whostillwearacostumealmostmediævalincharacter.Someofthemcameonthestage in the course of the play as the handmaidens of Creusa, hiding theirblackbeardsbeneathheavyveils,andassoonastheyhadfinishedtheirpartsthey took their places gravely among the audience, to Madame Ristori’shorror,stillintheirGreekdress,butwiththeirveilsthrownbackandsmokinglongcigars. ‘Cen’estpas lapremière fois,’ shesays, ‘que j’aidûempêcher,paruneffortdevolonté,latragédiedeseterminerenfarce.’Veryinteresting,also,isheraccountoftheproductionofMontanelli’sCamma,andshetellsanamusingstoryofthearrestoftheauthorbytheFrenchpoliceonthechargeofmurder, in consequence of a telegram she sent to him in which the words‘body of the victim’ occurred. Indeed, the whole book is full of cleverlywrittenstories,andadmirablecriticismsondramaticart. Ihavequoted fromthe French version, which happens to be the one that lies before me, butwhether in French or Italian the book is one of the most fascinatingautobiographies that has appeared for some time, even in an age like ourswhen literary egotism has been brought to such an exquisite pitch ofperfection.

ENGLISHPOETESSES

(Queen,December8,1888.)

England has given to the world one great poetess, Elizabeth BarrettBrowning.By her sideMr. Swinburnewould placeMissChristinaRossetti,whoseNewYearhymnhedescribesassomuchthenoblestofsacredpoemsinourlanguage,thatthereisnonewhichcomesnearitenoughtostandsecond.

‘Itisahymn,’hetellsus,‘touchedaswiththefire,andbathedasinthelightof sunbeams, tuned as to chords and cadencesof refluent sea-musicbeyondreach of harp and organ, large echoes of the serene and sonorous tides ofheaven.’MuchasIadmireMissRossetti’swork,hersubtlechoiceofwords,herrichimagery,herartisticnaïveté,whereincuriousnotesofstrangenessandsimplicity are fantastically blended together, I cannot but think that Mr.Swinburne has, with noble and natural loyalty, placed her on too lofty apedestal.Tome,sheissimplyaverydelightfulartistinpoetry.Thisisindeedsomethingsorarethatwhenwemeetitwecannotfailtoloveit,butitisnoteverything.Beyonditandaboveitarehigherandmoresunlitheightsofsong,alargervision,andanamplerair,amusicatoncemorepassionateandmoreprofound,acreativeenergythatisbornofthespirit,awingedrapturethatisbornofthesoul,aforceandfervourofmereutterancethathasallthewonderoftheprophet,andnotalittleoftheconsecrationofthepriest.

Mrs. Browning is unapproachable by anywomanwho has ever touchedlyre or blown through reed since the days of the greatÆolian poetess. ButSappho,whototheantiqueworldwasapillarofflame,istousbutapillarofshadow. Of her poems, burnt with other most precious work by ByzantineEmperorandbyRomanPope,onlyafewfragmentsremain.Possiblytheyliemouldering in the scented darkness of an Egyptian tomb, clasped in thewitheredhandofsomelong-deadlover.SomeGreekmonkatAthosmayevennowbeporingoveranancientmanuscript,whosecrabbedcharactersconceallyric or ode by herwhom theGreeks spoke of as ‘the Poetess’ just as theytermedHomer‘thePoet,’whowastothemthetenthMuse,thefloweroftheGraces, the child of Erôs, and the pride ofHellas—Sappho,with the sweetvoice, the bright, beautiful eyes, the dark hyacinth coloured hair. But,practically,theworkofthemarvelloussingerofLesbosisentirelylosttous.

We have a few rose-leaves out of her garden, that is all. Literaturenowadays survives marble and bronze, but in the old days, in spite of theRomanpoet’snobleboast,itwasnotso.ThefragileclayvasesoftheGreeksstill keep for us pictures of Sappho, delicately painted in black and red andwhite;butofhersongwehaveonlytheechoofanecho.

Ofallthewomenofhistory,Mrs.BrowningistheonlyonethatwecouldnameinanypossibleorremoteconjunctionwithSappho.

Sapphowasundoubtedlyafarmoreflawlessandperfectartist.Shestirredthewhole antiqueworldmore thanMrs. Browning ever stirred ourmodernage.NeverhadLovesuchasinger.Eveninthefewlinesthatremaintousthepassionseemstoscorchandburn.But,asunjustTime,whohascrownedherwith the barren laurels of fame, has twined with them the dull poppies ofoblivion, letus turn from themerememoryofapoetess toonewhose songstillremainstousasanimperishableglorytoourliterature;toherwhoheard

the cry of the children from dark mine and crowded factory, and madeEngland weep over its little ones; who, in the feigned sonnets from thePortuguese,sangofthespiritualmysteryofLove,andoftheintellectualgiftsthat Love brings to the soul; who had faith in all that is worthy, andenthusiasm for all that is great, and pity for all that suffers; whowrote theVisionofPoetsandCasaGuidiWindowsandAuroraLeigh.

Asone,towhomIowemyloveofpoetrynolessthanmyloveofcountry,saidofher:

Stillonourears

Theclear‘Excelsior’fromawoman’slip

RingsoutacrosstheApennines,although

Thewoman’sbrowliespaleandcoldindeath

WithallthemightymarbledeadinFlorence.

Forwhilegreatsongscanstirtheheartsofmen,

Spreadingtheirfullvibrationsthroughtheworld

Inever-wideningcirclestilltheyreach

TheThroneofGod,andsongbecomesaprayer,

Andprayerbringsdowntheliberatingstrength

Thatkindlesnationstoheroicdeeds,

Shelives—thegreat-souledpoetesswhosaw

FromCasaGuidiwindowsFreedomdawn

OnItaly,andgavethegloryback

InsunrisehymnstoallHumanity!

Shelivesindeed,andnotaloneintheheartofShakespeare’sEngland,butin theheartofDante’sItalyalso.ToGreekliteraturesheowedherscholarlyculture, butmodern Italy created her human passion for Liberty.When shecrossed the Alps she became filled with a new ardour, and from that fine,eloquentmouth,thatwecanstillseeinherportraits,brokeforthsuchanobleandmajesticoutburstoflyricalsongashadnotbeenheardfromwoman’slipsfor more than two thousand years. It is pleasant to think that an EnglishpoetesswastoacertainextentarealfactorinbringingaboutthatunityofItalythatwasDante’sdream,andifFlorencedrovehergreatsingerintoexile,sheat leastwelcomedwithin herwalls the later singer thatEnglandhad sent toher.

IfonewereaskedthechiefqualitiesofMrs.Browning’swork,onewouldsay,asMr.SwinburnesaidofByron’s,itssincerityanditsstrength.Faultsit,ofcourse,possesses.‘Shewouldrhymemoontotable,’usedtobesaidofherin jest; and certainly no more monstrous rhymes are to be found in allliteraturethansomeofthosewecomeacrossinMrs.Browning’spoems.Butherruggednesswasnever theresultofcarelessness. Itwasdeliberate,asherletterstoMr.Horneshowveryclearly.Sherefusedtosandpaperhermuse.Shedislikedfacilesmoothnessandartificialpolish.Inherveryrejectionofartshewasanartist.She intendedtoproduceacertaineffectbycertainmeans,andshe succeeded; and her indifference to complete assonance in rhyme oftengivesasplendidrichnesstoherverse,andbringsintoitapleasurableelementofsurprise.

InphilosophyshewasaPlatonist,inpoliticsanOpportunist.Sheattachedherselftonoparticularparty.Shelovedthepeoplewhentheywereking-like,and kings when they showed themselves to be men. Of the real value andmotiveofpoetryshehadamostexaltedidea.‘Poetry,’shesays,intheprefaceofoneofhervolumes,‘hasbeenasseriousathingtomeaslifeitself;andlifehasbeenaveryseriousthing.Therehasbeennoplayingatskittlesformeineither.Inevermistookpleasureforthefinalcauseofpoetry,norleisureforthehourofthepoet.Ihavedonemyworksofar,notasmerehandandheadworkapartfromthepersonalbeing,butasthecompletestexpressionofthatbeingtowhichIcouldattain.’

It certainly is her completest expression, and through it she realizes herfullestperfection.‘Thepoet,’shesayselsewhere,‘isatoncericherandpoorerthanheused tobe;hewearsbetterbroadcloth,butspeaksnomoreoracles.’Thesewordsgiveusthekeynotetoherviewofthepoet’smission.HewastoutterDivineoracles,tobeatonceinspiredprophetandholypriest;andassuchwe may, I think, without exaggeration, conceive her. She was a Sibyldelivering amessage to theworld, sometimes through stammering lips, andonce at leastwithblinded eyes, yet alwayswith the true fire and fervourofloftyandunshakenfaith,alwayswith thegreatrapturesofaspiritualnature,thehighardoursofanimpassionedsoul.Aswereadherbestpoemswefeelthat,thoughApollo’sshrinebeemptyandthebronzetripodoverthrown,andthevaleofDelphidesolate,stillthePythiaisnotdead.Inourownageshehassung forus, and this landgavehernewbirth. Indeed,Mrs.Browning is thewisestoftheSibyls,wisereventhanthatmightyfigurewhomMichaelAngelohaspaintedontheroofoftheSistineChapelatRome,poringoverthescrollofmystery,andtryingtodecipherthesecretsofFate;forsherealizedthat,whileknowledgeispower,sufferingispartofknowledge.

Toher influence,almostasmuchas to thehighereducationofwomen, Iwould be inclined to attribute the really remarkable awakening ofwoman’s

song that characterizes the latterhalfofourcentury inEngland.Nocountryhaseverhadsomanypoetessesatonce.Indeed,whenoneremembersthattheGreekshadonlyninemuses,oneissometimesapttofancythatwehavetoomany.Andyettheworkdonebywomeninthesphereofpoetryisreallyofaveryhigh standardof excellence. InEnglandwehavealwaysbeenprone tounderrate the value of tradition in literature. In our eagerness to find a newvoiceandafreshmodeofmusic,wehaveforgottenhowbeautifulEchomaybe.We look first for individualityandpersonality,and theseare, indeed, thechief characteristics of themasterpieces of our literature, either in prose orverse; but deliberate culture and a study of the bestmodels, if united to anartistic temperament and a nature susceptible of exquisite impressions,mayproducemuch that is admirable,much that isworthy of praise. Itwould bequite impossible to give a complete catalogue of all the women who sinceMrs. Browning’s day have tried lute and lyre.Mrs. Pfeiffer,Mrs.HamiltonKing, Mrs. Augusta Webster, Graham Tomson, Miss Mary Robinson, JeanIngelow,MissMayKendall,MissNesbit,MissMayProbyn,Mrs.Craik,Mrs.Meynell, Miss Chapman, and many others have done really good work inpoetry,eitherinthegraveDorianmodeofthoughtfulandintellectualverse,orinthelightandgracefulformsofoldFrenchsong,orintheromanticmannerof antiqueballad, or in that ‘moment’smonument,’ asRossetti called it, theintenseandconcentratedsonnet.Occasionallyoneistemptedtowishthatthequick, artistic faculty that women undoubtedly possess developed itselfsomewhatmoreinproseandsomewhatlessinverse.Poetryisforourhighestmoods,whenwewishtobewiththegods,andinourpoetrynothingbuttheverybest should satisfyus;butprose is forourdailybread, and the lackofgoodproseisoneofthechiefblotsonourculture.Frenchprose,eveninthehands of themost ordinarywriters, is always readable, butEnglish prose isdetestable.We have a few, a very few,masters, such as they are.We haveCarlyle,who shouldnotbe imitated; andMr.Pater,who, through the subtleperfectionofhisform,isinimitableabsolutely;andMr.Froude,whoisuseful;andMatthewArnold, who is amodel; andMr. GeorgeMeredith, who is awarning;andMr.Lang,whoisthedivineamateur;andMr.Stevenson,whoisthehumaneartist;andMr.Ruskin,whoserhythmandcolourandfinerhetoricandmarvellousmusicofwordsareentirelyunattainable.Butthegeneralprosethatonereadsinmagazinesandinnewspapersisterriblydullandcumbrous,heavyinmovementanduncouthorexaggeratedinexpression.Possiblysomedayourwomenofletterswillapplythemselvesmoredefinitelytoprose.

Their light touch, and exquisite ear, and delicate sense of balance andproportionwouldbeofnosmallservicetous.Icanfancywomenbringinganewmannerintoourliterature.

However, we have to deal here with women as poetesses, and it isinteresting to note that, though Mrs. Browning’s influence undoubtedly

contributedverylargelytothedevelopmentof thisnewsong-movement, ifImaysotermit,stillthereseemstohavebeenneveratimeduringthelastthreehundredyearswhen thewomenof thiskingdomdidnotcultivate, ifnot theart,atleastthehabit,ofwritingpoetry.

WhothefirstEnglishpoetesswasIcannotsay.IbelieveitwastheAbbessJulianaBerners,who lived in the fifteenthcentury;but Ihavenodoubt thatMr.Freemanwouldbeableatamoment’snoticetoproducesomewonderfulSaxonorNormanpoetess,whoseworkscannotbereadwithoutaglossary,andevenwithitsaidarecompletelyunintelligible.Formyownpart,IamcontentwiththeAbbessJuliana,whowroteenthusiasticallyabouthawking;andafterherIwouldmentionAnneAskew,whoinprisonandontheeveofherfierymartyrdom wrote a ballad that has, at any rate, a pathetic and historicalinterest.QueenElizabeth’s‘mostsweetandsententiousditty’onMaryStuartis highly praised by Puttenham, a contemporary critic, as an example of‘Exargasia, or the Gorgeous in Literature,’ which somehow seems a verysuitableepithet forsuchagreatQueen’spoems.The termsheapplies to theunfortunateQueenofScots,‘thedaughterofdebate,’has,ofcourse,longsincepassed into literature. TheCountess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney’s sister,wasmuchadmiredasapoetessinherday.

In 1613 the ‘learned, virtuous, and truly noble ladie,’ Elizabeth Carew,publishedaTragedieofMarian, theFaireQueeneofJewry,anda fewyearslater the ‘noble ladie Diana Primrose’ wrote A Chain of Pearl, which is apanegyriconthe‘peerlessgraces’ofGloriana.MaryMorpeth,thefriendandadmirer of Drummond of Hawthornden; Lady Mary Wroth, to whom BenJonson dedicated The Alchemist; and the Princess Elizabeth, the sister ofCharlesI.,shouldalsobementioned.

After theRestorationwomenapplied themselveswith stillgreaterardourto the study of literature and the practice of poetry. Margaret, Duchess ofNewcastle,wasatruewomanofletters,andsomeofherversesareextremelypretty and graceful. Mrs. Aphra Behn was the first Englishwoman whoadoptedliteratureasaregularprofession.Mrs.KatharinePhilips,accordingtoMr. Gosse, invented sentimentality. As she was praised by Dryden, andmournedbyCowley,letushopeshemaybeforgiven.KeatscameacrossherpoemsatOxfordwhenhewaswritingEndymion,andfoundinoneofthem‘amost delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind’; but I fear nobody reads theMatchlessOrindanow.OfLadyWinchelsea’sNocturnalReverieWordsworthsaidthat,withtheexceptionofPope’sWindsorForest,itwastheonlypoemofthe period intervening between Paradise Lost and Thomson’s Seasons thatcontained a single new image of external nature.LadyRachelRussell,whomaybesaidtohaveinauguratedtheletter-writingliteratureofEngland;ElizaHaywood,whoisimmortalizedbythebadnessofherwork,andhasanichein

TheDunciad;andtheMarchionessofWharton,whosepoemsWallersaidheadmired, are very remarkable types, the finest of thembeing, of course, thefirstnamed,whowasawomanofheroicmouldandofamostnobledignityofnature.

Indeed, though the English poetesses up to the time of Mrs. Browningcannot be said to have produced any work of absolute genius, they arecertainlyinterestingfigures,fascinatingsubjectsforstudy.AmongstthemwefindLadyMaryWortleyMontague,whohadallthecapriceofCleopatra,andwhose letters are delightful reading;Mrs.Centlivre,whowrote onebrilliantcomedy;LadyAnneBarnard,whoseAuldRobinGraywasdescribedbySirWalter Scott as ‘worth all the dialogues Corydon and Phillis have togetherspoken from the days of Theocritus downwards,’ and is certainly a verybeautiful and touching poem; Esther Vanhomrigh and Hester Johnson, theVanessaandtheStellaofDeanSwift’slife;Mrs.Thrale,thefriendofthegreatlexicographer; theworthyMrs. Barbauld; the excellentMissHannahMore;the industrious Joanna Baillie; the admirableMrs. Chapone, whose Ode toSolitudealwaysfillsmewiththewildestpassionforsociety,andwhowillatleast be remembered as the patroness of the establishment at which BeckySharp was educated; Miss Anna Seward, who was called ‘The Swan ofLichfield’;poorL.E.L.whomDisraelidescribedinoneofhiscleverletterstohis sister as ‘the personification ofBrompton—pink satin dress,white satinshoes, redcheeks,snubnose,andherhairà laSappho’;Mrs.Ratcliffe,whointroducedtheromanticnovel,andhasconsequentlymuchtoanswerfor;thebeautifulDuchessofDevonshire, ofwhomGibbon said that shewas ‘madeforsomethingbetterthanaDuchess’;thetwowonderfulsisters,LadyDufferinand Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Tighe, whose Psyche Keats read with pleasure;Constantia Grierson, amarvellous blue-stocking in her time;Mrs. Hemans;pretty, charming ‘Perdita,’who flirted alternatelywithpoetry and thePrinceRegent,playeddivinelyintheWinter’sTale,wasbrutallyattackedbyGifford,andhasleftusapatheticlittlepoemonaSnowdrop;andEmilyBrontë,whosepoems are instinctwith tragic power, and seemoften on the verge of beinggreat.

Oldfashionsinliteraturearenotsopleasantasoldfashionsindress.IlikethecostumeoftheageofpowderbetterthanthepoetryoftheageofPope.Butifoneadoptsthehistoricalstandpoint—andthisis,indeed,theonlystandpointfromwhichwecaneverformafairestimateofworkthatisnotabsolutelyofthe highest order—we cannot fail to see thatmanyof theEnglish poetesseswhoprecededMrs.Browningwerewomenofnoordinary talent,and that ifthe majority of them looked upon poetry simply as a department of belleslettres,soinmostcasesdidtheircontemporaries.SinceMrs.Browning’sdayourwoodshavebecomefullofsingingbirds,andifIventuretoaskthemtoapplythemselvesmoretoproseandlesstosong,it isnotthatI likepoetical

prose,butthatIlovetheproseofpoets.

VENUSORVICTORY

(PallMallGazette,February24,1888.)

There are certain problems in archæology that seem to possess a realromantic interest, and foremost among these is thequestionof the so-calledVenus ofMelos.Who is she, this marble mutilated goddess whomGautierloved,towhomHeinebenthisknee?Whatsculptorwroughther,andforwhatshrine? Whose hands walled her up in that rude niche where the Melianpeasantfoundher?Whatsymbolofherdivinitydidshecarry?Wasitappleofgold or shield of bronze?Where is her city andwhatwas her name amonggodsandmen?ThelastwriteronthisfascinatingsubjectisMr.Stillman,whoinamostinterestingbookrecentlypublishedinAmerica,claimsthattheworkof art in question is no sea-born and foam-born Aphrodite, but the veryVictoryWithoutWingsthatoncestoodinthelittlechapeloutsidethegatesoftheAcropolisatAthens.Solongagoas1826,thatistosaysixyearsafterthediscovery of the statue, the Venus hypothesis was violently attacked byMillingen,andfromthattimetothisthebattleofthearchæologistshasneverceased.Mr.Stillman,whofights,ofcourse,underMillingen’sbanner,pointsout that the statue is not of the Venus type at all, being far too heroic incharactertocorrespondtotheGreekconceptionofAphroditeatanyperiodoftheirartisticdevelopment,butthatitagreesdistinctlywithcertainwell-knownstatuesofVictory,suchasthecelebrated‘VictoryofBrescia.’Thelatterisinbronze, is later,andhas thewings,but the type isunmistakable,and thoughnot a reproduction it is certainly a recollection of the Melian statue. Therepresentation ofVictory on the coin ofAgathocles is also obviously of theMelian type, and in themuseumofNaples isa terra-cottaVictory inalmostthe identical action and drapery. As for Dumont d’Urville’s statement that,whenthestatuewasdiscovered,onehandheldanappleandtheotherafoldofthedrapery, the latter isobviouslyamistake,and thewholeevidenceon thesubject is so contradictory that no reliance can be placed on the statementmade by the French Consul and the French naval officers, none of whomseemstohavetakenthetroubletoascertainwhetherthearmandhandnowintheLouvrewerereallyfoundinthesamenicheasthestatueatall.Atanyrate,thesefragmentsseemtobeofextremely inferiorworkmanship,and theyaresoimperfect that theyarequiteworthlessasdataformeasureoropinion.Sofar, Mr. Stillman is on old ground. His real artistic discovery is this. Inworking about the Acropolis of Athens, some years ago, he photographedamongothersculpturesthemutilatedVictoriesintheTempleofNikèApteros,

the ‘Wingless Victory,’ the little Ionic temple in which stood that statue ofVictoryofwhichitwassaidthat‘theAtheniansmadeherwithoutwingsthatshe might never leave Athens.’ Looking over the photographs afterwards,whentheimpressionofthecomparativelydiminutivesizehadpassed,hewasstruck with the close resemblance of the type to that of theMelian statue.Now, this resemblance issostriking that itcannotbequestionedbyanyonewho has an eye for form. There are the same large heroic proportions, thesameamplenessofphysicaldevelopment,andthesametreatmentofdrapery,andthereisalsothatperfectspiritualkinshipwhich,toanytrueantiquarian,isoneofthemostvaluablemodesofevidence.Nowitisgenerallyadmittedonboth sides that theMelian statue isprobablyAttic in itsorigin, andbelongscertainlytotheperiodbetweenPhidiasandPraxiteles,thatistosay,totheageof Scopas, if it be not actually the work of Scopas himself; and as it is toScopas that these bas-reliefs have been always attributed, the similarity ofstylecan,onMr.Stillman’shypothesis,beeasilyaccountedfor.

AsregardstheappearanceofthestatueinMelos,Mr.StillmanpointsoutthatMelosbelonged toAthens as late as shehadanyGreekallegiance, andthat it is probable that the statue was sent there for concealment on theoccasionofsomesiegeorinvasion.Whenthistookplace,Mr.Stillmandoesnotpretendtodecidewithanydegreeofcertainty,butitisevidentthatitmusthave been subsequent to the establishment of the Roman hegemony, as thebrickwork of the niche in which the statue was found is clearly Roman incharacter, and before the time of Pausanias and Pliny, as neither of theseantiquaries mentions the statue. Accepting, then, the statue as that of theVictoryWithoutWings,Mr.StillmanagreeswithMillingeninsupposingthatinherlefthandsheheldabronzeshield,thelowerrimofwhichrestedontheleftkneewheresomemarksofthekindareeasilyrecognizable,whilewithherright hand she traced, or had just finished tracing, the names of the greatheroesofAthens.Valentin’sobjection,thatifthisweresotheleftthighwouldinclineoutwards soas to secureabalance,Mr.Stillmanmeetspartlyby theanalogyoftheVictoryofBresciaandpartlybytheevidenceofNatureherself;forhehashadamodelphotographed in the samepositionas the statueandholding a shield in themanner he proposes in his restoration. The result isprecisely the contrary to that which Valentin assumes. Of course, Mr.Stillman’ssolutionofthewholemattermustnotberegardedasanabsolutelyscientificdemonstration. It is simplyan induction inwhichakindofartisticinstinct, not communicable or equally valuable to all people, has had thegreatestpart,but to thismodeof interpretationarchæologistsasaclasshavebeenfartooindifferent;anditiscertainthatinthepresentcaseithasgivenusatheorywhichismostfruitfulandsuggestive.

The little templeofNikèApteroshashad,asMr.Stillman remindsus,adestinyuniqueofitskind.LiketheParthenon,itwasstandinglittlemorethan

twohundredyearsago,butduringtheTurkishoccupationitwasrazed,anditsstonesallbuiltintothegreatbastionwhichcoveredthefrontoftheAcropolisand blocked up the staircase to the Propylæa. It was dug out and restored,nearlyeverystoneinitsplace,bytwoGermanarchitectsduringthereignofOtho,anditstandsagainjustasPausaniasdescribeditonthespotwhereoldÆgeus watched for the return of Theseus from Crete. In the distance areSalamisandÆgina,andbeyondthepurplehillsliesMarathon.IftheMelianstatuebeindeedtheVictoryWithoutWings,shehadnounworthyshrine.

There are some other interesting essays in Mr. Stillman’s book on thewonderful topographical knowledgeof Ithaca displayed in theOdyssey, anddiscussionsofthiskindarealwaysinterestingaslongasthereisnoattempttorepresentHomer as the ordinary literaryman; but the article on theMelianstatueisbyfarthemostimportantandthemostdelightful.Somepeoplewill,nodoubt, regret thepossibilityof thedisappearanceof theoldname,andasVenusnotasVictorywillstillworshipthestatelygoddess,butthereareotherswhowillbegladtoseeinhertheimageandidealofthatspiritualenthusiasmtowhichAthensowedherliberty,andbywhichalonecanlibertybewon.

M.CAROONGEORGESAND

(PallMallGazette,April14,1888.)

Thebiographyofaverygreatmanfromthepenofaveryladylikewriter—thisisthebestdescriptionwecangiveofM.Caro’sLifeofGeorgeSand.ThelateProfessoroftheSorbonnecouldchattercharminglyaboutculture,andhadall the fascinating insincerity of an accomplished phrase-maker; being anextremely superior person he had a great contempt for Democracy and itsdoings, but hewas always popular with theDuchesses of the Faubourg, astherewasnothinginhistoryorinliteraturethathecouldnotexplainawayfortheir edification; having never done anything remarkable he was naturallyelected a member of the Academy, and he always remained loyal to thetraditionsofthatthoroughlyrespectableandthoroughlypretentiousinstitution.Infact,hewasjustthesortofmanwhoshouldneverhaveattemptedtowriteaLife of George Sand or to interpret George Sand’s genius. He was toofemininetoappreciatethegrandeurofthatlargewomanlynature,toomuchofadilettantetorealizethemasculineforceofthatstrongandardentmind.Henever gets at the secret of George Sand, and never brings us near to herwonderfulpersonality.He looksonher simplyasa littérateur,asawriterofpretty stories of country life and of charming, if somewhat exaggerated,romances.ButGeorgeSandwasmuchmore than this.Beautifulasare such

booksasConsueloandMauprat,FrançoisleChampiandLaMareauDiable,yet in none of them is she adequately expressed, by none of them is sheadequately revealed.AsMr.MatthewArnold said,manyyears ago, ‘WedonotknowGeorgeSandunlesswefeelthespiritwhichgoesthroughherworkas a whole.’With this spirit, however,M. Caro has no sympathy.MadameSand’sdoctrinesareantediluvian,hetellsus,herphilosophyisquitedeadandherideasofsocialregenerationareUtopian,incoherentandabsurd.ThebestthingforustodoistoforgetthesesillydreamsandtoreadTeverinoandLeSecrétaire Intime. PoorM.Caro!This spirit,which he treatswith such airyflippancy,istheveryleavenofmodernlife.Itisremouldingtheworldforusandfashioningourageanew.Ifitisantediluvian,itissobecausethedelugeisyettocome;ifitisUtopian,thenUtopiamustbeaddedtoourgeographies.Towhat curious straits M. Caro is driven by his violent prejudices may beestimatedbythefactthathetriestoclassGeorgeSand’snovelswiththeoldChansons de geste, the stories of adventure characteristic of primitiveliteratures;whereasinusingfictionasavehicleofthought,andromanceasameans of influencing the social ideals of her age,George Sandwasmerelycarrying out the traditions of Voltaire and Rousseau, of Diderot and ofChateaubriand.Thenovel,saysM.Caro,mustbealliedeithertopoetryortoscience.Thatithasfoundinphilosophyoneofitsstrongestalliesseemsnottohave occurred to him. In an English critic such a view might possibly beexcusable.Ourgreatestnovelists,suchasFielding,ScottandThackeray,caredlittle for the philosophyof their age.But coming, as it does, fromaFrenchcritic,thestatementseemstoshowastrangewantofrecognitionofoneofthemostimportantelementsofFrenchfiction.Nor,eveninthenarrowlimitsthathehas imposeduponhimself,canM.Carobesaid tobeaveryfortunateorfelicitouscritic.Totakemerelyoneinstanceoutofmany,hesaysnothingofGeorge Sand’s delightful treatment of art and the artist’s life. And yet howexquisitelydoessheanalyseeachseparateartandpresentittousinitsrelationto life! In Consuelo she tells us of music; in Horace of authorship; in LeChâteaudesDésertesofacting;inLesMaîtresMosaïstesofmosaicwork;inLeChâteaudePictorduofportraitpainting;andinLaDaniellaofthepaintingoflandscape.WhatMr.RuskinandMr.BrowninghavedoneforEnglandshedid for France. She invented an art literature. It is unnecessary, however, todiscussanyofM.Caro’sminorfailings,for thewholeeffectof thebook,sofaras itattempts toportray forus thescopeandcharacterofGeorgeSand’sgenius, is entirely spoiled by the false attitude assumed from the beginning,andthoughthedictummayseemtomanyharshandexclusive,wecannothelpfeelingthatanabsoluteincapacityforappreciatingthespiritofagreatwriterisnoqualificationforwritingatreatiseonthesubject.

AsforMadameSand’sprivatelife,whichissointimatelyconnectedwithherart(for,likeGoethe,shehadtoliveherromancesbeforeshecouldwrite

them), M. Caro says hardly anything about it. He passes it over with amodesty that almost makes one blush, and for fear of wounding thesusceptibilities of those grandes dames whose passions M. Paul Bourgetanalyses with such subtlety, he transforms her mother, who was a typicalFrench grisette, into ‘a very amiable and spirituelle milliner’! It must beadmitted that Joseph Surface himself could hardly show greater tact anddelicacy,thoughweourselvesmustpleadguiltytopreferringMadameSand’sowndescriptionofherasan‘enfantduvieuxpavédeParis.’

AFASCINATINGBOOK

(Woman’sWorld,November1888.)

Mr. Alan Cole’s carefully-edited translation ofM. Lefébure’s history ofEmbroideryandLaceisoneof themostfascinatingbooksthathasappearedon this delightful subject. M. Lefébure is one of the administrators of theMuséedesArtsDécoratifsatParis,besidesbeingalacemanufacturer;andhiswork has not merely an important historical value, but as a handbook oftechnical instruction it will be found of the greatest service by all needle-women. Indeed, as the translator himself points out, M. Lefébure’s booksuggests the questionwhether it is not rather by the needle and the bobbin,thanbythebrush,thegraverorthechisel,thattheinfluenceofwomanshouldassert itself in the arts. In Europe, at any rate, woman is sovereign in thedomain of art-needlework, and fewmenwould care to disputewith her theright of using those delicate implements so intimately associated with thedexterityofhernimbleand slender fingers;nor is thereany reasonwhy theproductionsofembroideryshouldnot, asMr.AlanCole suggests,beplacedonthesamelevelwiththoseofpainting,engravingandsculpture,thoughtheremust always be a great difference between those purely decorative arts thatglorifytheirownmaterialandthemoreimaginativeartsinwhichthematerialis,asitwere,annihilated,andabsorbedintothecreationofanewform.Inthebeautifyingofmodernhousesitcertainlymustbeadmitted—indeed,itshouldbemoregenerallyrecognizedthanitis—thatrichembroideryonhangingsandcurtains,portières,couchesand the like,producesa farmoredecorativeandfar more artistic effect than can be gained from our somewhat wearisomeEnglishpracticeof covering thewallswithpicturesandengravings; and thealmostcompletedisappearanceofembroideryfromdresshasrobbedmoderncostumeofoneofthechiefelementsofgraceandfancy.

That,however,agreatimprovementhastakenplaceinEnglishembroideryduringthelasttenorfifteenyearscannot,Ithink,bedenied.Itisshown,not

merely in the work of individual artists, such as Mrs. Holiday, Miss MayMorris and others, but also in the admirable productions of the SouthKensington School of Embroidery (the best—indeed, the only real good—schoolthatSouthKensingtonhasproduced).ItispleasanttonoteonturningovertheleavesofM.Lefébure’sbook,thatinthiswearemerelycarryingoutcertainoldtraditionsofEarlyEnglishart.Intheseventhcentury,St.Ethelreda,first abbess of themonastery of Ely,made an offering to St. Cuthbert of asacredornamentshehadworkedwithgoldandpreciousstones,andthecopeandmanipleofSt.Cuthbert,whicharepreservedatDurham,areconsideredtobe specimens of opusAnglicanum. In the year 800, the Bishop ofDurhamallottedtheincomeofafarmoftwohundredacresforlifetoanembroideressnamedEanswitha, inconsiderationofherkeeping in repair thevestmentsoftheclergyinhisdiocese.ThebattlestandardofKingAlfredwasembroideredbyDanish Princesses; and the Anglo-SaxonGudric gave Alcuid a piece ofland, on condition that she instructed his daughter in needle-work. QueenMathilda bequeathed to the Abbey of the Holy Trinity at Caen a tunicembroidered at Winchester by the wife of one Alderet; and whenWilliampresentedhimselftotheEnglishnobles,aftertheBattleofHastings,heworeamantle covered with Anglo-Saxon embroideries, which is probably, M.Leféburesuggests,thesameasthatmentionedintheinventoryoftheBayeuxCathedral,where,after theentryrelating to thebroderieà telle(representingtheconquestofEngland), twomantles aredescribed—oneofKingWilliam,‘allofgold,powderedwithcrossesandblossomsofgold,andedgedalongthelowerborderwithanorphreyof figures.’Themost splendidexampleof theopusAnglicanumnowinexistence is,ofcourse, theSyoncopeat theSouthKensingtonMuseum;butEnglishworkseemstohavebeencelebratedallovertheContinent.Pope Innocent iv. soadmired thesplendidvestmentswornbythe English clergy in 1246, that he ordered similar articles from CistercianmonasteriesinEngland.St.Dunstan,theartisticEnglishmonk,wasknownasa designer for embroideries; and the stole of St. Thomas à Becket is stillpreserved in the cathedral at Sens, and shows us the interlaced scroll-formsusedbyAnglo-SaxonMS.illuminators.

How far thismodernartistic revivalof rich anddelicate embroiderywillbear fruit depends, of course, almost entirely on the energy and study thatwomenareready todevote to it;but I think that itmustbeadmitted thatallourdecorativeartsinEuropeatpresenthave,atleast,thiselementofstrength—that they are in immediate relationship with the decorative arts of Asia.Wherever we find in European history a revival of decorative art, it has, Ifancy,nearlyalwaysbeenduetoOrientalinfluenceandcontactwithOrientalnations. Our own keenly intellectual art has more than once been ready tosacrifice real decorative beauty either to imitative presentation or to idealmotive. It has takenupon itself theburdenof expression, andhas sought to

interpret the secrets of thought and passion. In its marvellous truth ofpresentationithasfounditsstrength,andyet itsweakness is therealso.It isneverwithimpunitythatanartseekstomirror life.IfTruthhasherrevengeuponthosewhodonotfollowher,sheisoftenpitilesstoherworshippers.InByzantiumthetwoartsmet—Greekart,withitsintellectualsenseofform,anditsquicksympathywithhumanity;Orientalart,withitsgorgeousmaterialism,its frank rejection of imitation, itswonderful secrets of craft and colour, itssplendid textures, its rare metals and jewels, its marvellous and pricelesstraditions.Theyhad,indeed,metbefore,butinByzantiumtheyweremarried;andthesacredtreeofthePersians,thepalmofZoroaster,wasembroideredonthe hem of the garments of the Western world. Even the Iconoclasts, thePhilistines of theological history, who, in one of those strange outbursts ofrageagainstBeauty thatseemtooccuronlyamongstEuropeannations, roseup against the wonder and magnificence of the new art, served merely todistributeitssecretsmorewidely;andintheLiberPontificalis,writtenin687by Athanasius, the librarian, we read of an influx into Rome of gorgeousembroideries,theworkofmenwhohadarrivedfromConstantinopleandfromGreece.The triumphof theMussulmangave the decorative art ofEurope anew departure—that very principle of their religion that forbade the actualrepresentationofanyobject innaturebeingof thegreatestartisticservice tothem, though it was not, of course, strictly carried out. The SaracensintroducedintoSicilytheartofweavingsilkenandgoldenfabrics;andfromSicilythemanufactureoffinestuffsspreadtotheNorthofItaly,andbecamelocalized in Genoa, Florence, Venice, and other towns. A still greater art-movement took place in Spain under theMoors andSaracens,who broughtover workmen from Persia tomake beautiful things for them.M. LeféburetellsusofPersian embroiderypenetratingas far asAndalusia; andAlmeria,like Palermo, had itsHôtel des Tiraz,which rivalled theHôtel des Tiraz atBagdad, tiraz being the generic name for ornamental tissues and costumesmadewiththem.Spangles(thoseprettylittlediscsofgold,silver,orpolishedsteel,usedincertainembroideryfordaintyglintingeffects)wereaSaracenicinvention; and Arabic letters often took the place of letters in the Romancharacters for use in inscriptions upon embroidered robes andMiddle Agetapestries,theirdecorativevaluebeingsomuchgreater.ThebookofcraftsbyEtienneBoileau, provost of themerchants in 1258–1268, contains a curiousenumerationof thedifferentcraft-guildsofParis,amongwhichwefind ‘thetapiciers,ormakersof the tapissarrasinois(orSaracencloths),whosay thattheir craft is for the service only of churches, or great men like kings andcounts’;and,indeed,eveninourownday,nearlyallourwordsdescriptiveofdecorativetexturesanddecorativemethodspoint toanOrientalorigin.Whatthe inroadsof theMohammedansdid forSicily andSpain, the returnof theCrusaders did for the other countries of Europe. The nobles who left for

Palestine clad in armour, cameback in the rich stuffs of theEast; and theircostumes, pouches (aumônières sarrasinoises), and caparisons excited theadmirationoftheneedle-workersoftheWest.MatthewParissaysthatat thesacking of Antioch, in 1098, gold, silver and priceless costumes were soequallydistributedamongtheCrusaders,thatmanywhothenightbeforewerefamishingandimploringrelief,suddenlyfoundthemselvesoverwhelmedwithwealth;andRobertdeClair tellsusof thewonderful fêtes that followed thecaptureofConstantinople.Thethirteenthcentury,asM.Leféburepointsout,wasconspicuousforanincreaseddemandintheWestforembroidery.ManyCrusaders made offerings to churches of plunder from Palestine; and St.Louis,onhisreturnfromthefirstCrusade,offeredthanksatSt.DenistoGodfor mercies bestowed on him during his six years’ absence and travel, andpresented some richly embroidered stuffs to be used on great occasions ascoverings to the reliquaries containing the relics of holymartyrs. Europeanembroidery, having thus become possessed of newmaterials andwonderfulmethods,developedonitsownintellectualandimitativelines,inclining,asitwenton,tothepurelypictorial,andseekingtorivalpainting,andtoproducelandscapes and figure-subjects with elaborate perspective and subtle aerialeffects.AfreshOrientalinfluence,however,camethroughtheDutchandthePortuguese,andthefamousCompagniedesGrandesIndes;andM.Leféburegivesanillustrationofadoor-hangingnowintheClunyMuseum,wherewefindtheFrenchfleurs-de-lysintermixedwithIndianornament.ThehangingsofMadamedeMaintenon’sroomatFontainebleau,whichwereembroideredatSt.Cyr,representChinesesceneryuponajonquil-yellowground.

ClothesweresentoutreadycuttotheEasttobeembroidered,andmanyofthedelightfulcoatsoftheperiodofLouisxv.andLouisxvi.owetheirdaintydecoration to theneedlesofChineseartists. Inourownday the influenceoftheEast is stronglymarked. Persia has sent us her carpets for patterns, andCashmereherlovelyshawls,andIndiaherdaintymuslinsfinelyworkedwithgoldthreadpalmates,andstitchedoverwithiridescentbeetles’wings.Wearebeginningnow todyebyOrientalmethods, and the silk robesofChina andJapanhavetaughtusnewwondersofcolour-combination,andnewsubtletiesofdelicatedesign.Whetherwehaveyet learnedtomakeawiseuseofwhatwehaveacquiredis lesscertain.Ifbooksproduceaneffect, thisbookofM.Lefébure shouldcertainlymakeus studywith still deeper interest thewholequestionofembroidery,andby thosewhoalreadyworkwith theirneedles itwillbefoundfullofmostfertilesuggestionandmostadmirableadvice.

Eventoreadofthemarvellousworksofembroiderythatwerefashionedinbygoneagesispleasant.TimehaskeptafewfragmentsofGreekembroideryof the fourth century b.c. for us. One is figured inM. Lefébure’s book—achain-stitch embroidery of yellow flax upon a mulberry-coloured worstedmaterial,withgracefulspiralsandpalmetto-patterns:andanother,atapestried

cloth powdered with ducks, was reproduced in the Woman’s World somemonthsagoforanarticlebyMr.AlanCole.NowandthenwefindinthetombofsomedeadEgyptianapieceofdelicatework.InthetreasuryatRatisbonispreserved a specimen of Byzantine embroidery on which the EmperorConstantineisdepictedridingonawhitepalfrey,andreceivinghomagefromtheEastandWest.Metzhasaredsilkcopewroughtwithgreateagles,thegiftofCharlemagne,andBayeuxtheneedle-wroughtepicofQueenMatilda.Butwhere is the great crocus-coloured robe, wrought for Athena, onwhich thegodsfoughtagainstthegiants?WhereisthehugevelariumthatNerostretchedacrosstheColosseumatRome,onwhichwasrepresentedthestarrysky,andApollo driving a chariot drawn by steeds? How one would like to see thecurioustable-napkinswroughtforHeliogabalus,onwhichweredisplayedallthedaintiesandviandsthatcouldbewantedforafeast;orthemortuary-clothofKingChilperic,with its threehundredgoldenbees;or the fantastic robesthat excited the indignation of theBishop of Pontus, andwere embroideredwith ‘lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters—all, in fact, thatpainterscancopyfromnature.’CharlesofOrleanshadacoat,onthesleevesofwhichwereembroideredtheversesofasongbeginning‘Madame,jesuistoutjoyeux,’themusicalaccompanimentofthewordsbeingwroughtingoldthread,andeachnote,ofsquareshapeinthosedays,formedwithfourpearls.The room prepared in the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan ofBurgundy was decorated with ‘thirteen hundred and twenty-one papegauts(parrots) made in broidery and blazoned with the King’s arms, and fivehundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamentedwiththeQueen’sarms—thewholeworkedinfinegold.’CatherinedeMedicishadamourning-bedmadeforher‘ofblackvelvetembroideredwithpearlsandpowderedwith crescents and suns.’ Its curtainswereof damask, ‘with leafywreathsandgarlandsfigureduponagoldandsilverground,andfringedalongtheedgeswithbroideriesofpearls,’anditstoodinaroomhungwithrowsoftheQueen’sdevicesincutblackvelvetonclothofsilver.Louisxiv.hadgold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed ofSobieski,KingofPoland,wasmadeofSmyrnagoldbrocadeembroideredinturquoisesandpearls,withversesfromtheKoran;itssupportswereofsilver-gilt, beautifully chased and profusely set with enamelled and jewelledmedallions. He had taken it from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and thestandardofMahomethadstoodunderit.TheDuchessdelaFertéworeadressof reddish-brown velvet, the skirt of which, adjusted in graceful folds, washeldupbybigbutterfliesmadeofDresden china; the frontwas a tablier ofcloth of silver, upon which was embroidered an orchestra of musiciansarranged in a pyramidal group, consisting of a series of six ranks ofperformers, with beautiful instrumentswrought in raised needle-work. ‘Intothenightgooneandall,’asMr.HenleysingsinhischarmingBalladeofDead

Actors.

Manyof the facts relatedbyM.Lefébureabout theembroiderers’guildsarealsoextremelyinteresting.EtienneBoileau,inhisbookofcrafts,towhichIhavealreadyalluded,tellsusthatamemberoftheguildwasprohibitedfromusinggoldoflessvaluethan‘eightsous(about6s.)theskein;hewasboundtouse the best silk, and never tomix threadwith silk, because thatmade theworkfalseandbad.’The testor trialpieceprescribedforaworkerwhowasthe son of amaster-embroidererwas ‘a single figure, a sixth of the naturalsize,tobeshadedingold’;whilstonenotthesonofamasterwasrequiredtoproduce ‘a complete incident with many figures.’ The book of crafts alsomentions ‘cutters-out and stencillers and illuminators’ amongst thoseemployedin the industryofembroidery. In1551theParisianCorporationofEmbroiderers issued a notice that ‘for the future, the colouring inrepresentations of nude figures and faces should be done in three or fourgradationsofcarnation-dyedsilk,andnot,asformerly,inwhitesilks.’Duringthefifteenthcenturyeveryhouseholdofanypositionretainedtheservicesofan embroiderer by the year. The preparation of colours also, whether forpainting or for dyeing threads and textile fabrics, was a matter which, M.Lefébure points out, received close attention from the artists of theMiddleAges. Many undertook long journeys to obtain the more famous recipes,which they filed, subsequently adding to and correcting them as experiencedictated. Nor were great artists above making and supplying designs forembroidery.RaphaelmadedesignsforFrancisi.,andBoucherforLouisxv.;andintheAmbrascollectionatViennaisasuperbsetofsacerdotalrobesfromdesigns by the brothers Van Eyck and their pupils. Early in the sixteenthcenturybooksofembroiderydesignswereproduced,andtheirsuccesswassogreat that in a few years French, German, Italian, Flemish, and Englishpublishersspreadbroadcastbooksofdesignmadebytheirbestengravers.Inthe same century, in order to give the designers opportunity of studyingdirectly from nature, Jean Robin opened a garden with conservatories, inwhich he cultivated strange varieties of plants then but little known in ourlatitudes.The richbrocadesandbrocadellesof the timearecharacterizedbytheintroductionoflargeflowerypatterns,withpomegranatesandotherfruitswithfinefoliage.

The secondpartofM.Lefébure’sbook isdevoted to thehistoryof lace,and thoughsomemaynot find itquiteas interestingas theearlierportion itwillmore than repay perusal; and thosewho still work in this delicate andfancifulartwillfindmanyvaluablesuggestionsinit,aswellasalargenumberof exceedingly beautiful designs. Compared to embroidery, lace seemscomparativelymodern.M.LefébureandMr.AlanColetellusthatthereisnoreliable or documentary evidence to prove the existence of lace before thefifteenthcentury.OfcourseintheEast,lighttissues,suchasgauzes,muslins,

and nets,weremade at very early times, andwere used as veils and scarfsafter themanner of subsequent laces, andwomen enriched themwith somesortofembroidery,orvariedtheopennessofthembyhereandtheredrawingoutthreads.Thethreadsoffringesseemalsotohavebeenplaitedandknottedtogether,andthebordersofoneofthemanyfashionsofRomantogawereofopenreticulatedweaving.TheEgyptianMuseumattheLouvrehasacuriousnetworkembellishedwithglassbeads;andthemonkReginald,whotookpartinopeningthetombofSt.CuthbertatDurhaminthetwelfthcentury,writesthattheSaint’sshroudhadafringeoflinenthreadsaninchlong,surmountedbyaborder,‘workeduponthethreads,’withrepresentationsofbirdsandpairsofbeasts, therebeingbetweeneachsuchpairabranching tree,asurvivalofthepalmofZoroaster,towhichIhavebeforealluded.Ourauthors,however,do not in these examples recognize lace, the production of which involvesmore refinedandartisticmethods, andpostulatesacombinationof skill andvariedexecutioncarriedtoahigherdegreeofperfection.Lace,asweknowit,seems to have had its origin in the habit of embroidering linen. Whiteembroideryonlinenhas,M.Lefébureremarks,acoldandmonotonousaspect;thatwithcolouredthreadsisbrighterandgayerineffect,butisapttofadeinfrequentwashing;butwhiteembroideryrelievedbyopenspacesin,orshapescutfrom,thelinenground,ispossessedofanentirelynewcharm;andfromasense of this the birthmay be traced of an art in the result ofwhich happycontrastsareeffectedbetweenornamentaldetailsofclosetextureandothersofopen-work.

Soon,also,wassuggestedtheideathat,insteadoflaboriouslywithdrawingthreadsfromstout linen, itwouldbemoreconvenient to introduceaneedle-madepatternintoanopennetworkground,whichwascalleda lacis.Of thiskindofembroiderymanyspecimensareextant.TheClunyMuseumpossessesa linen cap said to have belonged toCharles v.; and an alb of linen drawn-thread work, supposed to have been made by Anne of Bohemia (1527), ispreserved in thecathedralatPrague.CatherinedeMedicishadabeddrapedwithsquaresofréseuil,orlacis,anditisrecordedthat‘thegirlsandservantsof her household consumed much time in making squares of réseuil.’ Theinterestingpattern-booksforopen-groundembroidery,ofwhich thefirstwaspublishedin1527byPierreQuinty,ofCologne,supplyuswiththemeansoftracing the stages in the transition fromwhite thread embroidery to needle-point lace.Wemeet in themwitha styleofneedle-workwhichdiffers fromembroidery in not beingwrought upon a stuff foundation. It is, in fact, truelace, done, as it were, ‘in the air,’ both ground and pattern being entirelyproducedbythelace-maker.

Theelaborateuseoflaceincostumewas,ofcourse,largelystimulatedbythefashionofwearingruffs,andtheircompanioncuffsorsleeves.CatherinedeMedicisinducedoneFredericVinciolotocomefromItalyandmakeruffs

andgadroonedcollars,thefashionofwhichshestartedinFrance;andHenryiii.wassopunctiliousoverhisruffsthathewouldironandgofferhiscuffsandcollarshimselfratherthanseetheirpleatslimpandoutofshape.Thepattern-books also gave a great impulse to the art. M. Lefébure mentions Germanbookswith patterns of eagles, heraldic emblems, hunting scenes, and plantsandleavesbelongingtoNorthernvegetation;andItalianbooks, inwhichthemotifs consist of oleander blossoms, and elegant wreaths and scrolls,landscapeswithmythologicalscenes,andhuntingepisodes,lessrealisticthantheNorthern ones, inwhich appear fauns, and nymphs or amorini shootingarrows.Withregardtothesepatterns,M.Leféburenoticesacuriousfact.Theoldestpaintinginwhichlaceisdepictedisthatofalady,byCarpaccio,whodied about 1523. The cuffs of the lady are edged with a narrow lace, thepattern ofwhich reappears inVecellio’sCorona, a book not published until1591.Thisparticularpatternwas,therefore,inuseatleasteightyyearsbeforeitgotintocirculationwithotherpublishedpatterns.

Itwasnot,however,tilltheseventeenthcenturythatlaceacquiredareallyindependent character and individuality, and M. Duplessis states that theproductionofthemorenoteworthyofearlylacesowesmoretotheinfluenceof men than to that of women. The reign of Louis xiv. witnessed theproduction of the most stately needle-point laces, the transformation ofVenetianpoint,andthegrowthofPointsd’Alençon,d’Argentan,deBruxellesandd’Angleterre.

The king, aided by Colbert, determined to make France the centre, ifpossible,forlacemanufacture,sendingforthispurposebothtoVeniceandtoFlanders for workers. The studio of the Gobelins supplied designs. Thedandieshadtheirhugerabatosorbandsfallingfrombeneaththechinoverthebreast,andgreatprelates,likeBossuetandFénelon,woretheirwonderfulalbsandrochets.ItisrelatedofacollarmadeatVeniceforLouisxiv.thatthelace-workers,beingunable to findsufficiently finehorse-hair, employedsomeoftheir own hairs instead, in order to secure thatmarvellous delicacy ofworkwhichtheyaimedatproducing.

Intheeighteenthcentury,Venice,findingthatlacesoflightertextureweresoughtafter,setherselftomakerose-point;andattheCourtofLouisxv.thechoiceoflacewasregulatedbystillmoreelaborateetiquette.TheRevolution,however,ruinedmanyofthemanufactures.Alençonsurvived,andNapoleonencouragedit,andendeavouredtorenewtheoldrulesaboutthenecessityofwearingpoint-laceatCourt receptions.Awonderfulpieceof lace,powderedover with devices of bees, and costing 40,000 francs, was ordered. It wasbegun for the Empress Josephine, but in the course of its making herescutcheonswerereplacedbythoseofMarieLouise.

M. Lefébure concludes his interesting history by stating very clearly his

attitude towardsmachine-made lace. ‘Itwouldbeanobvious loss toart,’hesays, ‘should themakingof lacebyhandbecomeextinct, formachinery, asskilfullydevisedaspossible,cannotdowhatthehanddoes.’Itcangiveus‘theresults of processes, not the creations of artistic handicraft.’ Art is absent‘whereformalcalculationpretendstosupersedeemotion’;itisabsent‘wherenotracecanbedetectedofintelligenceguidinghandicraft,whosehesitanciesevenpossesspeculiarcharm...cheapnessisnevercommendableinrespectofthingswhicharenotabsolutenecessities;itlowersartisticstandard.’Theseareadmirableremarks,andwiththemwetakeleaveofthisfascinatingbook,withits delightful illustrations, its charming anecdotes, its excellent advice. Mr.AlanColedeservesthethanksofallwhoareinterestedinartforbringingthisbookbeforethepublicinsoattractiveandsoinexpensiveaform.

HENLEY’SPOEMS

(Woman’sWorld,December1888.)

‘IfIwereking,’saysMr.Henley,inoneofhismostmodestrondeaus,

‘Artshouldaspire,yetuglinessbedear;

Beauty,theshaft,shouldspeedwithwitforfeather;

Andlove,sweetlove,shouldneverfalltosere,

IfIwereking.’

Andtheselinescontain,ifnotthebestcriticismofhisownwork,certainlyaverycompletestatementofhisaimandmotiveasapoet.HislittleBookofVersesrevealstousanartistwhoisseekingtofindnewmethodsofexpressionandhasnotmerelyadelicatesenseofbeautyandabrilliant,fantasticwit,buta real passion also for what is horrible, ugly, or grotesque. No doubt,everything that is worthy of existence is worthy also of art—at least, onewouldliketothinkso—butwhileechoormirrorcanrepeatforusabeautifulthing, to render artistically a thing that is ugly requires the most exquisitealchemy of form, the most subtle magic of transformation. To me there ismoreofthecryofMarsyasthanofthesingingofApollointheearlierpoemsofMr.Henley’svolume,InHospital:RhymesandRhythms,ashecallsthem.But it is impossible todenytheirpower.Someof themare likebright,vividpastels; others like charcoal drawings, with dull blacks and murky whites;others likeetchingswithdeeply-bitten lines,andabruptcontrasts,andclevercolour-suggestions. In fact, they are like anything and everything, exceptperfected poems—that they certainly are not. They are still in the twilight.Theyarepreludes,experiments,inspiredjottingsinanote-book,andshouldbe

heraldedbyadesignof‘GeniusMakingSketches.’Rhymegivesarchitectureaswellasmelodytoverse;itgivesthatdelightfulsenseoflimitationwhichinalltheartsissopleasurable,andis,indeed,oneofthesecretsofperfection;itwill whisper, as a French critic has said, ‘things unexpected and charming,thingswithstrangeandremoterelationstoeachother,’andbindthemtogetherin indissoluble bonds of beauty; and in his constant rejection of rhyme,Mr.Henleyseemstometohaveabdicatedhalfhispower.Heisaroienexilwhohasthrownawaysomeofthestringsofhislute;apoetwhohasforgottenthefairestpartofhiskingdom.

However, allwork criticizes itself.Here is one ofMr.Henley’s inspiredjottings.Accordingtothetemperamentofthereader,itwillserveeitherasamodelorasthereverse:

Aswithvarnishredandglistening

Drippedhishair;hisfeetwererigid;

Raised,hesettledstifflysideways:

Youcouldseethehurtswerespinal.

Hehadfallenfromanengine,

Andbeendraggedalongthemetals.

Itwashopeless,andtheyknewit;

Sotheycoveredhim,andlefthim.

Ashelay,byfitshalfsentient,

Inarticulatelymoaning,

Withhisstockingedfeetprotruded

Sharpandawkwardfromtheblankets,

Tohisbedtherecameawoman,

Stoodandlookedandsighedalittle,

Anddepartedwithoutspeaking,

Ashimselfafewhoursafter.

Iwastoldshewashissweetheart.

Theywereontheeveofmarriage.

Shewasquietasastatue,

Butherlipwasgrayandwrithen.

Inthispoem,therhythmandthemusic,suchasitis,areobvious—perhaps

a little too obvious. In the following I see nothing but ingeniously printedprose. It is adescription—andaveryaccurateone—ofa scene inahospitalward. Themedical students are supposed to be crowding round the doctor.WhatIquoteisonlyafragment,butthepoemitselfisafragment:

Soshowsthering

Seen,frombehind,roundaconjuror

Doinghispitchinthestreet.

Highshoulders,lowshoulders,broadshoulders,narrowones,

Round,square,andangular,serryandshove;

Whilefromwithinavoice,

Gravelyandweightilyfluent,

Sounds;andthenceases;andsuddenly

(Lookatthestressoftheshoulders!)

Outofaquiverofsilence,

Overthehissofthespray,

Comesalowcry,andthesound

Ofbreathquickintakenthroughteeth

Clenchedinresolve.Andthemaster

Breaksfromthecrowd,andgoes,

Wipinghishands,

Tothenextbed,withhispupils

Flockingandwhisperingbehindhim.

Nowonecansee.

CaseNumberOne

Sits(ratherpale)withhisbedclothes

Strippedup,andshowinghisfoot

(Alas,forGod’simage!)

Swaddledinwetwhitelint

Brilliantlyhideouswithred.

ThéophileGautieroncesaidthatFlaubert’sstylewasmeanttoberead,andhis own style to be looked at. Mr. Henley’s unrhymed rhythms form very

daintydesigns,fromatypographicalpointofview.Fromthepointofviewofliterature,theyareaseriesofvivid,concentratedimpressions,withakeengripof fact, a terrible actuality, and an almost masterly power of picturesquepresentation.Butthepoeticform—whatofthat?

Well, let us pass to the later poems, to the rondels and rondeaus, thesonnets and quatorzains, the echoes and the ballades. How brilliant andfancifulthisis!TheToyokunicolour-printthatsuggesteditcouldnotbemoredelightful.Itseemstohavekeptallthewilfulfantasticcharmoftheoriginal:

WasIaSamurairenowned,

Two-sworded,fierce,immenseofbow?

Ahistrionangularandprofound?

Apriest?aporter?—Child,although

Ihaveforgottenclean,Iknow

ThatintheshadeofFujisan,

Whattimethecherry-orchardsblow,

IlovedyouonceinoldJapan.

Ashereyouloiter,flowing-gowned

Andhugelysashed,withpinsa-row

Yourquaintheadaswithflameletscrowned,

Demure,inviting—evenso,

WhenmerrymaidsinMiyako

Tofeelthesweeto’theyearbegan,

Andgreengardenstooverflow,

IlovedyouonceinoldJapan.

Clearshinethehills;therice-fieldsround

Twocranesarecircling;sleepyandslow,

Abluecanalthelake’sbluebound

Breaksatthebamboobridge;andlo!

Touchedwiththesundown’sspiritandglow,

Iseeyouturn,withflirtedfan,

Againsttheplum-tree’sbloomysnow...

IlovedyouonceinoldJapan!

Envoy.

Dear,’twasadozenlivesago

ButthatIwasaluckyman

TheToyokuniherewillshow:

Ilovedyou—once—inoldJapan!

Thisrondel,too—howlightitis,andgraceful!—

We’lltothewoodsandgathermay

Freshfromthefootprintsoftherain.

We’lltothewoods,ateveryvein

Todrinkthespiritoftheday.

Thewindsofspringareoutatplay,

Theneedsofspringinheartandbrain.

We’lltothewoodsandgathermay

Freshfromthefootprintsoftherain.

Theworld’stoonearherend,yousay?

Harktotheblackbird’smadrefrain!

Itwaitsforher,thevastInane?

Then,girls,tohelpherontheway

We’lltothewoodsandgathermay.

Therearefineverses,also,scatteredthroughthislittlebook;someofthemverystrong,as—

Outofthenightthatcoversme,

Blackasthepitfrompoletopole,

Ithankwhatevergodsmaybe

Formyunconquerablesoul.

Itmattersnothowstraitthegate,

Howchargedwithpunishmentsthescroll,

Iamthemasterofmyfate:

Iamthecaptainofmysoul.

Otherswithatruetouchofromance,as—

Orevertheknightlyyearsweregone

Withtheoldworldtothegrave,

IwasakinginBabylon,

AndyouwereaChristianslave.

Andhereandtherewecomeacrosssuchfelicitousphrasesas—

Inthesand

Thegoldprow-griffinclawsahold,

or—

Thespires

Shineandarechanged,

and many other graceful or fanciful lines, even ‘the green sky’s minorthirds’beingperfectlyrightinitsplace,andaveryrefreshingbitofaffectationinavolumewherethereissomuchthatisnatural.

However,Mr. Henley is not to be judged by samples. Indeed, the mostattractive thing in the book is no single poem that is in it, but the stronghumanepersonalitythatstandsbehindbothflawlessandfaultyworkalike,andlooksoutthroughmanymasks,someofthembeautiful,andsomegrotesque,andnotafewmisshapen.Inthecasewithmostofourmodernpoets,whenwehaveanalysedthemdowntoanadjective,wecangonofurther,orwecaretogonofurther;butwiththisbookitisdifferent.Throughthesereedsandpipesblowstheverybreathoflife.Itseemsasifonecouldputone’shanduponthesinger’sheartandcount itspulsations.There issomethingwholesome,virileandsaneabouttheman’ssoul.Anybodycanbereasonable,buttobesaneisnotcommon;andsanepoetsareasrareasbluelilies,thoughtheymaynotbequitesodelightful.

Letthegreatwindstheirworstandwildestblow,

Orthegoldweatherroundusmellowslow;

Wehavefulfilledourselves,andwecandare,

Andwecanconquer,thoughwemaynotshare

Intherichquietoftheafterglow,

Whatistocome,

is theconcluding stanzaof the last rondeau—indeed,of the lastpoem inthecollection, and thehigh, serene temperdisplayed in these lines servesat

onceaskeynoteandkeystonetothebook.Theverylightnessandslightnessofsomuchofthework,itscarelessmoodsandcasualfancies,seemtosuggestanature that is not primarily interested in art—a nature, like Sordello’s,passionatelyenamouredof life,one towhich lyreand luteare thingsof lessimportance.Fromthismerejoyofliving,thisfrankdelightinexperienceforitsownsake,thisloftyindifference,andmomentaryunregrettedardours,comeall the faults and all the beauties of the volume.But there is this differencebetween them—the faults are deliberate, and the result of much study; thebeauties have the air of fascinating impromptus. Mr. Henley’s healthy, ifsometimesmisapplied,confidenceinthemyriadsuggestionsoflifegiveshimhischarm.Heismadetosingalongthehighways,nottositdownandwrite.Ifhetookhimselfmoreseriously,hisworkwouldbecometrivial.

SOMELITERARYLADIES

(Woman’sWorld,January1889.)

In a recent article on English Poetesses, I ventured to suggest that ourwomen of letters should turn their attention somewhat more to prose andsomewhatlesstopoetry.Womenseemtometopossessjustwhatourliteraturewants—a light touch, a delicate hand, a gracefulmode of treatment, and anunstudiedfelicityofphrase.WewantsomeonewhowilldoforourprosewhatMadamedeSévignédidfortheproseofFrance.GeorgeEliot’sstylewasfartoocumbrous,andCharlotteBrontë’stooexaggerated.However,onemustnotforget that amongst thewomen of England there have been some charmingletter-writers,andcertainlynobookcanbemoredelightfulreadingthanMrs.Ross’s Three Generations of EnglishWomen, which has recently appeared.ThethreeEnglishwomenwhosememoirsandcorrespondenceMrs.RosshassoadmirablyeditedareMrs.JohnTaylor,Mrs.SarahAustin,andLadyDuffGordon, all of them remarkable personalities, and two of them women ofbrilliant wit and European reputation. Mrs. Taylor belonged to that greatNorwichfamilyaboutwhomtheDukeofSussexremarkedthattheyreversedtheordinarysayingthatittakesninetailorstomakeaman,andwasformanyyearsoneofthemostdistinguishedfiguresinthefamoussocietyofhernativetown. Her only daughter married John Austin, the great authority onjurisprudence,andhersaloninPariswasthecentreoftheintellectandcultureof her day. Lucie Duff Gordon, the only child of John and Sarah Austin,inheritedthetalentsofherparents.Abeauty,afemmed’esprit,atraveller,andcleverwriter,shecharmedandfascinatedherage,andherprematuredeathinEgyptwasreallyalosstoourliterature.Itistoherdaughterthatweowethisdelightfulvolumeofmemoirs.

First we are introduced to Mrs. Ross’s great-grandmother, Mrs. Taylor,who‘wascalled,byherintimatefriends,“MadameRolandofNorwich,”fromherlikenesstotheportraitsofthehandsomeandunfortunateFrenchwoman.’We hear of her darning her boy’s greyworsted stockingswhile holding herownwithSoutheyandBrougham,anddancingroundtheTreeofLibertywithDr.Parrwhen thenewsof the fallof theBastillewas firstknown.AmongstherfriendswereSirJamesMackintosh,themostpopularmanoftheday,‘towhomMadamedeStaëlwrote,“Iln’yapasdesociétésansvous.”“C’esttrèsennuyeuxdedînersansvous;lasociéténevapasquandvousn’êtespaslà”;’SirJamesSmith, thebotanist;CrabbRobinson; theGurneys;Mrs.Barbauld;Dr.Aldersonandhischarmingdaughter,AmeliaOpie;andmanyotherwell-knownpeople.Herlettersareextremelysensibleandthoughtful.‘Nothingatpresent,’ she says in one of them, ‘suits my taste so well as Susan’s Latinlessons, and her philosophical old master. . . . When we get to Cicero’sdiscussionsonthenatureofthesoul,orVirgil’sfinedescriptions,mymindisfilled up. Life is either a dull round of eating, drinking, and sleeping, or asparkofetherealfirejustkindled....Thecharacterofgirlsmustdependupontheir reading asmuch as upon the company theykeep.Besides the intrinsicpleasuretobederivedfromsolidknowledge,awomanoughttoconsideritasher best resource against poverty.’This is a somewhat caustic aphorism: ‘Aromanticwomanisatroublesomefriend,assheexpectsyoutobeasimpudentasherself,and ismortifiedatwhatshecallscoldnessand insensibility.’Andthis isadmirable:‘Theartof life isnot toestrangeoneselffromsociety,andyet not to pay too dear for it.’ This, too, is good: ‘Vanity, like curiosity, iswantedasastimulustoexertion;indolencewouldcertainlygetthebetterofusifitwerenotforthesetwopowerfulprinciples’;andthereisakeentouchofhumourinthefollowing:‘Nothingissogratifyingastheideathatvirtueandphilanthropy are becoming fashionable.’ Dr. JamesMartineau, in a letter toMrs.Ross,givesusapleasantpictureof theold ladyreturning frommarket‘weightedbyherhugebasket,withtheshankofalegofmuttonthrustouttobetrayitscontents,’andtalkingdivinelyaboutphilosophy,poets,politics,andeveryintellectualtopicoftheday.Shewasawomanofadmirablegoodsense,atypeofRomanmatron,andquiteascarefulasweretheRomanmatronstokeepupthepurityofhernativetongue.

Mrs.Taylor, however,wasmoreor less limited toNorwich.Mrs.Austinwasfor theworld. InLondon,Paris,andGermany,sheruledanddominatedsociety,lovedbyeveryonewhoknewher.‘Sheis“Mybestandbrightest”toLord Jeffrey; “Dear, fair andwise” toSydneySmith; “Mygreat ally” toSirJamesStephen;“Sunlightthroughwastewelteringchaos”toThomasCarlyle(while he needed her aid); “La petite mère du genre humain” to MichaelChevalier;“LiebesMütterlein”toJohnStuartMill;and“MyownProfessorin”toCharlesBuller, towhomshetaughtGerman,aswellastothesonsofMr.

JamesMill.’JeremyBentham,whenonhisdeathbed,gaveheraringwithhisportraitandsomeofhishairletinbehind.‘There,mydear,’hesaid,‘itistheonlyringIevergaveawoman.’ShecorrespondedwithGuizot,BarthelemydeSt.Hilaire,theGrotes,Dr.Whewell,theMasterofTrinity,NassauSenior,theDuchessed’Orléans,VictorCousin,andmanyotherdistinguishedpeople.Hertranslation of Ranke’s History of the Popes is admirable; indeed, all herliterary work was thoroughly well done, and her edition of her husband’sProvinceofJurisprudencedeservestheveryhighestpraise.Twopeoplemoreunlike thanherself andherhusband itwouldhavebeendifficult to find.Hewashabitually grave anddespondent; shewasbrilliantly handsome, fondofsociety, inwhich she shone, and ‘with an almost superabundance of energyandanimalspirits,’Mrs.Ross tellsus.Shemarriedhimbecauseshe thoughthimperfect,butheneverproducedtheworkofwhichhewasworthy,andofwhichsheknewhimtobeworthy.Herestimateofhimin thepreface to theJurisprudenceiswonderfullystrikingandsimple.‘Hewasneversanguine.Hewasintolerantofanyimperfection.Hewasalwaysunderthecontrolofsevereloveoftruth.Helivedanddiedapoorman.’Shewasterriblydisappointedinhim,butshelovedhim.Someyearsafterhisdeath,shewrotetoM.Guizot:

In the intervalsofmystudyofhisworks I readhis letters tome—forty-five years of love-letters, the last as tender and passionate as the first.Andhow full of noble sentiments! The midday of our lives was clouded andstormy,fullofcaresanddisappointments;butthesunsetwasbrightandserene—as bright as themorning, andmore serene.Now it is nightwithme, andmustremainsotillthedawnofanotherday.Iamalwaysalone—thatis,Ilivewithhim.

Themost interesting letters in thebookarecertainly those toM.Guizot,with whom she maintained the closest intellectual friendship; but there ishardlyoneof them thatdoesnotcontainsomethingclever,or thoughtful,orwitty,whilethoseaddressedtoher,inturn,areveryinteresting.Carlylewritesher letters full of lamentations, the wail of a Titan in pain, superblyexaggeratedforliteraryeffect.

Literature,one’ssolecraftandstaffoflife,liesbrokeninabeyance;whatroom formusic amid the braying of innumerable jackasses, the howling ofinnumerablehyænaswhettingthetoothtoeatthemup?Alasforit!itisasickdisjointed time; neither shall we evermend it; at best let us hope tomendourselves.IdeclareIsometimesthinkofthrowingdownthePenaltogetherasaworthlessweapon;andleadingoutacolonyofthesepoorstarvingDrudgesto thewasteplacesof their oldMotherEarth,when for sweat of their browbread will rise for them; it were perhaps the worthiest service that at thismomentcouldberenderedouroldworldtothrowopenforitthedoorsoftheNew.Thithermust they come at last, ‘bursts of eloquence’will do nothing;

men are starving andwill trymany things before they die. But poor I, achGott!IamnoHengistorAlaric;onlyawriterofArticlesinbadprose;sticktothylast,OTutor;thePenisnotworthless,itisomnipotenttothosewhohaveFaith.

HenriBeyle(Stendhal),thegreat,IamoftentemptedtothinkthegreatestofFrenchnovelists,writesheracharming letteraboutnuances. ‘It seems tome,’hesays, ‘thatexceptwhen they readShakespeare,Byron,orSterne,noEnglishmanunderstands“nuances”;weadorethem.Afoolsaystoawoman“Iloveyou”;thewordsmeannothing,hemightaswellsay“OlliBatachor”;itisthenuancewhichgivesforcetothemeaning.’In1839Mrs.AustinwritestoVictorCousin:‘IhaveseenyoungGladstone,adistinguishedTorywhowantsto re-establisheducationbasedon theChurch inquiteaCatholic form’;andwefindhercorrespondingwithMr.Gladstoneonthesubjectofeducation.‘Ifyouarestrongenoughtoprovidemotivesandchecks,’shesaystohim,‘youmaydotwoblessedacts—reformyourclergyandteachyourpeople.Asitis,howfewofthemconceivewhatitistoteachapeople’!Mr.Gladstonerepliesatgreatlength,andinmanyletters,fromwhichwemayquotethispassage:

You are for pressing and urging the people to their profit against theirinclination:soamI.Yousetlittlevalueuponallmerelytechnicalinstruction,uponall that fails to touch the innernatureofman:sodoI.AndhereI findgroundofunionbroadanddeep-laid....

Imorethandoubtwhetheryouridea,namelythatofraisingmantosocialsufficiency and morality, can be accomplished, except through the ancientreligionofChrist;...orwhether,theprinciplesofeclecticismarelegitimatelyapplicable to the Gospel; or whether, if we find ourselves in a state ofincapacity to work through the Church, we can remedy the defect by theadoptionofprinciplescontrarytohers....

ButindeedIammostunfittopursuethesubject;privatecircumstancesofnocommoninterestareuponme,asIhavebecomeveryrecentlyengagedtoMissGlynne,andIhopeyourrecollectionswillenableyouinsomedegreetoexcuseme.

LordJeffreyhasaverycuriousandsuggestiveletteronpopulareducation,inwhichhedenies,orat leastdoubts, theeffectofthiseducationonmorals.He,however,supportsitontheground‘thatitwillincreasetheenjoymentofindividuals,’whichiscertainlyaverysensibleclaim.HumboldtwritestoheraboutanoldIndianlanguagewhichwaspreservedbyaparrot,thetribewhospoke ithavingbeenexterminated, andabout ‘youngDarwin,’whohad justpublishedhisfirstbook.Herearesomeextractsfromherownletters:

IheardfromLordLansdownetwoorthreedaysago.. . .Ithinkheiscequenousavonsdemieux.Hewantsonlytheenergythatgreatambitiongives.

Hesays,‘Weshallhaveaparliamentofrailwaykings’...whatcanbeworsethanthat?—Thedeificationofmoneybyawholepeople.AsLordBroughamsays,we have no right to give ourselves pharisaical airs. Imust give you astorysenttome.Mrs.Hudson,therailwayqueen,wasshownabustofMarcusAureliusatLordWestminster’s,onwhichshesaid,‘Isupposethatisnotthepresent Marquis.’ To goûter this, you must know that the extreme vulgar(hackneycoachmen,etc.)inEnglandpronounce‘marquis’verylike‘Marcus.’

Dec.17th.—WenttoSavigny’s.NobodywastherebutW.Grimmandhiswife and a few men. Grimm told me he had received two volumes ofNorwegianfairy-tales,andthat theyweredelightful.Talkingof them,Isaid,‘Yourchildrenappeartobethehappiestintheworld;theyliveinthemidstoffairy-tales.’ ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘I must tell you about that. When we were atGöttingen,somebodyspoketomylittlesonabouthisfather’sMährchen.Hehadreadthembutneverthoughtoftheirbeingmine.Hecamerunningtome,and saidwith an offended air, “Father, they say youwrote those fairy-tales;surely you never invented such silly rubbish?” He thought it below mydignity.’

SavignytoldaVolksmährchentoo:

‘St. Anselm was grown old and infirm, and lay on the ground amongthorns and thistles.Der liebeGott said to him, “You are very badly lodgedthere;whydon’tyoubuildyourselfahouse?”“BeforeItakethetrouble,”saidAnselm,“IshouldliketoknowhowlongIhavetolive.”“Aboutthirtyyears,”said Der liebe Gott. “Oh, for so short a time,” replied he, “it’s not worthwhile,”andturnedhimselfroundamongthethistles.’

Dr.FrancktoldmeastoryofwhichIhadneverheardbefore.Voltairehadfor some reasonor other taken a grudge against theprophetHabakkuk, andaffected to find inhim thingsheneverwrote.Somebody took theBibleandbegan to demonstrate to him that he was mistaken. ‘C’est égal,’ he saidimpatiently,‘Habakkukétaitcapabledetout!’

Oct.30,1853.

I am not in lovewith the Richtung (tendency) of ourmodern novelists.There is abundance of talent; but writing a pretty, graceful, touching, yetpleasingstoryisthelastthingourwritersnowadaysthinkof.Theirnovelsarepartypamphletsonpoliticalorsocialquestions,likeSybil,orAltonLocke,orMary Barton, or Uncle Tom; or they are the most minute and painfuldissectionsoftheleastagreeableandbeautifulpartsofournature,likethoseofMissBrontë—JaneEyreandVillette;ortheyareakindofmartyrology,likeMrs.Marsh’sEmiliaWyndham,whichmakesyoualmostdoubtwhetheranytormentstheheroinewouldhaveearnedbybeingnaughtycouldexceedthosesheincurredbyhervirtue.

Where,oh!where is thecharming,humane,gentlespirit thatdictated theVicar of Wakefield—the spirit which Goethe so justly calls versöhnend(reconciling),withall theweaknessesandwoesofhumanity? . . .Haveyouread Thackeray’s Esmond? It is a curious and very successful attempt toimitate the style of our old novelists. . . .Which ofMrs.Gore’s novels aretranslated? They are very clever, lively, worldly, bitter, disagreeable, andentertaining. . . .MissAusten’s—are they translated?Theyarenotnew,andare Dutch paintings of every-day people—very clever, very true, veryunæsthetic,butamusing.IhavenotseenRuth,byMrs.Gaskell.Ihearitmuchadmired—andblamed.Itisoneofthemanyproofsofthedesirewomennowhave to friser questionable topics, and to poser insoluble moral problems.George Sand has turned their heads in that direction. I think a few broadscenesorheartyjokesàlaFieldingwereveryharmlessincomparison.Theyconfoundednothing....

TheHeirofRedcliffeIhavenotread....Iamnotworthyofsuperhumanflightsofvirtue—inanovel.Iwanttoseehowpeopleactandsufferwhoareasgood-for-nothing as I ammyself.Then I have the sinful pretension tobeamused,whereasallournovelistswant to reformus,and toshowuswhatahideousplacethisworldis:Mafoi,jenelesaisquetrop,withouttheirhelp.

The Head of the Family has some merits. . . . But there is too muchafflictionandmiseryandfrenzy.Theheroineisoneofthosecreaturesnowsocommon (in novels),who remindme of a poor bird tied to a stake (aswasoncethecruelsportofboys)tobe‘shyed’at(i.e.pelted)tillitdied;onlyourgentlelady-writersattheendofalluntiethepoorbatteredbird,andassureusthatitisnevertheworseforalltheblowsithashad—nay,thebetter—andthatnow,withitsbrokenwingsandtornfeathersandbruisedbody,itisgoingtobequite happy. No, fair ladies, you know that it is not so—resigned, if youplease,butmakemenoshamsofhappinessoutofsuchwrecks.

InpoliticsMrs.AustinwasaphilosophicalTory.Radicalismshedetested,andsheandmostofher friendsseemtohaveregarded itasmoribund. ‘TheRadicalpartyisevidentlyeffete,’shewritestoM.VictorCousin;theprobable‘leader of theTory party’ isMr.Gladstone. ‘The peoplemust be instructed,mustbeguided,mustbe, inshort,governed,’ shewriteselsewhere;and inalettertoDr.Whewell,shesaysthatthestateofthingsinFrancefills‘mewiththedeepestanxietyononepoint,—thepointonwhichthepermanencyofourinstitutionsandoursalvationasanation turn.Areourhigherclassesable tokeeptheleadoftherest?Iftheyare,wearesafe;ifnot,IagreewithmypoordearCharlesBuller—ourturnmustcome.NowCambridgeandOxfordmustreally look to this.’ The belief in the power of theUniversities to stem thecurrentofdemocracyischarming.ShegrewtoregardCarlyleas‘oneofthedissolventsoftheage—asmischievousashisextravaganceswilllethimbe’;

speaksofKingsleyandMauriceas‘pernicious’;andtalksofJohnStuartMillasa‘demagogue.’Shewasnodoctrinaire.‘Oneounceofeducationdemandedisworthapound imposed. It isnouse togive themeatbeforeyougive thehunger.’Shewasdelightedat a letterofSt.Hilaire’s, inwhichhe said, ‘Wehaveasystemandnoresults;youhaveresultsandnosystem.’Yetshehadadeepsympathywiththewantsofthepeople.ShewashorrifiedatsomethingBabbagetoldherofthepopulationofsomeofthemanufacturingtownswhoareworkedoutbeforetheyattaintothirtyyearsofage.‘ButIampersuadedthattheremedywillnot,cannotcomefromthepeople,’sheadds.Manyofherlettersareconcernedwiththequestionofthehighereducationofwomen.ShediscussesBuckle’slectureon‘TheInfluenceofWomenupontheProgressofKnowledge,’ admits to M. Guizot that women’s intellectual life is largelycolouredbytheemotions,butadds:‘Oneisnotpreciselyafoolbecauseone’sopinionsaregreatly influencedbyone’saffections.Theopinionsofmenareoften influenced byworse things.’Dr.Whewell consults her about lecturingwomenonPlato, being slightly afraid lest people should think it ridiculous;Comtewritesherelaborate letterson therelationofwomentoprogress;andMr.Gladstonepromises thatMrs.Gladstonewill carry out atHawarden thesuggestionscontainedinoneofherpamphlets.Shewasalwaysverypractical,andneverlostheradmirationforplainsewing.

Allthroughthebookwecomeacrossinterestingandamusingthings.ShegetsSt.Hilairetoorderalarge,sensiblebonnetforherinParis,whichwasatonce christened the ‘Aristotelian,’ and was supposed to be the only usefulbonnetinEngland.GrotehastoleaveParisafterthecoupd’état,hetellsher,becausehecannotbear tosee theestablishmentofaGreektyrant.AlfreddeVigny,Macaulay,JohnStirling,Southey,AlexisdeTocqueville,Hallam,andJeanJacquesAmpèreallcontributetothesepleasantpages.Sheseemstohaveinspired the warmest feelings of friendship in those who knew her. Guizotwrites toher: ‘MadamedeStaëlused tosay that thebest thing in theworldwasaseriousFrenchman.Iturnthecompliment,andsaythatthebestthingintheworldisanaffectionateEnglishman.HowmuchmoreanEnglishwoman!Givenequalqualities,awomanisalwaysmorecharmingthanaman.’

LucieAustin,afterwardsLadyDuffGordon,wasbornin1821.Herchiefplayfellow was John Stuart Mill, and Jeremy Bentham’s garden was herplayground. Shewas a lovely, romantic child,whowas alwayswanting theflowers to talk to her, and used to invent themost wonderful stories aboutanimals,ofwhomshewaspassionatelyfond.In1834Mrs.AustindecidedonleavingEngland,andSydneySmithwrotehisimmortallettertothelittlegirl:

Lucie,Lucie,mydearchild,don’ttearyourfrock:tearingfrocksisnotofitselfaproofofgenius.Butwriteasyourmotherwrites,actasyourmotheracts: be frank, loyal, affectionate, simple, honest, and then integrity or

laceration of frock is of little import. And Lucie, dear child, mind yourarithmetic.YouknowinthefirstsumofyoursIeversawtherewasamistake.Youhadcarriedtwo(asacabislicensedtodo),andyouought,dearLucie,tohavecarriedbutone.Isthisatrifle?Whatwouldlifebewithoutarithmeticbutasceneofhorrors?YouaregoingtoBoulogne,thecityofdebts,peopledbymenwho have never understood arithmetic. By the time you return, I shallprobably have received my first paralytic stroke, and shall have lost allrecollectionofyou.ThereforeInowgiveyoumypartingadvice—don’tmarryanybodywho has not a tolerable understanding and a thousand a year.AndGodblessyou,dearchild.

At Boulogne she sat next Heine at table d’hôte. ‘He heard me speakGerman tomymother, and soonbegan to talk tome, and then said, “WhenyougobacktoEngland,youcantellyourfriendsthatyouhaveseenHeinrichHeine.”Ireplied,“AndwhoisHeinrichHeine?”Helaughedheartilyandtookno offence atmy ignorance; andwe used to lounge on the end of the piertogether,wherehetoldmestoriesinwhichfish,mermaids,water-spritesandavery funny old French fiddler with a poodle were mixed up in the mostfanciful manner, sometimes humorous, and very often pathetic, especiallywhenthewater-spritesbroughthimgreetingsfromthe“NordSee.”Hewas...sokindtomeandsosarcastictoeveryoneelse.’Twentyyearsafterwardsthelittlegirlwhose ‘brauneAugen’Heinehadcelebrated inhischarmingpoemWennickandeinemHause,usedtogoandseethedyingpoetinParis.‘Itdoesonegood,’hesaidtoher,‘toseeawomanwhodoesnotcarryaboutabrokenheart,tobemendedbyallsortsofmen,likethewomenhere,whodonotseethatatotalwantofheartistheirrealfailing.’Onanotheroccasionhesaidtoher:‘Ihavenowmadepeacewiththewholeworld,andatlastalsowithGod,whosendstheetomeasabeautifulangelofdeath:Ishallcertainlysoondie.’LadyDuffGordonsaid tohim: ‘PoorPoet,doyoustill retainsuchsplendidillusions, that you transform a travelling Englishwoman into Azrael? Thatusednottobethecase,foryoualwaysdislikedus.’Heanswered:‘Yes,Idonot knowwhat possessedme to dislike the English, . . . it reallywas onlypetulance;Ineverhatedthem,indeed,Ineverknewthem.IwasonlyonceinEngland,butknewnoone,andfoundLondonverydreary,andthepeopleandthe streets odious. But England has revenged herself well; she has sentmemostexcellentfriends—thyselfandMilnes,thatgoodMilnes.’

TherearedelightfullettersfromDickyDoylehere,withthemostamusingdrawings,oneofthepresentSirRobertPeelashemadehismaidenspeechinthe House being excellent; and the various descriptions of Hassan’sperformancesareextremelyamusing.Hassanwasablackboy,whohadbeenturned away by his master because he was going blind, and was found byLadyDuffGordononenightsittingonherdoorstep.Shetookcareofhim,andhadhimcured,andheseemstohavebeenaconstantsourceofdelighttoevery

one.Ononeoccasion,‘whenPrinceLouisNapoleon(thelateEmperoroftheFrench)cameinunexpectedly,hegravelysaid:“Please,mylady,Iranoutandbought twopennyworth of sprats for the Prince, and for the honour of thehouse.”’HereisanamusingletterfromMrs.Norton:

MydearLucie,—Wehavenever thankedyou for the redPots,whichnoearlyChristianshouldbewithout,andwhichadd that finishingstroke to thesplendourofourdemesne,whichwassupposed todependonaroc’segg, inless intelligent times.We have now a warm Pompeian appearance, and theconstant contemplation of these classical objects favours the beauty of thefacial line; forwhat canbededucted from thegreat fact, apparent in all thestatesofantiquity,thatstraightnosesweretheancientcustom,butthelogicalassumptionthattheconstanthabitofturningupthenoseatunsightlyobjects—suchastheNationalGalleryandotheroffensiveandobtrusivethings—hasproduced themodern divergence from the true and proper line of profile? Irejoice to think thatwe ourselves are exempt. I attribute this to our love ofPompeianPots(onaccountofthebeautyanddistinctionofthisPot’sshapeIspellitwithabigP),whichhaskeptusstraightinaworldofcrookedness.Thepursuitofprofilesunderdifficulties—howmuchmore rare thanapursuitofknowledge!Talkofsettinggoodexamplesbeforeourchildren!Bah!letussetgoodPompeianPotsbeforeourchildren,andwhentheygrowuptheywillnotdepartfromthem.

LadyDuffGordon’sLettersfromtheCape,andherbrillianttranslationofTheAmberWitch,are,ofcourse,wellknown.Thelatterbookwas,withLadyWilde’s translation of Sidonia the Sorceress,my favourite romantic readingwhen a boy. Her letters from Egypt are wonderfully vivid and picturesque.Hereisaninterestingbitofartcriticism:

SheykhYoosuflaughedsoheartilyoveraprintinanillustratedpaperfroma picture ofHilton’s of Rebekah at thewell, with the old ‘wekeel’ of ‘SidiIbraheem’ (Abraham’s chief servant) kneelingbefore thegirl hewas sent tofetch, likeanoldfoolwithouthis turban,andRebekahandtheothergirls inqueerfancydresses,andthecamelswithsnoutslikepigs.‘Ifthepaintercouldnotgointo“EsSham”toseehowtheArabreallylook,’saidSheykhYoosuf,‘whydidhenotpaintawellinEngland,withgirlslikeEnglishpeasants—atleast itwouldhave lookednatural toEnglishpeople?and thewekeelwouldnotseemso likeamadman ifhehad takenoffahat!’ IcordiallyagreewithYoosuf’sartcriticism.FancypicturesofEasternthingsarehopelesslyabsurd.

Mrs.Rosshascertainlyproducedamostfascinatingvolume,andherbookisoneofthebooksoftheseason.Itiseditedwithtactandjudgment.

POETRYANDPRISON

(PallMallGazette,January3,1889.)

Prison has had an admirable effect onMr.Wilfrid Blunt as a poet. TheLoveSonnetsofProteus,inspiteoftheircleverMusset-likemodernitiesandtheir swift brilliant wit, were but affected or fantastic at best. They weresimply therecordsofpassingmoodsandmoments,ofwhichsomeweresadandothers sweet, and not a few shameful.Their subjectwas not of high orserious import.Theycontainedmuch thatwaswilful andweak. InVinculis,upontheotherhand,isabookthatstirsonebyitsfinesincerityofpurpose,itslofty and impassioned thought, its depth and ardour of intense feeling.‘Imprisonment,’saysMr.Bluntinhispreface,‘isarealityofdisciplinemostusefultothemodernsoul,lappedasitisinphysicalslothandself-indulgence.Like a sickness or a spiritual retreat it purifies and ennobles; and the soulemerges from it stronger andmore self-contained.’ To him, certainly, it hasbeenamodeofpurification.Theopeningsonnets,composedinthebleakcellofGalwayGaol,andwrittendownon theflyleavesof theprisoner’sprayer-book, are full of things nobly conceived and nobly uttered, and show thatthoughMr. Balfourmay enforce ‘plain living’ by his prison regulations, hecannotprevent‘highthinking’orinanywaylimitorconstrainthefreedomofaman’ssoul.Theyare,ofcourse,intenselypersonalinexpression.Theycouldnot fail to be so. But the personality that they reveal has nothing petty orignobleabout it.Thepetulant cryof the shallowegoistwhichwas thechiefcharacteristic of theLoveSonnets of Proteus is not to be found here. In itsplacewehavewildgriefandterriblescorn,fiercerageandflame-likepassion.Suchasonnetasthefollowingcomesoutoftheveryfireofheartandbrain:

Godknows,’twasnotwithafore-reasonedplan

Ilefttheeasefuldwellingsofmypeace,

AndsoughtthiscombatwithungodlyMan,

Andceaselessstillthroughyearsthatdonotcease

HavewarredwithPowersandPrincipalities.

Mynaturalsoul,ereyetthesestrifesbegan,

Wasasasisterdiligenttoplease

Andlovingall,andmostthehumanclan.

Godknowsit.AndHeknowshowtheworld’stears

Touchedme.AndHeiswitnessofmywrath,

Howitwaskindledagainstmurderers

Whoslewforgold,andhowupontheirpath

Imetthem.SincewhichdaytheWorldinarms

Strikesatmylifewithangersandalarms.

Andthissonnethasallthestrangestrengthofthatdespairwhichisbutthepreludetoalargerhope:

Ithoughttodoadeedofchivalry,

Anactofworth,whichhaplyinhersight

Whowasmymistressshouldrecordedbe

Andofthenations.And,whenthusthefight

Falteredandmenonceboldwithfaceswhite

Turnedthisandthatwayinexcusetoflee,

Ionlystood,andbythefoeman’smight

Wasoverborneandmangledcruelly.

ThencrawledItoherfeet,inwhosedearcause

Imadethisventure,and‘Behold,’Isaid,

‘HowIamwoundedfortheeinthesewars.’

Butshe,‘Poorcripple,would’stthouIshouldwed

Alimblesstrunk?’andlaughingturnedfromme.

Yetshewasfair,andhername‘Liberty.’

Thesonnetbeginning

AprisonisaconventwithoutGod—

Poverty,Chastity,Obedience

Itspreceptsare:

isveryfine;andthis,writtenjustafterenteringthegaol,ispowerful:

NakedIcameintotheworldofpleasure,

AndnakedcomeItothishouseofpain.

HereatthegateIlaydownmylife’streasure,

Mypride,mygarmentsandmynamewithmen.

TheworldandIhenceforthshallbeastwain,

Nosoundofmeshallpierceforgoodorill

Thesewallsofgrief.NorshallIhearthevain

Laughterandtearsofthosewholovemestill.

Within,whatnewlifewaitsme!Littleease,

Coldlying,hunger,nightsofwakefulness,

Harshordersgiven,novoicetosootheorplease,

Poorthievesforfriends,forbooksrulesmeaningless;

Thisisthegrave—nay,hell.Yet,LordofMight,

StillinThylightmyspiritshallseelight.

But,indeed,allthesonnetsareworthreading,andTheCanonofAughrim,thelongestpoeminthebook,isamostmasterlyanddramaticdescriptionofthe tragic life of the Irish peasant. Literature is not much indebted to Mr.BalfourforhissophisticalDefenceofPhilosophicDoubt,whichisoneofthedullestbooksweknow,butitmustbeadmittedthatbysendingMr.Blunttogaolhehasconvertedacleverrhymerintoanearnestanddeep-thinkingpoet.Thenarrowconfinesofaprisoncellseemtosuitthe‘sonnet’sscantyplotofground,’andanunjustimprisonmentforanoblecausestrengthensaswellasdeepensthenature.

THEGOSPELACCORDINGTOWALTWHITMAN

(PallMallGazette,January25,1889.)

‘Noonewillgettomyverseswhoinsistsuponviewingthemasaliteraryperformance...orasaimingmainlytowardsartandæstheticism.’‘LeavesofGrass . . . hasmainlybeen theoutcroppingofmyownemotional andotherpersonalnature—anattempt,fromfirsttolast,toputaPerson,ahumanbeing(myself,inthelatterhalfoftheNineteenthCenturyinAmerica,)freely,fullyand truly on record. I could not find any similar personal record in currentliterature that satisfiedme.’ In thesewordsWaltWhitman gives us the trueattitudeweshouldadopttowardshiswork,having,indeed,amuchsanerviewof the value andmeaning of thatwork than either his eloquent admirers ornoisydetractorscanboastofpossessing.Hislastbook,NovemberBoughs,ashe calls it, published in the winter of the oldman’s life, reveals to us, notindeedasoul’stragedy,foritslastnoteisoneofjoyandhope,andnobleandunshaken faith in all that is fine andworthy of such faith, but certainly thedramaofahumansoul,andputsonrecordwithasimplicitythathasinitbothsweetnessandstrengththerecordofhisspiritualdevelopment,andoftheaim

andmotivebothofthemannerandthematterofhiswork.Hisstrangemodeofexpressionisshowninthesepagestohavebeentheresultofdeliberateandself-consciouschoice.The‘barbaricyawp’whichhesentover‘theroofsoftheworld’ somanyyears ago, andwhichwrung fromMr.Swinburne’s lip suchlofty panegyric in song and such loud clamorous censure in prose, appearshereinwhatwillbetomanyanentirelynewlight.ForinhisveryrejectionofartWaltWhitman isanartist.He tried toproduceacertaineffectbycertainmeansandhesucceeded.Thereismuchmethodinwhatmanyhavetermedhismadness,toomuchmethod,indeed,somemaybetemptedtofancy.

Inthestoryofhislife,ashetellsittous,wefindhimattheageofsixteenbeginningadefiniteandphilosophicalstudyofliterature:

Summers and falls, I used to go off, sometimes for aweek at a stretch,downinthecountry,ortoLongIsland’sseashores—there,inthepresenceofoutdoorinfluences,IwentoverthoroughlytheOldandNewTestaments,andabsorb’d (probably to better advantage forme than in any library or indoorroom—itmakessuchdifferencewhereyouread)Shakspere,Ossian,thebesttranslatedversionsIcouldgetofHomer,Eschylus,Sophocles,theoldGermanNibelungen, the ancientHindoo poems, and one or two othermasterpieces,Dante’samongthem.Asithappen’d,Ireadthelattermostlyinanoldwood.TheIliad...IreadfirstthoroughlyonthepeninsulaofOrient,northeastendofLongIsland, inashelter’dhollowofrockandsand,with theseaoneachside. (I have wonder’d since why I was not overwhelm’d by those mightymasters. Likely because I read them, as described, in the full presence ofNature,underthesun,withthefar-spreadinglandscapesandvistas,orthesearollingin.)

EdgarAllanPoe’s amusingbit of dogmatism that, for ouroccasions andour day, ‘there can be no such thing as a long poem,’ fascinated him. ‘Thesame thought had been haunting my mind before,’ he said, ‘but Poe’sargument . . . work’d the sum out, and proved it to me,’ and the Englishtranslation of theBible seems to have suggested to him the possibility of apoeticformwhich,whileretainingthespiritofpoetry,wouldstillbefreefromthe trammels of rhyme and of a definitemetrical system.Having thus, to acertain degree, settled upon what one might call the ‘technique’ ofWhitmanism,hebegan tobroodupon thenatureof that spiritwhichwas togive life to the strange form. The central point of the poetry of the futureseemedtohimtobenecessarily‘anidenticalbodyandsoul,apersonality,’infact, which personality, he tells us frankly, ‘after many considerations andponderings I deliberately settled should be myself.’ However, for the truecreation and revealing of this personality, at first only dimly felt, a newstimulus was needed. This came from the Civil War. After describing themanydreamsandpassionsofhisboyhoodandearlymanhood,hegoesonto

say:

These,however,andmuchmoremighthavegoneonandcometonaught(almost positively would have come to naught,) if a sudden, vast, terrible,directandindirectstimulusfornewandnationaldeclamatoryexpressionhadnot been given to me. It is certain, I say, that although I had made a startbefore,onlyfromtheoccurrenceoftheSecessionWar,andwhatitshow’dmeasby flashesof lightning,with theemotionaldepths it soundedandarous’d(ofcourse,Idon’tmeaninmyownheartonly,Isawitjustasplainlyinothers,in millions)—that only from the strong flare and provocation of that war’ssightsandscenesthefinalreasons-for-beingofanautochthonicandpassionatesongdefinitelycameforth.

IwentdowntothewarfieldsofVirginia...livedthenceforwardincamp—saw great battles and the days and nights afterward—partook of all thefluctuations, gloom, despair, hopes again arous’d, courage evoked—deathreadily risk’d—the cause, too—along and filling those agonistic and luridfollowing years . . . the real parturition years . . . of this henceforthhomogeneousUnion.Without those three or four years and the experiencestheygave,LeavesofGrasswouldnotnowbeexisting.

Having thus obtained the necessary stimulus for the quickening andawakeningofthepersonalself,somedaytobeendowedwithuniversality,hesought to findnewnotesof song, and,passingbeyond themerepassion forexpression,heaimedat‘Suggestiveness’first.

I roundand finish little, if anything;andcouldnot, consistentlywithmyscheme.Thereaderwillhavehisorherparttodo,justasmuchasIhavehadmine.Iseeklesstostateordisplayanythemeorthought,andmoretobringyou,reader,intotheatmosphereofthethemeorthought—theretopursueyourownflight.

Another‘impetus-word’isComradeship,andother‘word-signs’areGoodCheer,ContentandHope.Individuality,especially,hesoughtfor:

Ihaveallow’dthestressofmypoemsfrombeginningtoendtobearuponAmericanindividualityandassistit—notonlybecausethatisagreatlessoninNature, amid all her generalizing laws, but as counterpoise to the levelingtendenciesofDemocracy—andforotherreasons.Defiantofostensibleliteraryandotherconventions,Iavowedlychant‘thegreatprideofmaninhimself,’andpermit it to bemore or less amotif of nearly allmyverse. I think thispride is indispensable to an American. I think it not inconsistent withobedience,humility,deference,andself-questioning.

Anewthemealsowastobefoundintherelationofthesexes,conceivedinanatural,simpleandhealthyform,andheprotestsagainstpoorMr.William

Rossetti’sattempttoBowdleriseandexpurgatehissong.

FromanotherpointofviewLeavesofGrassisavowedlythesongofSexandAmativeness,andevenAnimality—thoughmeaningsthatdonotusuallygo alongwith thesewords are behind all, andwill duly emerge; and all aresought to be lifted into a different light and atmosphere. Of this feature,intentionallypalpableinafewlines,Ishallonlysaytheespousingprincipleofthose lines so gives breath tomywhole scheme that the bulk of the piecesmightaswellhavebeenleftunwrittenwerethoselinesomitted....

Universalasarecertain factsandsymptomsofcommunities . . . there isnothing so rare in modern conventions and poetry as their normalrecognizance. Literature is always calling in the doctor for consultation andconfession,andalwaysgivingevasionsandswathingsuppressionsinplaceofthat‘heroicnudity’onwhichonlyagenuinediagnosis...canbebuilt.AndinrespecttoeditionsofLeavesofGrassintimetocome(ifthereshouldbesuch)I take occasion now to confirm those lineswith the settled convictions anddeliberate renewalsof thirtyyears, and toherebyprohibit, as faraswordofminecandoso,anyelisionofthem.

Butbeyondall thesenotesandmoodsandmotives is the loftyspiritofagrand and free acceptance of all things that are worthy of existence. Hedesired, he says, ‘to formulate a poemwhose every thought or fact shoulddirectlyorindirectlybeorconniveatanimplicitbeliefinthewisdom,health,mystery,beautyofeveryprocess,everyconcreteobject,everyhumanorotherexistence,notonlyconsider’dfromthepointofviewofall,butofeach.’Histwofinalutterancesarethat‘reallygreatpoetryisalways. . . theresultofanationalspirit,andnottheprivilegeofapolish’dandselectfew’;andthat‘thestrongestandsweetestsongsyetremaintobesung.’

Such are the views contained in the opening essay A Backward GlanceO’er Travel’dRoads, as he calls it; but there aremany other essays in thisfascinating volume, some on poets such as Burns and Lord Tennyson, forwhom Walt Whitman has a profound admiration; some on old actors andsingers, the elder Booth, Forrest, Alboni and Mario being his specialfavourites;othersonthenativeIndians,ontheSpanishelement inAmericannationality, onWestern slang, on the poetry of the Bible, and on AbrahamLincoln.ButWaltWhitmanisathisbestwhenheisanalysinghisownworkand making schemes for the poetry of the future. Literature, to him, has adistinctlysocialaim.Heseeks tobuildup themassesby ‘buildingupgrandindividuals.’Andyetliteratureitselfmustbeprecededbynobleformsoflife.‘Thebestliteratureisalwaystheresultofsomethingfargreaterthanitself—nottheherobuttheportraitofthehero.Beforetherecanberecordedhistoryor poem theremust be the transaction.’Certainly, inWaltWhitman’s viewsthereisalargenessofvision,ahealthysanityandafineethicalpurpose.Heis

not to be placed with the professional littérateurs of his country, Bostonnovelists,NewYorkpoetsandthelike.Hestandsapart,andthechiefvalueofhisworkisinitsprophecy,notinitsperformance.Hehasbegunapreludetolargerthemes.Heistheheraldtoanewera.Asamanheistheprecursorofafresh type.He is a factor in theheroic and spiritual evolutionof thehumanbeing.IfPoetryhaspassedhimby,Philosophywilltakenoteofhim.

IRISHFAIRYTALES

(Woman’sWorld,February1889.)

‘The various collectors of Irish folk-lore,’ says Mr. W. B. Yeats in hischarminglittlebookFairyandFolkTalesof theIrishPeasantry,‘have,fromourpointofview,onegreatmerit,andfromthepointofviewofothers,onegreatfault.’

Theyhavemadetheirworkliteratureratherthanscience,andtoldusoftheIrishpeasantry rather thanof theprimitive religionofmankind,orwhateverelse the folk-lorists are on the gad after. To be considered scientists theyshouldhavetabulatedalltheirtalesinformslikegrocers’bills—itemthefairyking, item thequeen. Insteadof this theyhave caught theveryvoiceof thepeople, theverypulseof life,eachgivingwhatwasmostnoticedinhisday.Croker and Lover, full of the ideas of harum-scarum Irish gentility, saweverythinghumorized.The impulseof the Irish literatureof their timecamefrom a class that did not—mainly for political reasons—take the populaceseriously, and imagined the country as a humorist’sArcadia; its passion, itsgloom,itstragedy,theyknewnothingof.Whattheydidwasnotwhollyfalse;theymerelymagnifiedanirresponsibletype,foundoftenestamongboatmen,carmen,andgentlemen’sservants,intothetypeofawholenation,andcreatedthe stage Irishman. The writers of ’Forty-eight, and the famine combined,burst theirbubble.Theirworkhad thedashaswellas theshallownessofanascendantandidleclass,andinCrokeristouchedeverywherewithbeauty—agentleArcadianbeauty.Carleton,apeasantborn,hasinmanyofhisstories,...moreespeciallyinhisghoststories,amuchmoreseriouswaywithhim,forallhishumour.Kennedy,anoldbooksellerinDublin,whoseemstohavehadasomethingofgenuinebeliefinthefairies,comesnextintime.Hehasfarlessliterary faculty,but iswonderfully accurate, givingoften theverywords thestoriesweretoldin.ButthebestbooksinceCrokerisLadyWilde’sAncientLegends.The humour has all givenway to pathos and tenderness.Wehavehere the innermost heart of the Celt in the moments he has grown to lovethrough years of persecution, when, cushioning himself about with dreams,

andhearingfairy-songsinthetwilight,hepondersonthesoulandonthedead.HereistheCelt,onlyitistheCeltdreaming.

Into a volume of verymoderate dimensions, and of extremelymoderateprice, Mr. Yeats has collected together the most characteristic of our Irishfolklorestories,groupingthemtogetheraccordingtosubject.FirstcomeTheTroopingFairies.Thepeasantssaythattheseare‘fallenangelswhowerenotgoodenoughtobesaved,norbadenoughtobelost’;buttheIrishantiquariansseeinthem‘thegodsofpaganIreland,’who,‘whennolongerworshippedandfedwith offerings, dwindled away in the popular imagination, and now areonlyafewspanshigh.’Theirchiefoccupationsarefeasting,fighting,makinglove,andplaying themostbeautifulmusic. ‘Theyhaveonlyone industriouspersonamongstthem,thelepra-caun—theshoemaker.’Itishisdutytorepairtheirshoeswhentheywearthemoutwithdancing.Mr.Yeatstellsusthat‘nearthe village of Ballisodare is a little woman who lived amongst them sevenyears.Whenshecamehomeshehadnotoes—shehaddancedthemoff.’OnMayEve, every seventhyear, they fight for theharvest, for thebest earsofgrainbelongtothem.AnoldmaninformedMr.Yeatsthathesawthemfightonce,and that they tore the thatchoffahouse. ‘Hadanyoneelsebeenneartheywouldmerelyhaveseenagreatwindwhirlingeverythingintotheairasitpassed.’When the wind drives the leaves and straws before it, ‘that is thefairies,andthepeasantstakeofftheirhatsandsay“Godblessthem.”’Whentheyaregay,theysing.ManyofthemostbeautifultunesofIreland‘areonlytheirmusic,caughtupbyeavesdroppers.’NoprudentpeasantwouldhumThePrettyGirlMilkingtheCownearafairyrath,‘fortheyarejealous,anddonotlike to hear their songs on clumsy mortal lips.’ Blake once saw a fairy’sfuneral.Butthis,asMr.Yeatspointsout,musthavebeenanEnglishfairy,fortheIrishfairiesneverdie;theyareimmortal.

Then come The Solitary Fairies, amongst whom we find the littleLepracaunmentionedabove.Hehasgrownveryrich,ashepossessesall thetreasure-crocksburiedinwar-time.Intheearlypartofthiscentury,accordingtoCroker, theyused toshowinTipperarya littleshoeforgottenby thefairyshoemaker.Thentherearetworatherdisreputablelittlefairies—theCluricaun,who gets intoxicated in gentlemen’s cellars, and the Red Man, who playsunkind practical jokes. ‘The Fear-Gorta (Man of Hunger) is an emaciatedphantom that goes through the land in famine time, begging an alms andbringing good luck to the giver.’ TheWater-sheerie is ‘own brother to theEnglishJack-o’-Lantern.’‘TheLeanhaunShee(fairymistress)seekstheloveofmortals. If they refuse, shemust be their slave; if they consent, they arehers,andcanonlyescapebyfindinganothertotaketheirplace.Thefairyliveson their life, and theywaste away.Death is no escape from her. She is theGaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelicpoetsdieyoung,forsheisrestless,andwillnotletthemremainlongonearth.’

ThePookaisessentiallyananimalspirit,andsomehaveconsideredhimtheforefatherofShakespeare’s‘Puck.’Helivesonsolitarymountains,andamongold ruins ‘grownmonstrous withmuch solitude,’ and ‘is of the race of thenightmare.’ ‘Hehasmany shapes—isnowahorse, . . . nowagoat,nowaneagle.Likeallspirits,heisonlyhalfintheworldofform.’Thebansheedoesnot care much for our democratic levelling tendencies; she loves only oldfamilies,anddespisestheparvenuorthenouveauriche.Whenmorethanonebansheeispresent,andtheywailandsinginchorus,itisforthedeathofsomeholyorgreatone.Anomenthatsometimesaccompaniesthebansheeis‘...animmense black coach, mounted by a coffin, and drawn by headless horsesdrivenbyaDullahan.’ADullahan is themost terrible thing in theworld. In1807twoofthesentriesstationedoutsideSt.James’sParksawoneclimbingthe railings, and died of fright. Mr. Yeats suggests that they are possibly‘descendedfromthatIrishgiantwhoswamacrosstheChannelwithhisheadinhisteeth.’

Thencome thestoriesofghosts,ofsaintsandpriests,andofgiants.Theghostsliveinastateintermediarybetweenthisworldandthenext.Theyareheld therebysomeearthly longingoraffection,or somedutyunfulfilled,orangeragainsttheliving;theyarethosewhoaretoogoodforhell,andtoobadfor heaven. Sometimes they ‘take the forms of insects, especially ofbutterflies.’TheauthoroftheParochialSurveyofIreland‘heardawomansaytoachildwhowaschasingabutterfly,“Howdoyouknowitisnotthesoulofyour grandfather?” On November eve they are abroad, and dance with thefairies.’Asforthesaintsandpriests,‘therearenomartyrsinthestories.’Thatancient chronicler Giraldus Cambrensis ‘taunted the Archbishop of Cashel,becausenooneinIrelandhadreceivedthecrownofmartyrdom.“Ourpeoplemay be barbarous,” the prelate answered, “but they have never lifted theirhandsagainstGod’ssaints;butnowthatapeoplehavecomeamongstuswhoknowhowtomakethem(itwasjustaftertheEnglishinvasion),weshallhavemartyrs plentifully.”’ The giantswere the old pagan heroes of Ireland, whogrewbiggerandbigger,justasthegodsgrewsmallerandsmaller.Thefactistheydidnotwaitforofferings;theytookthemvietarmis.

SomeoftheprettieststoriesarethosethatclusterroundTír-na-n-Og.ThisistheCountryoftheYoung,‘forageanddeathhavenotfoundit;neithertearsnor loud laughterhavegonenear it.’ ‘Onemanhasgone thereandreturned.Thebard,Oisen,whowanderedawayonawhitehorse,movingonthesurfaceof the foamwithhis fairyNiamh, lived there threehundredyears, and thenreturnedlookingforhiscomrades.Themomenthisfoottouchedtheearthhisthree hundred years fell on him, and he was bowed double, and his beardswept the ground.Hedescribedhis sojourn in theLandofYouth toPatrickbefore he died.’ Since then, according toMr. Yeats, ‘many have seen it inmanyplaces;somein thedepthsof lakes,andhaveheardrising therefroma

vaguesoundofbells;morehaveseenitfaroffonthehorizon,astheypeeredoutfromthewesterncliffs.Notthreeyearsagoafishermanimaginedthathesawit.’

Mr. Yeats has certainly done his work very well. He has shown greatcriticalcapacity inhisselectionof thestories,andhis little introductionsarecharmingly written. It is delightful to come across a collection of purelyimaginativework,andMr.Yeatshasaveryquick instinct in findingout thebestandthemostbeautifulthingsinIrishfolklore.

Iamalsogladtoseethathehasnotconfinedhimselfentirelytoprose,buthasincludedAllingham’slovelypoemonTheFairies:

Uptheairymountain,

Downtherushyglen,

Wedaren’tgoa-hunting

Forfearoflittlemen;

Weefolk,goodfolk,

Troopingalltogether;

Greenjacket,redcap,

Andwhiteowl’sfeather!

Downalongtherockyshore

Somemaketheirhome,

Theyliveoncrispypancakes

Ofyellowtide-foam;

Someinthereeds

Oftheblackmountainlake,

Withfrogsfortheirwatch-dogs

Allnightawake.

Highonthehill-top

TheoldKingsits;

Heisnowsooldandgray

He’snighlosthiswits.

Withabridgeofwhitemist

Columbkillhecrosses,

Onhisstatelyjourneys

FromSlieveleaguetoRosses;

Orgoingupwithmusic,

Oncoldstarrynights,

TosupwiththeQueen

OfthegayNorthernLights.

Allloversoffairytalesandfolkloreshouldgetthislittlebook.TheHornedWomen, The Priest’s Soul, and TeigO’Kane, are reallymarvellous in theirway;and, indeed, thereishardlyasinglestorythat isnotworthreadingandthinkingover.

MR.W.B.YEATS

(Woman’sWorld,March1889.)

‘TheWanderingsofOisinandOtherPoemsis,Ibelieve,thefirstvolumeofpoems thatMr.Yeatshaspublished, and it is certainly fullofpromise. Itmustbeadmittedthatmanyofthepoemsaretoofragmentary,tooincomplete.They read like stray scenes out of unfinished plays, like things only halfremembered, or, at best, but dimly seen. But the architectonic power ofconstruction,thepowertobuildupandmakeperfectaharmoniouswhole,isnearly always the latest, as it certainly is the highest, development of theartistic temperament. It is somewhat unfair to expect it in early work. OnequalityMr.Yeatshasinamarkeddegree,aqualitythatisnotcommonintheworkofourminorpoets,andisthereforeallthemorewelcometous—Imeantheromantictemper.HeisessentiallyCeltic,andhisverse,atitsbest,isCelticalso.StronglyinfluencedbyKeats,heseemstostudyhowto‘loadeveryriftwithore,’yetismorefascinatedbythebeautyofwordsthanbythebeautyofmetrical music. The spirit that dominates the whole book is perhaps morevaluable than any individual poem or particular passage, but this from TheWanderings ofOisin isworth quoting. It describes the ride to the Island ofForgetfulness:

Andtheearsofthehorsewentsinkingawayinthehollowlight,

For,asdriftfromasailorslowdrowningthegleamsoftheworldandthesun,

Ceasedonourhandsandfaces,onhazelandoakleaf,thelight,

Andthestarswereblottedaboveus,andthewholeoftheworldwasone;

Tillthehorsegaveawhinny;forcumbrouswithstemsofthehazelandoak,

Ofhollies,andhazels,andoak-trees,avalleywasslopingaway

Fromhishoofsintheheavygrasses,withmonstrousslumberingfolk,

Theirmightyandnakedandgleamingbodiesheapedloosewheretheylay.

Morecomelythanmanmaymakethem,inlaidwithsilverandgold,

Werearrowandshieldandwar-axe,arrowandspearandblade,

Anddew-blanchedhorns,inwhosehollowsachildofthreeyearsold

Couldsleeponacouchofrushes,roundandaboutthemlaid.

Andthis,whichdealswiththeoldlegendofthecitylyingunderthewatersofalake,isstrangeandinteresting:

Themakerofthestarsandworlds

Satunderneaththemarketcross,

Andtheoldmenwerewalking,walking,

Andlittleboysplayedpitch-and-toss.

‘Theprops,’saidHe,‘ofstarsandworlds

Areprayersofpatientmenandgood.

Theboys,thewomen,andoldmen,

Listening,upontheirshadowsstood.

Agreyprofessorpassingcried,

‘Howfewthemind’sintemperancerule!

Whatshallowthoughtsaboutdeepthings!

Theworldgrowsoldandplaysthefool.’

Themayorcame,leaninghisleftear—

Thereweresometalkingofthepoor—

Andtohimselfcried,‘Communist!’

Andhurriedtotheguardhousedoor.

Thebishopcamewithopenbook,

Whisperingalongthesunnypath;

Therewassometalkingofman’sGod,

HisGodofstuporandofwrath.

Thebishopmurmured,‘Atheist!

Howsinfullythewickedscoff!’

Andsenttheoldmenontheirway,

Anddrovetheboysandwomenoff.

Theplacewasemptynowofpeople;

Acockcamebyuponhistoes;

Anoldhorselookedacrossthefence,

Andrubbedalongtherailhisnose.

Themakerofthestarsandworlds

ToHisownhousedidHimbetake,

Andonthatcitydroppedatear,

Andnowthatcityisalake.

Mr.Yeatshasagreatdealofinvention,andsomeofthepoemsinhisbook,such as Mosada, Jealousy, and The Island of Statues, are very finelyconceived.Itisimpossibletodoubt,afterreadinghispresentvolume,thathewill some day give uswork of high import.Up to this he has beenmerelytryingthestringsofhisinstrument,runningoverthekeys.

MR.YEATS’SWANDERINGSOFOISIN

(PallMallGazette,July12,1889.)

Books of poetry by youngwriters are usually promissory notes that arenevermet.Nowandthen,however,onecomesacrossavolumethatissofarabove the average that one can hardly resist the fascinating temptation ofrecklessly prophesying a fine future for its author. Such a bookMr.Yeats’sWanderings of Oisin certainly is. Here we find nobility of treatment andnobility of subject-matter, delicacy of poetic instinct and richness ofimaginativeresource.Unequalandunevenmuchoftheworkmustbeadmittedtobe.Mr.Yeatsdoesnottryto‘out-baby’Wordsworth,wearegladtosay;butheoccasionallysucceeds in ‘out-glittering’Keats,and,hereand there, inhisbookwecomeacrossstrangecruditiesandirritatingconceits.Butwhenheisathisbestheisverygood.Ifhehasnotthegrandsimplicityofepictreatment,hehasatleastsomethingofthelargenessofvisionthatbelongstotheepicaltemper.HedoesnotroboftheirstaturethegreatheroesofCelticmythology.

Heisverynaïveandveryprimitiveandspeaksofhisgiantswiththeairofachild.HereisacharacteristicpassagefromtheaccountofOisin’sreturnfromtheIslandofForgetfulness:

AndIrodebytheplainsofthesea’sedge,whereallisbarrenandgrey,

Greysandsonthegreenofthegrassesandoverthedrippingtrees,

Drippinganddoublinglandward,asthoughtheywouldhastenaway

Likeanarmyofoldmenlongingforrestfromthemoanoftheseas.

Longfledthefoam-flakesaroundme,thewindsfledoutofthevast,

Snatchingthebirdinsecret,norknewI,embosomedapart,

Whentheyfrozetheclothonmybodylikearmourrivetedfast,

ForRemembrance,liftingherleanness,keenedinthegatesofmyheart.

Tillfatteningthewindsofthemorning,anodourofnew-mownhay

Came,andmyforeheadfelllow,andmytearslikeberriesfelldown;

Laterasoundcame,halflostinthesoundofashorefaraway,

Fromthegreatgrass-barnaclecalling,andlatertheshore-windsbrown.

IfIwereasIoncewas,thegoldhoovescrushingthesandandtheshells,

Comingforthfromthesealikethemorningwithredlipsmurmuringasong,

Notcoughing,myheadonmyknees,andpraying,andwrothwiththebells,

IwouldleavenoSaint’sheadonhisbody,thoughspacioushislandswereandstrong.

Makingwayfromthekindlingsurges,Irodeonabridle-path,

Muchwonderingtoseeuponallhands,ofwattleandwoodworkmade,

Thybell-mountedchurches,andguardlessthesacredcairnandtheearth,

Andasmallandfeeblepopulacestoopingwithmattockandspade.

Inoneortwoplacesthemusicisfaulty,theconstructionissometimestooinvolved, and theword ‘populace’ in the last line is rather infelicitous; but,whenallissaid,itisimpossiblenottofeelinthesestanzasthepresenceofthetruepoeticspirit.

MR.WILLIAMMORRIS’SLASTBOOK

(PallMallGazette,March2,1889.)

Mr.Morris’slastbookisapieceofpureartworkmanshipfrombeginningto end, and thevery remotenessof its style from the common languageandordinaryinterestsofourdaygivestothewholestoryastrangebeautyandanunfamiliarcharm.It iswritteninblendedproseandverse, likethemediæval‘cante-fable,’ and tells the tale of theHouseof theWolfings in its strugglesagainstthelegionariesofRomethenadvancingintoNorthernGermany.ItisakindofSaga,andthelanguageinwhichthefolk-epic,aswemaycallit,issetforth recalls the antique dignity and directness of our English tongue fourcenturiesago.Fromanartisticpointofviewitmaybedescribedasanattempttoreturnbyaself-consciousefforttotheconditionsofanearlierandafresherage.Attemptsofthiskindarenotuncommoninthehistoryofart.Fromsomesuch feeling came the Pre-Raphaelite movement of our own day and thearchaisticmovementoflaterGreeksculpture.Whentheresultisbeautifulthemethod is justified, and no shrill insistence upon a supposed necessity forabsolutemodernityofformcanprevailagainstthevalueofworkthathastheincomparableexcellenceofstyle.Certainly,Mr.Morris’sworkpossessesthisexcellence. His fine harmonies and rich cadences create in the reader thatspiritbywhichalonecanitsownspiritbeinterpreted,awakeinhimsomethingofthetemperofromanceand,bytakinghimoutofhisownage,placehiminatruerandmorevitalrelationtothegreatmasterpiecesofalltime.Itisabadthing foranage tobealways looking inart for itsown reflection. It iswellthat,nowandthen,wearegivenworkthatisnoblyimaginativeinitsmethodand purely artistic in its aim. As we read Mr. Morris’s story with its finealternations of verse and prose, its decorative and descriptive beauties, itswonderfulhandlingof romanticandadventurous themes,wecannotbut feelthatweareasfarremovedfromtheignoblefictionaswearefromtheignoblefactsofourownday.Webreatheapurerair,andhavedreamsofatimewhenlifehadakindofpoeticalqualityofitsown,andwassimpleandstatelyandcomplete.

ThetragicinterestofTheHouseoftheWolfingscentresroundthefigureofThiodolf,thegreatheroofthetribe.Thegoddesswholoveshimgiveshim,ashegoestobattleagainsttheRomans,amagicalhauberkonwhichreststhisstrangefate:thathewhowearsitshallsavehisownlifeanddestroythelifeofhis land. Thiodolf, finding out this secret, brings the hauberk back to theWood-Sun,assheiscalled,andchoosesdeathforhimselfratherthantheruinofhiscause,andsothestoryends.

But Mr. Morris has always preferred romance to tragedy, and set thedevelopment of action above the concentration of passion. His story is likesome splendid old tapestry crowded with stately images and enriched withdelicateanddelightfuldetail.Theimpressionitleavesonusisnotofasingle

central figure dominating the whole, but rather of a magnificent design towhich everything is subordinated, and by which everything becomes ofenduring import. It is thewholepresentationof theprimitive life that reallyfascinates.What in other hands would have been mere archæology is heretransformedbyquickartisticinstinctandmadewonderfulforus,andhumanandfullofhighinterest.Theancientworldseemstohavecometolifeagainforourpleasure.

Ofaworksolargeandsocoherent,completedwithnolessperfectionthanit is conceived, it is difficult by mere quotation to give any adequate idea.This,however,mayserveasanexampleof itsnarrativepower.ThepassagedescribesthevisitofThiodolftotheWood-Sun:

Themoonlightlayinagreatfloodonthegrasswithout,andthedewwasfalling in the coldest hour of the night, and the earth smelled sweetly: thewholehabitationwasasleepnow,andtherewasnosoundtobeknownasthesoundofanycreature,savethatfromthedistantmeadowcamethelowingofacow that had lost her calf, and that awhite owlwas flitting about near theeaves of the Roof with her wild cry that sounded like the mocking ofmerrimentnowsilent.Thiodolfturnedtowardthewood,andwalkedsteadilythroughthescatteredhazel-trees,andtherebyintothethickofthebeech-trees,whosebolesgrewsmoothandsilver-grey,highandclose-set:andsoonandonhewentasonegoingbyawell-knownpath,thoughtherewasnopath,tillallthemoonlightwasquenchedunderthecloseroofofthebeech-leaves,thoughyetforallthedarkness,nomancouldgothereandnotfeelthattheroofwasgreenabovehim.Stillhewentonindespiteofthedarkness,tillatlasttherewasaglimmerbeforehim,thatgrewgreatertillhecameuntoasmallwood-lawnwhereontheturfgrewagain,thoughthegrasswasbutthin,becauselittlesunlight got to it, so close and thickwere the tall trees round about it. . . .NoughtlookedThiodolfeitherattheheavensabove,orthetrees,ashestrodefromoffthehusk-strewnfloorofthebeechwoodontothescantygrassofthelawn,buthiseyeslookedstraightbeforehimatthatwhichwasamidmostofthe lawn:and littlewonderwas that; for thereonastonechairsatawomanexceeding fair, clad in glittering raiment, her hair lying as pale in themoonlightonthegreystoneasthebarleyacresintheAugustnightbeforethereaping-hookgoesinamongstthem.Shesatthereasthoughshewereawaitingsomeone,andhemadenostopnorstay,butwentstraightuptoher,andtookher inhisarms,andkissedhermouthandhereyes,andshehimagain;andthenhesathimselfdownbesideher.

AsanexampleofthebeautyoftheversewewouldtakethisfromthesongoftheWood-Sun.Itatleastshowshowperfectlythepoetryharmonizeswiththeprose,andhownaturalthetransitionisfromtheonetotheother:

InmanyasteadDoomdwelleth,norsleepethdaynornight:

Therimofthebowlshekisseth,andbeareththechamberinglight

Whenthekingsofmenwendhappytothebride-bedfromtheboard.

Itislittletosaythatshewendeththeedgeofthegrindedsword,

Whenaboutthehousehalfbuildedshehangethmanyaday;

Theshipfromthestrandsheshoveth,andonhiswontedway

Bythemountainhunterfarethwherehisfootne’erfailedbefore:

Sheiswherethehighbankcrumblesatlastontheriver’sshore:

Themower’sscytheshewhetteth;andlulleththeshepherdtosleep

Wherethedeadlyling-wormwakenethinthedesertofthesheep.

NowwethatcomeoftheGod-kinofherredesforourselveswewot,

Butherwillwiththelivesofmen-folkandtheirendingknowwenot.

SothereforeIbidtheenotfearforthyselfofDoomandherdeed.

Butforme:andIbidtheehearkentothehelpingofmyneed.

Orelse—Artthouhappyinlife,orlusteththoutodie

Intheflowerofthydays,whenthygloryandthylongingbloomonhigh?

Thelastchapterofthebookinwhichwearetoldofthegreatfeastmadefor the dead is so finely written that we cannot refrain from quoting thispassage:

Now was the glooming falling upon the earth; but the Hall was brightwithinevenastheHall-Sunhadpromised.ThereinwassetforththeTreasureoftheWolfings;fairclothswerehungonthewalls,goodlybroideredgarmentsonthepillars:goodlybrazencauldronsandfair-carvenchestsweresetdowninnookswheremencouldseethemwell,andvesselsofgoldandsilverweresetallupanddownthetablesofthefeast.Thepillarsalsowerewreathedwithflowers, and flowers hung garlanded from the walls over the precioushangings; sweet gums and spices were burning in fair-wrought censers ofbrass, and so many candles were alight under the Roof, that scarce had itlookedmore ablaze when the Romans had litten the faggots therein for itsburningamidstthehurryoftheMorningBattle.

There then theyfell to feasting,hallowing in thehigh-tideof their returnwithvictoryintheirhands:andthedeadcorpsesofThiodolfandOtter,cladinpreciousglitteringraiment,lookeddownonthemfromtheHigh-seat,andthekindreds worshipped them and were glad; and they drank the Cup to thembeforeanyothers,weretheyGodsormen.

In days of uncouth realism and unimaginative imitation, it is a highpleasure to welcome work of this kind. It is a work in which all lovers ofliteraturecannotfailtodelight.

SOMELITERARYNOTES

(Woman’sWorld,April1889.)

‘In modern life,’ said Matthew Arnold once, ‘you cannot well enter amonastery; but you can enter theWordsworth Society.’ I fear that this willsoundtomanyasomewhatuninvitingdescriptionofthisadmirableandusefulbody, whose papers and productions have been recently published byProfessor Knight, under the title ofWordsworthiana. ‘Plain living and highthinking’arenotpopular ideals.Mostpeopleprefer to live in luxury, and tothink with the majority. However, there is really nothing in the essays andaddresses of the Wordsworth Society that need cause the public anyunnecessaryalarm;anditisgratifyingtonotethat,althoughthesocietyisstillin the first blush of enthusiasm, it has not yet insisted upon our admiringWordsworth’s inferior work. It praises what is worthy of praise, reverenceswhat should be reverenced, and explainswhat does not require explanation.Onepaper isquitedelightful; it is from thepenofMr.Rawnsley, anddealswithsuchreminiscencesofWordsworthasstilllingeramongthepeasantryofWestmoreland.Mr.Rawnsleygrewup,hetellsus,intheimmediatevicinityofthe present Poet-Laureate’s old home in Lincolnshire, and had been struckwiththeswiftnesswithwhich,

Asyearbyyearthelabourertills

Hiswontedglebe,orlopstheglades,

thememoriesof thepoetof theSomersbyWoldhad ‘faded fromoff thecircleofthehills’—had,indeed,beenastonishedtonotehowlittlerealinterestwastakeninhimorhisfame,andhowseldomhisworksweremetwithinthehousesof therichorpoor in theveryneighbourhood.Accordingly,whenhecame to reside in the Lake Country, he endeavoured to find out what ofWordsworth’smemoryamongthemenoftheDalesstilllingeredon—howfarhewas still amoving presence among them—how far hisworks hadmadetheir way into the cottages and farmhouses of the valleys. He also tried todiscover how far the race ofWestmoreland andCumberland farm-folk—the‘Matthews’andthe‘Michaels’ofthepoet,asdescribedbyhim—wererealorfancypictures,orhowfarthecharactersoftheDalesmenhadbeenalteredinanyremarkablemannerby tourist influencesduring the thirty-twoyears that

havepassedsincetheLakepoetwaslaidtorest.

With regard to the latter point, it will be remembered that Mr. Ruskin,writingin1876,saidthat‘theBorderpeasantry,paintedwithabsolutefidelitybyScottandWordsworth,’are,ashitherto,ascarcelyinjuredrace;thatinhisfields at Coniston he had men who might have fought with Henry v. atAgincourtwithoutbeingdistinguishedfromanyofhisknights;thathecouldtake his tradesmen’s word for a thousand pounds, and need never latch hisgardengate;andthathedidnotfearmolestation,inwoodoronmoor,forhisgirlguests.Mr.Rawnsley,however,foundthatacertainbeautyhadvanishedwhichthesimpleretirementofoldvalleydaysfiftyyearsagogavetothemenamongwhomWordsworthlived.‘Thestrangers,’hesays,‘withtheirgiftsofgold,theirvulgarity,andtheirrequirements,havemuchtoanswerfor.’AsfortheirimpressionsofWordsworth,tounderstandthemonemustunderstandthevernacularof theLakeDistrict. ‘WhatwasMr.Wordsworth like inpersonalappearance?’saidMr.Rawnsleyoncetoanoldretainer,whostilllivesnotfarfromRydalMount. ‘Hewas a ugly-faäcedman, and ameän-liver,’was theanswer; but all that was really meant was that he was a man of markedfeatures,andledaverysimplelifeinmattersoffoodandraiment.Anotheroldman,whobelieved thatWordsworth ‘gotmostofhispoetryoutofHartley,’spokeofthepoet’swifeas‘averyonpleasantwoman,veryonpleasantindeed.A close-fisted woman, that’s what she was.’ This, however, seems to havebeenmerelyatributetoMrs.Wordsworth’sadmirablehousekeepingqualities.

The first person interviewed byMr.Rawnsleywas an old ladywho hadbeen once in service at Rydal Mount, and was, in 1870, a lodging-housekeeper at Grasmere. She was not a very imaginative person, as may begatheredfromthefollowinganecdote:—Mr.Rawnsley’ssistercameinfromalate evening walk, and said, ‘O Mrs. D---, have you seen the wonderfulsunset?’Thegoodladyturnedsharplyroundand,drawingherself toherfullheight,asifmortallyoffended,answered:‘No,miss;I’matidycook,Iknow,and“theysay”adecentishbodyforalandlady,butIdon’tknawnothingaboutsunsets or them sort of things, they’ve never been in my line.’ HerreminiscenceofWordsworthwasasworthyoftraditionasitwasexplanatory,fromherpointofview,of themethod inwhichWordsworthcomposed, andwashelpedinhislaboursbyhisenthusiasticsister.‘Well,youknow,’shesaid,‘Mr.Wordsworthwent humming and booing about, and she,MissDorothy,keptclosebehinthim,andshepickedupthebitsashe let ’emfall,andtak’’emdown,andput’emtogetheronpaperforhim.Andyoumaybeverywellsureashowshedidn’tunderstandnormakesenseoutof’em,andIdoubtthathedidn’tknowmuchaboutthemeitherhimself,but,howivver,there’sagreatmanyfolkasdo,Idaresay.’OfWordsworth’shabitoftalkingtohimself,andcomposing aloud, we hear a great deal. ‘Was Mr. Wordsworth a sociableman?’askedMr.RawnsleyofaRydalfarmer.‘Wudsworth,fora’hehadnoa

pridenornowt,’wastheanswer,‘wasamanwhowasquiteonetohissel,yekna.Hewasnotamanasfolkscouldcrackwi’,nornotamanascouldcrackwi’ folks.But therewas another thing askep’ folkoff, hehad a ter’blegirtdeepvoice,andyemightseehisfaaceagaanforlongenuff.I’veknoanfolks,village lads and lasses, coming over by old road above, which runs fromGrasmeretoRydal, flayta’most todeath therebyWishingGaate tohear thegirt voice agroanin’ andmutterin’ and thunderin’of a still evening.Andhehadawayofstandin’quitestillbytherockthereint’pathunderRydal,andfolkscouldhearsoundslikeawildbeastcomingfromtherocks,andchilderwerescaredfittobedeada’most.’

Wordsworth’sdescriptionofhimselfconstantlyrecurstoone:

Andwhoishewithmodestlooks,

Andcladinsoberrussetgown?

Hemurmursbytherunningbrooks,

Amusicsweeterthantheirown;

Heisretiredasnoontidedew,

Orfountaininanoondaygrove.

Butthecorroborationcomesinstrangeguise.Mr.Rawnsleyaskedoneofthe Dalesmen about Wordsworth’s dress and habits. This was the reply:‘WudsworthworeaJemCrow,neverseedhiminaboxerinmylife,—aJemCrowandanoldbluecloakwashis rig, andas forhishabits,hehadnoan;niverknewhimwithapot i’hishand,orapipe i’hismouth.Buthewasagreätskater,fora’that—noanbetterintheseparts—why,hecouldcuthisownnaäme upo’ the ice, could Mr. Wudsworth.’ Skating seems to have beenWordsworth’soneformofamusement.Hewas‘overfecklessi’hishands’—couldnotdriveorride—‘notabitoffishinhim,’and‘nowtofamountaineer.’But he could skate. The rapture of the timewhen, as a boy, onEsthwaite’sfrozenlake,hehad

wheeledabout,

Proudandexultinglikeanuntiredhorse

Thatcaresnotforhishome,and,shodwithsteel,

Hadhissedalongthepolishedice,

wascontinued,Mr.Rawnsley tellsus, intomanhood’s laterday;andMr.Rawnsleyfoundmanyproofsthattheskillthepoethadgained,when

Notseldomfromtheuproarheretired,

Intoasilentbay,orsportively

Glancedsideways,leavingthetumultuousthrong

Tocutacrossthereflexofastar,

wasofsuchakindastoastonishthenativesamongwhomhedwelt.Therecollection of a fall he once had, when his skate caught on a stone, stilllingersinthedistrict.AboyhadbeensenttosweepthesnowfromtheWhiteMossTarnforhim.‘DidMr.Wudsworthgieyeowt?’hewasasked,whenhereturnedfromhislabour.‘Na,butIseedhimtumlle,though!’wastheanswer.‘He was a ter’ble girt skater, was Wudsworth now,’ says one of Mr.Rawnsley’s informants; ‘hewouldputonehand i’hisbreast (heworea frillshirti’themdays),andt’otherhandi’hiswaistband,sameasshepherdsdoestokeeptheirhandswarm,andhewouldstandupstraightandswayandswingawaygrandly.’

Ofhispoetry theydidnot thinkmuch,andwhateverwasgood in it theyascribed tohiswife,hissister,andHartleyColeridge.Hewrotepoetry, theysaid,‘becausehecouldn’thelpit—becauseitwashishobby’—forsheerlove,andnotformoney.Theycouldnotunderstandhisdoingwork‘fornowt,’andheld his occupation in somewhat light esteembecause it did not bring in ‘adealo’brass to thepocket.’ ‘Didyouever readhispoetry,orseeanybooksaboutinthefarmhouses?’askedMr.Rawnsley.Theanswerwascurious:‘Ay,ay, timeor two.Butya’reweelaware there’spotryandpotry.There’spotrywi’ali’lebitpleasantinit,andpotrysicasamancanlaughatorthechilderunderstand,andsomeastakesadealofmasterytomakeoutwhat’ssaid,andadealofWudsworth’swasthissort,yekna.Youcouldtellfratheman’sfaacehispotrywouldniverhavenolaughinit.Hispotrywasquitedifferentworkfromli’leHartley.Hartley’udgoarunningalongbesideo’thebrooksandmakhis,andgoainthefirstoppendoorandwritewhathehadgotupo’paper.ButWudsworth’spotrywasrealhardstuff,andbidedadealofmakking,andhe’dkeep it in his head for long enough.Eh, but it’s queer,mon, differentwaysfolkshesofmakingpotrynow....NotbutwhatMr.Wudsworthdidn’tstandvery high, and was a well-spoken man enough.’ The best criticism onWordsworththatMr.Rawnsleyheardwasthis:‘Hewasanopen-airman,andagreatcriticoftrees.’

There are many useful and well-written essays in Professor Knight’svolume, butMr. Rawnsley’s is far themost interesting of all. It gives us agraphicpictureofthepoetasheappearedinoutwardsemblanceandmannertothoseaboutwhomhewrote.

MR.SWINBURNE’SPOEMSANDBALLADS(thirdseries)

(PallMallGazette,June27,1889.)

Mr.Swinburneonce set his ageon fireby avolumeofveryperfect andvery poisonous poetry. Then he became revolutionary and pantheistic, andcriedoutagainstthosethatsitinhighplacesbothinheavenandonearth.ThenheinventedMarieStuartandlaiduponustheheavyburdenofBothwell.Thenheretiredtothenurseryandwrotepoemsaboutchildrenofasomewhatover-subtlecharacter.Heisnowextremelypatriotic,andmanagestocombinewithhispatriotismastrongaffectionfortheToryparty.Hehasalwaysbeenagreatpoet.Buthehashis limitations, thechiefofwhich is,curiouslyenough, theentire lackof any senseof limit.His song is nearly always too loud for hissubject. His magnificent rhetoric, nowhere more magnificent than in thevolumethatnowliesbeforeus,concealsratherthanreveals.Ithasbeensaidofhim,andwith truth, thathe isamasterof language,butwithstillgreatertruthitmaybesaidthatLanguageishismaster.Wordsseemtodominatehim.Alliterationtyrannizesoverhim.Meresoundoftenbecomeshislord.Heissoeloquentthatwhateverhetouchesbecomesunreal.

LetusturntothepoemontheArmada:

Thewingsof the south-westwindarewidened; thebreathofhis ferventlips,

Morekeenthanasword’sedge,fiercerthanfire,fallsfullontheplungingships.

Thepilotisheofthenorthwardflight,theirstayandtheirsteersmanhe;

A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength toconstrainthesea.

Andthehostofthemtremblesandquails,caughtfastinhishandasabirdinthetoils:

Forthewrathandthejoythatfulfilhimaremightierthanman’s,whomheslaysandspoils.

Andvainly,withheartdividedinsunder,andlabourofwaveringwill,

Thelordoftheirhosttakescounselwithhopeifhaplytheirstarshinestill.

Somehowwe seem to haveheard all this before.Does it come from thefactthatofallthepoetswhoeverlivedMr.Swinburneistheonewhoisthemostlimitedinimagery?Itmustbeadmittedthatheisso.Hehaswearieduswithhismonotony.‘Fire’andthe‘Sea’arethetwowordseveronhislips.Wemustconfessalsothatthisshrillsinging—marvellousasitis—leavesusoutofbreath.HereisapassagefromapoemcalledAWordwiththeWind:

Bethesunshinebaredorveiled,theskysuperborshrouded,

Stillthewaters,laxandlanguid,chafedandfoiled,

Keenandthwarted,paleandpatient,clothedwithfireorclouded,

Vextheirheartinvain,orsleeplikeserpentscoiled.

Theetheylookfor,blindandbaffled,wanwithwrathandweary,

Blownforeverbackbywindsthatrockthebird:

Windsthatseamewsbreastsubduethesea,andbidthedreary

Wavesbeweakasheartsmadesickwithhopedeferred.

Lettheclarionsoundfromwestward,letthesouthbeartoken

Howthegloriesofthygodheadsoundandshine:

Bidthelandrejoicetoseetheland-wind’sbroadwingsbroken,

Bidtheseatakecomfort,bidtheworldbethine.

Verse of this kind may be justly praised for the sustained strength andvigourofitsmetricalscheme.Itspurelytechnicalexcellenceisextraordinary.But is itmore thananoratorical tourdeforce?Does it reallyconveymuch?Doesitcharm?Couldwereturntoitagainandagainwithrenewedpleasure?Wethinknot.Itseemstousempty.

Ofcourse,wemustnot lookto thesepoemsforanyrevelationofhumanlife. To be at one with the elements seems to beMr. Swinburne’s aim. Heseekstospeakwiththebreathofwindandwave.Theroarofthefireiseverinhisears.Heputshisclarion to the lipsofSpringandbidsherblow,and theEarthwakesfromherdreamsandtellshimhersecret.Heisthefirstlyricpoetwhohastriedtomakeanabsolutesurrenderofhisownpersonality,andhehassucceeded.Wehear thesong,butweneverknow thesinger.Weneverevengetnear tohim.Outof the thunderand splendourofwordshehimself saysnothing. We have often had man’s interpretation of Nature; now we haveNature’s interpretationofman,and shehascuriously little to say.ForceandFreedomformhervaguemessage.Shedeafensuswithherclangours.

ButMr.Swinburne isnotalways riding thewhirlwindandcallingoutofthedepthsof the sea.Romanticballads inBorderdialecthavenot lost theirfascination for him, and this last volume contains some very splendidexamplesofthiscuriousartificialkindofpoetry.Theamountofpleasureonegetsoutofdialectisamatterentirelyoftemperament.Tosay‘mither’insteadof‘mother’seemstomanytheacmeofromance.Thereareotherswhoarenotquitesoreadytobelieveinthepathosofprovincialism.Thereis,however,nodoubtofMr.Swinburne’smasteryover the form,whether the formbequitelegitimateornot.TheWearyWeddinghas theconcentrationandcolourofagreatdrama,andthequaintnessofitsstylelendsitsomethingofthepowerof

agrotesque.TheballadofTheWitch-Mother, amediævalMedeawhoslaysher childrenbecauseher lord is faithless, isworth readingon account of itshorriblesimplicity.TheBride’sTragedy,withitsstrangerefrainof

In,in,outandin,

Blawsthewindandwhirlsthewhin:

TheJacobite’sExile—

OlordlyflowtheLoireandSeine,

AndloudthedarkDurance:

ButbonniershinethebraesofTyne

Thana’thefieldsofFrance;

AndthewavesofTillthatspeaksaestill

Gleamgoodlierwheretheyglance:

The Tyneside Widow and A Reiver’s Neck-verse are all poems of fineimaginativepower, and someof themare terrible in their fierce intensity ofpassion.There is no danger ofEnglish poetry narrowing itself to a form solimitedastheromanticballadindialect.Itisoftoovitalagrowthforthat.SowemaywelcomeMr. Swinburne’smasterly experimentswith the hope thatthingswhichare inimitablewillnotbe imitated.Thecollection iscompletedby a few poems on children, some sonnets, a threnody on John WilliamInchbold,andalovelylyricentitledTheInterpreters.

Inhumanthoughthaveallthingshabitation;

Ourdays

Laugh,lower,andlightenpast,andfindnostation

Thatstays.

Butthoughtandfaitharemightierthingsthantime

Canwrong,

Madesplendidoncebyspeech,ormadesublime

Bysong.

Remembrance,thoughthetideofchangethatrolls

Waxhoary,

Givesearthandheaven,forsong’ssakeandthesoul’s,

Theirglory.

Certainly,‘forsong’ssake’weshouldloveMr.Swinburne’swork,cannot,indeed, help loving it, somarvellous amusic-maker is he. But what of thesoul?Forthesoulwemustgoelsewhere.

ACHINESESAGE

(Speaker,February8,1890.)

An eminentOxford theologian once remarked that his only objection tomodernprogresswasthatitprogressedforwardinsteadofbackward—aviewthat so fascinated a certain artistic undergraduate that he promptlywrote anessayuponsomeunnoticedanalogiesbetween thedevelopmentof ideasandthemovements of the common sea-crab. I feel sure theSpeakerwill not besuspected even by its most enthusiastic friends of holding this dangerousheresy of retrogression. But I must candidly admit that I have come to theconclusionthat themostcausticcriticismofmodernlifeIhavemetwithforsometimeisthatcontainedinthewritingsofthelearnedChuangTzŭ,recentlytranslatedintothevulgartonguebyMr.HerbertGiles,HerMajesty’sConsulatTamsui.

Thespreadofpopulareducationhasnodoubtmadethenameofthisgreatthinkerquitefamiliartothegeneralpublic,but,forthesakeofthefewandtheover-cultured, I feel itmyduty tostatedefinitelywhohewas,and togiveabriefoutlineofthecharacterofhisphilosophy.

Chuang Tzŭ, whose name must carefully be pronounced as it is notwritten, was born in the fourth century before Christ, by the banks of theYellowRiver,intheFloweryLand;andportraitsofthewonderfulsageseatedon the flyingdragonof contemplationmay still be foundon the simple tea-trays and pleasing screens of many of our most respectable suburbanhouseholds.Thehonestratepayerandhishealthyfamilyhavenodoubtoftenmocked at the dome-like forehead of the philosopher, and laughed over thestrangeperspectiveofthelandscapethatliesbeneathhim.Iftheyreallyknewwhohewas,theywouldtremble.ChuangTzŭspenthislifeinpreachingthegreatcreedofInaction,andinpointingouttheuselessnessofallusefulthings.‘Donothing,andeverythingwillbedone,’wasthedoctrinewhichheinheritedfrom his greatmaster LaoTzŭ. To resolve action into thought, and thoughtinto abstraction, was his wicked transcendental aim. Like the obscurephilosopher of early Greek speculation, he believed in the identity ofcontraries;likePlato,hewasanidealist,andhadalltheidealist’scontemptforutilitariansystems;hewasamystic likeDionysius,andScotusErigena,andJacobBöhme,andheld,withthemandwithPhilo,thattheobjectoflifewasto

get rid of self-consciousness, and to become the unconscious vehicle of ahigher illumination. In fact,ChuangTzŭmaybesaid tohavesummedup inhimself almost every mood of European metaphysical or mystical thought,fromHeraclitusdown toHegel.Therewassomething inhimof theQuietistalso;andinhisworshipofNothinghemaybesaidtohaveinsomemeasureanticipated those strange dreamers of mediæval days who, like Tauler andMaster Eckhart, adored the purum nihil and the Abyss. The great middleclasses of this country, towhom, aswe all know, our prosperity, if not ourcivilization, is entirely due,may shrug their shoulders over all this and ask,withacertainamountofreason,whatistheidentityofcontrariestothem,andwhy they should get rid of that self-consciousness which is their chiefcharacteristic.ButChuangTzŭwassomethingmorethanametaphysicianandan illuminist. He sought to destroy society, as we know it, as the middleclasses know it; and the sad thing is that he combines with the passionateeloquenceofaRousseauthescientificreasoningofaHerbertSpencer.Thereisnothingofthesentimentalistinhim.Hepitiestherichmorethanthepoor,ifheevenpitiesatall,andprosperityseemstohimastragicathingassuffering.Hehasnothingofthemodernsympathywithfailures,nordoesheproposethattheprizesshouldalwaysbegivenonmoralgroundstothosewhocomeinlastintherace.Itistheraceitselfthatheobjectsto;andasforactivesympathy,whichhasbecometheprofessionofsomanyworthypeopleinourownday,hethinksthattryingtomakeothersgoodisassillyanoccupationas‘beatingadruminaforestinordertofindafugitive.’Itisamerewasteofenergy.Thatisall.While,asforathoroughlysympatheticman,heis,intheeyesofChuangTzŭ,simplyamanwhoisalwaystryingtobesomebodyelse,andsomissestheonlypossibleexcuseforhisownexistence.

Yes;incredibleasitmayseem,thiscuriousthinkerlookedbackwithasighof regret to a certain Golden Age when there were no competitiveexaminations,nowearisomeeducational systems,nomissionaries, nopennydinners for thepeople, noEstablishedChurches, noHumanitarianSocieties,nodulllecturesaboutone’sdutytoone’sneighbour,andnotedioussermonsabout any subject at all. In those ideal days, he tells us, people loved eachotherwithoutbeingconsciousofcharity,orwritingtothenewspapersaboutit.They were upright, and yet they never published books upon Altruism. Asevery man kept his knowledge to himself, the world escaped the curse ofscepticism;andaseverymankepthisvirtuestohimself,nobodymeddledinother people’s business. They lived simple and peaceful lives, and werecontentedwithsuchfoodandraimentastheycouldget.Neighbouringdistrictswereinsight,and‘thecocksanddogsofonecouldbeheardintheother,’yetthepeoplegrewoldanddiedwithouteverinterchangingvisits.Therewasnochattering about clevermen, andno laudationof goodmen.The intolerablesense of obligationwas unknown.The deeds of humanity left no trace, and

theiraffairswerenotmadeaburdenforprosperitybyfoolishhistorians.

In an evil moment the Philanthropist made his appearance, and broughtwithhim themischievous ideaofGovernment. ‘There is sucha thing,’ saysChuangTzŭ,‘asleavingmankindalone:therehasneverbeensuchathingasgoverning mankind.’ All modes of government are wrong. They areunscientific,because theyseek toalter thenaturalenvironmentofman; theyareimmoralbecause,byinterferingwiththeindividual,theyproducethemostaggressive forms of egotism; they are ignorant, because they try to spreadeducation;theyareself-destructive,becausetheyengenderanarchy.‘Ofold,’he tells us, ‘the Yellow Emperor first caused charity and duty to one’sneighbour to interfere with the natural goodness of the heart of man. Inconsequenceofthis,YaoandShunworethehairofftheirlegsinendeavouringto feed their people. They disturbed their internal economy in order to findroomforartificialvirtues.Theyexhaustedtheirenergiesinframinglaws,andthey were failures.’ Man’s heart, our philosopher goes on to say, may be‘forceddownorstirredup,’andineithercasetheissueisfatal.Yaomadethepeopletoohappy,sotheywerenotsatisfied.Chiehmadethemtoowretched,sotheygrewdiscontented.Theneveryonebegantoargueaboutthebestwayof tinkeringup society. ‘It is quite clear that somethingmust bedone,’ theysaid to each other, and therewas a general rush for knowledge.The resultsweresodreadfulthattheGovernmentofthedayhadtobringinCoercion,andasaconsequenceofthis‘virtuousmensoughtrefugeinmountaincaves,whilerulersofstatesattremblinginancestralhalls.’Then,wheneverythingwasinastateofperfectchaos,theSocialReformersgotuponplatforms,andpreachedsalvationfromtheillsthattheyandtheirsystemhadcaused.ThepoorSocialReformers! ‘Theyknownotshame,norwhat it is toblush,’ is theverdictofChuangTzŭuponthem.

The economic question, also, is discussed by this almond-eyed sage atgreat length, and he writes about the curse of capital as eloquently as Mr.Hyndman.Theaccumulationofwealth is tohim theoriginofevil. Itmakesthestrongviolent,andtheweakdishonest.Itcreatesthepettythief,andputshim in a bamboo cage. It creates the big thief, and sets him on a throne ofwhitejade.Itisthefatherofcompetition,andcompetitionisthewaste,aswellasthedestruction,ofenergy.Theorderofnatureisrest,repetition,andpeace.Wearinessandwarare the resultsofanartificial societybaseduponcapital;andthericherthissocietygets,themorethoroughlybankruptitreallyis,forithasneithersufficientrewardsforthegoodnorsufficientpunishmentsforthewicked. There is also this to be remembered—that the prizes of the worlddegradeamanasmuchastheworld’spunishments.Theageisrottenwithitsworshipof success.As for education, truewisdomcanneitherbe learnt nortaught. It is a spiritual state, towhich hewho lives in harmonywith natureattains. Knowledge is shallow if we compare it with the extent of the

unknown,andonlytheunknowableisofvalue.Societyproducesrogues,andeducationmakes one rogue cleverer than another. That is the only result ofSchool Boards. Besides, of what possible philosophic importance caneducation be, when it serves simply to make each man differ from hisneighbour?Wearriveultimatelyatachaosofopinions,doubteverything,andfall intothevulgarhabitofarguing;andit isonlytheintellectuallylostwhoeverargue.LookatHuiTzu.‘Hewasamanofmanyideas.Hisworkwouldfill five carts. But his doctrines were paradoxical.’ He said that there werefeathersinanegg,becausetherewerefeathersonachicken;thatadogcouldbeasheep,becauseallnameswerearbitrary;thattherewasamomentwhenaswift-flying arrowwasneithermovingnor at rest; that if you took a stick afootlong,andcutitinhalfeveryday,youwouldnevercometotheendofit;andthatabayhorseandaduncowwerethree,becausetakenseparatelytheyweretwo,andtakentogethertheywereone,andoneandtwomadeupthree.‘Hewaslikeamanrunningaracewithhisownshadow,andmakinganoiseinordertodrowntheecho.Hewasaclevergadfly,thatwasall.Whatwastheuseofhim?’

Morality is, of course, a different thing. It went out of fashion, saysChuang Tzŭ, when people began to moralize. Men ceased then to bespontaneousandtoactonintuition.Theybecamepriggishandartificial,andweresoblindas tohaveadefinitepurpose in life.ThencameGovernmentsand Philanthropists, those two pests of the age. The former tried to coercepeople into being good, and so destroyed the natural goodness ofman.Thelatter were a set of aggressive busybodies who caused confusion whereverthey went. They were stupid enough to have principles, and unfortunateenough to act up to them. They all came to bad ends, and showed thatuniversalaltruism isasbad in its resultsasuniversalegotism. ‘They trippedpeople up over charity, and fettered them with duties to their neighbours.’Theygushedovermusic,andfussedoverceremonies.Asaconsequenceofallthis,theworldlostitsequilibrium,andhasbeenstaggeringeversince.

Who,then,accordingtoChuangTzŭ,istheperfectman?Andwhatishismanneroflife?Theperfectmandoesnothingbeyondgazingattheuniverse.Headoptsnoabsoluteposition.‘Inmotion,heislikewater.Atrest,heislikeamirror. And, like Echo, he answers only when he is called upon.’ He letsexternals take care of themselves. Nothing material injures him; nothingspiritual punishes him. Hismental equilibrium gives him the empire of theworld.He isnever the slaveofobjectiveexistences.Heknows that, ‘just asthebestlanguageisthatwhichisneverspoken,sothebestactionisthatwhichis never done.’ He is passive, and accepts the laws of life. He rests ininactivity, and sees theworld become virtuous of itself. He does not try to‘bringabouthisowngooddeeds.’Heneverwasteshimselfoneffort.Heisnottroubledaboutmoraldistinctions.Heknowsthatthingsarewhattheyare,and

thattheirconsequenceswillbewhattheywillbe.Hismindisthe‘speculumofcreation,’andheiseveratpeace.

All this is of course excessively dangerous, but wemust remember thatChuang Tzŭ lived more than two thousand years ago, and never had theopportunity of seeing our unrivalled civilization.And yet it is possible that,werehetocomebacktoearthandvisitus,hemighthavesomethingtosaytoMr.BalfourabouthiscoercionandactivemisgovernmentinIreland;hemightsmileatsomeofourphilanthropicardours,andshakehisheadovermanyofourorganizedcharities;theSchoolBoardmightnotimpresshim,norourraceforwealth stir his admiration; hemightwonder at our ideals, and grow sadoverwhatwehaverealized.PerhapsitiswellthatChuangTzŭcannotreturn.

Meanwhile, thanks toMr. Giles andMr. Quaritch, we have his book toconsole us, and certainly it is a most fascinating and delightful volume.ChuangTzŭisoneoftheDarwiniansbeforeDarwin.Hetracesmanfromthegerm,andseeshisunitywithnature.Asananthropologisthe is excessivelyinteresting, and he describes our primitive arboreal ancestor living in treesthrough his terror of animals stronger than himself, and knowing only oneparent, themother,with all the accuracy of a lecturer at theRoyal Society.LikePlato,headoptsthedialogueashismodeofexpression,‘puttingwordsintootherpeople’smouths,’hetellsus,‘inordertogainbreadthofview.’Asastory-teller he is charming. The account of the visit of the respectableConfucius to the great Robber Chê is most vivid and brilliant, and it isimpossible not to laugh over the ultimate discomfiture of the sage, thebarrennessofwhosemoralplatitudes is ruthlesslyexposedby thesuccessfulbrigand. Even in his metaphysics, Chuang Tzŭ is intensely humorous. Hepersonifieshisabstractions,andmakesthemactplaysbeforeus.TheSpiritoftheClouds,when passing eastward through the expanse of air, happened tofall inwith theVitalPrinciple.The latterwas slappinghis ribs andhoppingabout:whereupontheSpiritof theCloudssaid, ‘Whoareyou,oldman,andwhatareyoudoing?’‘Strolling!’repliedtheVitalPrinciple,withoutstopping,forallactivitiesareceaseless.‘Iwanttoknowsomething,’continuedtheSpiritoftheClouds.‘Ah!’criedtheVitalPrinciple,inatoneofdisapprobation,andamarvellousconversationfollows,thatisnotunlikethedialoguebetweentheSphinx and theChimera in Flaubert’s curious drama. Talking animals, also,havetheirplaceinChuangTzŭ’sparablesandstories,andthroughmythandpoetryandfancyhisstrangephilosophyfindsmusicalutterance.

Ofcourseitissadtobetoldthatitisimmoraltobeconsciouslygood,andthatdoinganythingistheworstformofidleness.Thousandsofexcellentandreallyearnestphilanthropistswouldbeabsolutelythrownupontheratesifweadoptedtheviewthatnobodyshouldbeallowedtomeddleinwhatdoesnotconcern him. The doctrine of the uselessness of all useful thingswould not

merely endanger our commercial supremacy as a nation, but might bringdiscredit upon many prosperous and serious-minded members of the shop-keeping classes. What would become of our popular preachers, our ExeterHallorators,ourdrawing-roomevangelists,ifwesaidtothem,inthewordsofChuangTzŭ, ‘Mosquitoeswillkeepamanawakeallnightwith theirbiting,andjustinthesamewaythistalkofcharityanddutytoone’sneighbourdrivesusnearly crazy.Sirs, strive tokeep theworld to its ownoriginal simplicity,and, as the wind bloweth where it listeth, so let Virtue establish itself.Wherefore this undue energy?’Andwhatwould be the fate of governmentsandprofessionalpoliticiansifwecametotheconclusionthatthereisnosuchthing as governing mankind at all? It is clear that Chuang Tzŭ is a verydangerouswriter, and the publication of his book in English, two thousandyears afterhisdeath, is obviouslypremature, andmaycause agreatdealofpain tomany thoroughly respectableand industriouspersons. Itmaybe truethat the ideal of self-culture and self-development, which is the aim of hisscheme of life, and the basis of his scheme of philosophy, is an idealsomewhatneededbyanagelikeours,inwhichmostpeoplearesoanxioustoeducate their neighbours that they have actually no time left in which toeducatethemselves.Butwoulditbewisetosayso?ItseemstomethatifweonceadmittedtheforceofanyoneofChuangTzŭ’sdestructivecriticismsweshouldhavetoputsomecheckonournationalhabitofself-glorification;andtheonlythingthateverconsolesmanforthestupidthingshedoesisthepraisehealwaysgiveshimself fordoing them.Theremay,however,bea fewwhohavegrownweariedof thatstrangemodern tendencythatsetsenthusiasmtodotheworkoftheintellect.Tothese,andsuchasthese,ChuangTzŭwillbewelcome.Butletthemonlyreadhim.Letthemnottalkabouthim.Hewouldbedisturbingatdinner-parties,andimpossibleatafternoonteas,andhiswholelifewasaprotestagainstplatformspeaking.‘Theperfectmanignoresself;thedivine man ignores action; the true sage ignores reputation.’ These are theprinciplesofChuangTzŭ.

MR.PATER’SAPPRECIATIONS

(Speaker,March22,1890.)

WhenIfirsthadtheprivilege—andIcountitaveryhighone—ofmeetingMr.WalterPater,hesaid tome,smiling, ‘Whydoyoualwayswritepoetry?Whydoyounotwriteprose?Proseissomuchmoredifficult.’

ItwasduringmyundergraduatedaysatOxford;daysoflyricalardourandof studious sonnet-writing; dayswhen one loved the exquisite intricacy and

musicalrepetitionsoftheballade,andthevillanellewithitslinkedlong-drawnechoes and its curious completeness; days when one solemnly sought todiscover the proper temper in which a triolet should be written; delightfuldays,inwhich,Iamgladtosay,therewasfarmorerhymethanreason.

ImayfranklyconfessnowthatatthetimeIdidnotquitecomprehendwhatMr.Paterreallymeant;anditwasnottillIhadcarefullystudiedhisbeautifuland suggestive essays on the Renaissance that I fully realized what awonderfulself-consciousarttheartofEnglishprose-writingreallyis,ormaybe made to be. Carlyle’s stormy rhetoric, Ruskin’s winged and passionateeloquence,hadseemedtometospringfromenthusiasmratherthanfromart.Ido not think I knew then that even prophets correct their proofs. As forJacobeanprose,Ithoughtittooexuberant;andQueenAnneproseappearedtometerriblybald,andirritatinglyrational.ButMr.Pater’sessaysbecametome‘thegoldenbookofspiritandsense,theholywritofbeauty.’Theyarestillthistome.Itispossible,ofcourse,thatImayexaggerateaboutthem.IcertainlyhopethatIdo;forwherethereisnoexaggerationthereisnolove,andwherethereisnolovethereisnounderstanding.It isonlyabout thingsthatdonotinterestone,thatonecangiveareallyunbiassedopinion;andthisisnodoubtthereasonwhyanunbiassedopinionisalwaysvalueless.

But I must not allow this brief notice of Mr. Pater’s new volume todegenerate into an autobiography. I remember being told in America thatwhenever Margaret Fuller wrote an essay upon Emerson the printers hadalwaystosendouttoborrowsomeadditionalcapital‘I’s,’andIfeelitrighttoacceptthistransatlanticwarning.

Appreciations,inthefineLatinsenseoftheword,isthetitlegivenbyMr.Pater to his book, which is an exquisite collection of exquisite essays, ofdelicatelywroughtworks of art—someof thembeing almostGreek in theirpurityofoutlineandperfectionofform,othersmediævalintheirstrangenessofcolourandpassionatesuggestion,andallofthemabsolutelymodern,inthetruemeaningof the termmodernity.Forhe towhomthepresent is theonlythingthatispresent,knowsnothingoftheageinwhichhelives.Torealizethenineteenth century onemust realize every century that has preceded it, andthathascontributedtoitsmaking.Toknowanythingaboutoneself,onemustknow all about others. There must be no mood with which one cannotsympathize,nodeadmodeoflifethatonecannotmakealive.Thelegaciesofhereditymaymakeusalterourviewsofmoralresponsibility,buttheycannotbutintensifyoursenseofthevalueofCriticism;forthetruecriticishewhobearswithinhimselfthedreamsandideasandfeelingsofmyriadgenerations,andtowhomnoformofthoughtisalien,noemotionalimpulseobscure.

Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the least successful, of theessays contained in the present volume is that on Style. It is the most

interestingbecause it is theworkofonewhospeakswith thehighauthoritythatcomesfromthenoblerealizationofthingsnoblyconceived.Itistheleastsuccessful, because the subject is too abstract.A true artist likeMr.Pater ismostfelicitouswhenhedealswith theconcrete,whosevery limitationsgivehimfinerfreedom,whiletheynecessitatemoreintensevision.Andyetwhatahighidealiscontainedinthesefewpages!Howgooditisforus,inthesedaysof popular education and facile journalism, to be reminded of the realscholarship that isessential to theperfectwriter,who, ‘beinga true loverofwords for their own sake, a minute and constant observer of theirphysiognomy,’willavoidwhat ismererhetoric,orostentatiousornament,ornegligentmisuseofterms,orineffectivesurplusage,andwillbeknownbyhistactofomission,byhisskilfuleconomyofmeans,byhisselectionandself-restraint,andperhapsaboveallbythatconsciousartisticstructurewhichistheexpression of mind in style. I think I have been wrong in saying that thesubjectistooabstract.InMr.Pater’shandsitbecomesveryrealtousindeed,and he shows us how, behind the perfection of a man’s style, must lie thepassionofaman’ssoul.

Asonepassestotherestof thevolume,onefindsessaysonWordsworthandonColeridge,onCharlesLambandonSirThomasBrowne,onsomeofShakespeare’splaysandontheEnglishkingsthatShakespearefashioned,onDanteRossetti, andonWilliamMorris.As thatonWordsworth seems tobeMr. Pater’s lastwork, so that on the singer of theDefence ofGuenevere iscertainly his earliest, or almost his earliest, and it is interesting tomark thechangethathastakenplaceinhisstyle.Thischangeis,perhaps,atfirstsightnotveryapparent.In1868wefindMr.Paterwritingwiththesameexquisitecare for words, with the same studied music, with the same temper, andsomethingofthesamemodeoftreatment.But,ashegoeson,thearchitectureof the stylebecomes richerandmorecomplex, theepithetmorepreciseandintellectual.Occasionallyonemaybeinclinedtothinkthatthereis,hereandthere,asentencewhichissomewhatlong,andpossibly,ifonemayventuretosayso,alittleheavyandcumbersomeinmovement.Butifthisbeso,itcomesfrom those side-issues suddenly suggested by the idea in its progress, andreallyrevealingtheideamoreperfectly;orfromthosefelicitousafter-thoughtsthat give a fuller completeness to the central scheme, and yet conveysomethingofthecharmofchance;orfromadesiretosuggestthesecondaryshadesofmeaningwithalltheiraccumulatingeffect,andtoavoid,itmaybe,the violence and harshness of too definite and exclusive an opinion. For inmattersofart,atanyrate,thoughtisinevitablycolouredbyemotion,andsoisfluid rather than fixed,and, recognizing itsdependenceupon themoodsandupon thepassionof finemoments,willnotaccept therigidityofascientificformula or a theological dogma. The critical pleasure, too, that we receivefrom tracing, through what may seem the intricacies of a sentence, the

workingoftheconstructiveintelligence,mustnotbeoverlooked.Assoonaswehaverealizedthedesign,everythingappearsclearandsimple.Afteratime,these long sentences ofMr.Pater’s come to have the charmof an elaboratepieceofmusic,andtheunityofsuchmusicalso.

IhavesuggestedthattheessayonWordsworthisprobablythemostrecentbitofworkcontained in thisvolume. Ifonemightchoosebetweensomuchthatisgood,Ishouldbeinclinedtosayitisthefinestalso.TheessayonLambiscuriouslysuggestive;suggestive,indeed,ofasomewhatmoretragic,moresombre figure, thanmenhave beenwont to think of in connectionwith theauthoroftheEssaysofElia.ItisaninterestingaspectunderwhichtoregardLamb,butperhapshehimselfwouldhavehadsomedifficultyinrecognizingtheportraitgivenofhim.Hehad,undoubtedly,greatsorrows,ormotivesforsorrow, but he could console himself at a moment’s notice for the realtragediesof lifebyreadinganyoneof theElizabethan tragedies,provided itwasinafolioedition.TheessayonSirThomasBrowneisdelightful,andhasthestrange,personal,fancifulcharmoftheauthoroftheReligioMedici,Mr.Pateroftencatchingthecolourandaccentandtoneofwhateverartist,orworkofart,hedealswith.ThatonColeridge,withitsinsistenceonthenecessityofthecultivationoftherelative,asopposedtotheabsolutespirit inphilosophyand in ethics, and its high appreciation of the poet’s true position in ourliterature,isinstyleandsubstanceaveryblamelesswork.Graceofexpressionand delicate subtlety of thought and phrase, characterize the essays onShakespeare.ButtheessayonWordsworthhasaspiritualbeautyofitsown.Itappeals,nottotheordinaryWordsworthianwithhisuncriticaltemper,andhisgross confusion of ethical andæsthetical problems, but rather to thosewhodesiretoseparatethegoldfromthedross,andtoreachatthetrueWordsworththrough themass of tedious and prosaicwork that bears his name, and thatserves often to conceal him from us. The presence of an alien element inWordsworth’sart is,ofcourse,recognizedbyMr.Pater,buthetouchesonitmerelyfromthepsychologicalpointofview,pointingouthowthisqualityofhigher and lower moods gives the effect in his poetry ‘of a power notaltogetherhisown,orunderhiscontrol’;apowerwhichcomesandgoeswhenitwills,‘sothattheoldfancywhichmadethepoet’sartanenthusiasm,aformofdivinepossession,seemsalmosttrueofhim.’Mr.Pater’searlieressayshadtheirpurpureipanni,soeminentlysuitable forquotation,suchas thefamouspassageonMonaLisa,andthatotherinwhichBotticelli’sstrangeconceptionoftheVirginissostrangelysetforth.Fromthepresentvolumeitisdifficulttoselect anyonepassage inpreference toanotheras speciallycharacteristicofMr.Pater’streatment.This,however,isworthquotingatlength.Itcontainsatrutheminentlysuitableforourage:

Thattheendoflifeisnotactionbutcontemplation—beingasdistinctfromdoing—a certain disposition of the mind: is, in some shape or other, the

principleofallthehighermorality.Inpoetry,inart,ifyouenterintotheirtruespiritatall,youtouchthisprincipleinameasure;these,bytheirsterility,areatypeofbeholdingforthemerejoyofbeholding.Totreatlifeinthespiritofartis tomake lifea thing inwhichmeansandendsare identified: toencouragesuchtreatment,thetruemoralsignificanceofartandpoetry.Wordsworth,andotherpoetswhohavebeen likehim inancientormore recent times,are themasters, theexperts, in thisartof impassionedcontemplation.Theirwork isnottoteachlessons,orenforcerules,oreventostimulateustonobleends,buttowithdrawthe thoughtsforawhilefromthemeremachineryof life, tofixthem,withappropriateemotions,onthespectacleofthosegreatfactsinman’sexistencewhichnomachineryaffects,‘onthegreatanduniversalpassionsofmen, the most general and interesting of their occupations, and the entireworldofnature’—on‘theoperationsof theelementsand theappearancesofthevisibleuniverse,onstormandsunshine,ontherevolutionsoftheseasons,oncoldandheat,onlossoffriendsandkindred,oninjuriesandresentments,on gratitude and hope, on fear and sorrow.’ To witness this spectacle withappropriate emotions is the aimof all culture; and of these emotions poetrylikeWordsworth’s is a great nourisher and stimulant.He sees nature full ofsentiment and excitement; he sees men and women as parts of nature,passionate,excited,instrangegroupingandconnectionwiththegrandeurandbeauty of the naturalworld:—images, in his ownwords, ‘ofmen suffering;amidawfulformsandpowers.’

Certainly the real secret ofWordsworthhas never beenbetter expressed.Afterhaving readand rereadMr.Pater’s essay—for it requires re-reading—onereturnstothepoet’sworkwithanewsenseofjoyandwonder,andwithsomethingofeagerand impassionedexpectation.Andperhaps thismightberoughlytakenasthetestortouchstoneofthefinestcriticism.

Finally, one cannot help noticing the delicate instinct that has gone tofashion the brief epilogue that ends this delightful volume. The differencebetween the classical and romantic spirits in art has often, and with muchover-emphasis, been discussed. But with what a light sure touch does Mr.Paterwrite of it!How subtle and certain are his distinctions! If imaginativeprosebereallythespecialartofthiscentury,Mr.Patermustrankamongstourcentury’smostcharacteristicartists. Incertain thingshestandsalmostalone.Theagehasproducedwonderfulprosestyles, turbidwith individualism,andviolentwithexcessofrhetoric.ButinMr.Pater,asinCardinalNewman,wefind the union of personality with perfection. He has no rival in his ownsphere, andhehas escapeddisciples.And this, notbecausehehasnotbeenimitated,butbecauseinartsofineashisthereissomethingthat,initsessence,isinimitable.

SENTENTIAE

(ExtractedfromReviews)

Perhaps he will write poetry some day. If he does we would earnestlyappealtohimtogiveupcallingacock‘proudchanticleer.’Fewsynonymsaresodepressing.

Ayoungwritercangainmorefromthestudyofaliterarypoetthanfromthestudyofalyrist.

I have seen many audiences more interesting than the actors, and haveoftenheardbetterdialogueinthefoyerthanIhaveonthestage.

TheDramaticCollegemighttakeuptheeducationofspectatorsaswellasthat of players, and teach people that there is a proper moment for thethrowingofflowersaswellasapropermethod.

Life remains eternally unchanged; it is art which, by presenting it to usunder various forms, enables us to realize its many-sidedmysteries, and tocatchthequalityofitsmostfiery-colouredmoments.Theoriginality,Imean,whichweask from theartist, isoriginalityof treatment,notof subject. It isonlytheunimaginativewhoeverinvents.Thetrueartistisknownbytheusehemakesofwhatheannexes,andheannexeseverything.

IfIventuredonabitofadvice,whichIfeelmostreluctanttodo,itwouldbetotheeffectthatwhileoneshouldalwaysstudythemethodofagreatartist,one should never imitate hismanner. Themanner of an artist is essentiallyindividual, the method of an artist is absolutely universal. The first ispersonality, which no one should copy; the second is perfection, which allshouldaimat.

Acriticwhoposedasanauthorityonfieldsportsassuredmethatnooneever went out hunting when roses were in full bloom. Personally, that isexactly theseason Iwouldselect for thechase,but then IknowmoreaboutflowersthanIdoaboutfoxes,andlikethemmuchbetter.

Thenineteenthcenturymaybeaprosaicage,butwefearthat,ifwearetojudgebythegeneralrunofnovels,itisnotanageofprose.

Perhapsinthiscenturywearetooaltruistictobereallyartistic.

I am led to hope that theUniversitywill some day have a theatre of itsown, and that proficiency in scene-paintingwill be regarded as a necessaryqualificationfortheSladeProfessorship.Onthestage,literaturereturnstolifeandarchæologybecomesart.A fine theatre is a templewhereall themuses

maymeet,asecondParnassus.

Itwouldbesadindeedifthemanyvolumesofpoemsthatareeveryyearpublished in London found no readers but the authors themselves and theauthors’relations;andtherealphilanthropistshouldrecognizeitaspartofhisdutiestobuyeverynewbookofversethatappears.

Afifteen-linesonnetisasbadamonstrosityasasonnetindialogue.

Antiquarianbooks,asarule,areextremelydullreading.Theygiveusfactswithoutform,sciencewithoutstyle,andlearningwithoutlife.

TheRomanpatron,infact,kepttheRomanpoetalive,andwefancythatmany of our modern bards rather regret the old system. Better, surely, thehumiliationof thesportula than the indignityofabill forprinting!Better toacceptacountry-houseasagift thantobe indebt toone’s landlady!Onthewhole,thepatronwasanexcellentinstitution,ifnotforpoetryatleastforthepoets;...everypoetlongsforaMæcenas.

ThetwothingstheGreeksvaluedmostinactorsweregraceofgestureandmusic of voice. Indeed, to gain these virtues their actors used to subjectthemselvestoaregularcourseofgymnasticsandaparticularregimeofdiet,healthbeing to theGreeksnotmerelyaqualityofart,butaconditionof itsproduction.

One should not be too severe on English novels: they are the onlyrelaxationoftheintellectuallyunemployed.

Most modern novels are more remarkable for their crime than for theirculture.

Notthatatramp’smodeoflifeisatallunsuitedtothedevelopmentofthepoetic faculty. Far from it! He, if any one, should possess that freedom ofmoodwhich is so essential to the artist, for he has no taxes to pay and norelations to worry him. The man who possesses a permanent address, andwhose name is to be found in the Directory, is necessarily limited andlocalized. Only the tramp has absolute liberty of living. Was not Homerhimselfavagrant,anddidnotThespisgoaboutinacaravan?

In art as in life the law of heredity holds good. On est toujours fils dequelqu’un.

He has succeeded in studying a fine poet without stealing from him—averydifficultthingtodo.

Moroccoisasortofparadoxamongcountries,forthoughitlieswestwardofPiccadilly,yet it ispurelyOriental incharacter,and though it isbut threehours’sailfromEurope,yetitmakesyoufeel(tousetheforcibleexpressionofanAmericanwriter)asifyouhadbeentakenupbythescruffoftheneck

andsetdownintheOldTestament.

Aschildrenthemselvesaretheperfectflowersoflife,soacollectionofthebestpoemswrittenonchildrenshouldbethemostperfectofallanthologies.

No English poet has written of children with more love and grace anddelicacy[thanHerrick].HisOdeontheBirthofOurSaviour,hispoemToHisSaviour,AChild:APresentbyaChild,hisGracesforChildren,andhismanylovely epitaphs on children are all of them exquisite works of art, simple,sweetandsincere.

Asthecross-benchesformarefugeforthosewhohavenomindstomakeup,sothosewhocannotmakeuptheirmindsalwaystaketoHomericstudies.ManyofourleadershavesulkedintheirtentswithAchillesaftersomeviolentpolitical crisis and, enraged at the fickleness of fortune,more than one hasgivenuptopoetrywhatwasobviouslymeantforparty.

Therearetwowaysofmisunderstandingapoem.Oneistomisunderstanditandtheothertopraiseitforqualitiesitdoesnotpossess.

Mostmoderncalendarsmarthesweetsimplicityofourlivesbyremindingusthateachdaythatpassesistheanniversaryofsomeperfectlyuninterestingevent.Itistruethatsuchaphorismsas

Gravesareamother’sdimples

Whenwecomplain,

or

Theprimrosewearsaconstantsmile,

Andcaptivetakestheheart,

canhardlybesaidtobelongtotheveryhighestorderofpoetry,still,theyare preferable, on thewhole, to the date of HannahMore’s birth, or of theburning downofExeterChange, or of the opening of theGreatExhibition;andthoughitwouldbedangeroustomakecalendarsthebasisofCulture,weshould all bemuch improved if we began each daywith a fine passage ofEnglishpoetry.

Eventhemostuninterestingpoetcannotsurvivebadediting.

Prefixed to the Calendar is an introductory note . . . displaying thatintimateacquaintancewithSappho’slostpoemswhichistheprivilegeonlyofthosewhoarenotacquaintedwithGreekliterature.

Mediocrecriticsareusuallysafeintheirgeneralities;itisintheirreasonsandexamplesthattheycomesolamentablytogrief.

Allprematurepanegyricsbringtheirownpunishmentuponthemselves.

Noonesurvivesbeingover-estimated.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the first true men of lettersAmerica produced, and as such deserves a high place in any history ofAmericancivilization.Toalandoutofbreathinitsgreedforgainheshowedtheexampleof a lifedevotedentirely to the studyof literature;his lectures,thoughnotbyanymeansbrilliant,werestillproductiveofmuchgood;hehadamost charmingandgraciouspersonality, andhewrote someprettypoems.But his poems are not of the kind that call for intellectual analysis or forelaboratedescriptionor,indeed,foranyseriousdiscussionatall.

ThoughthePsalmofLifebeshoutedfromMainetoCalifornia,thatwouldnotmakeittruepoetry.

Longfellowhasnoimitators,forofechoesthemselvestherearenoechoesanditisonlystylethatmakesaschool.

Poe’smarvellouslinesToHelen,apoemasbeautifulasaGreekgemandasmusicalasApollo’slute.

Goodnovelistsaremuchrarerthangoodsons,andnoneofuswouldpartreadilywithMicawberandMrs.Nickleby.Still, the fact remains that amanwhowasaffectionateandlovingtohischildren,generousandwarm-heartedtohis friends, and whose books are the very bacchanalia of benevolence,pilloried his parents to make the groundlings laugh, and this fact everybiographerofDickensshouldfaceand,ifpossible,explain.

Noageeverborrowstheslangofitspredecessor.

WhatwedonotknowaboutShakespeareisamostfascinatingsubject,andone thatwould fill avolume,butwhatwedoknowabouthim is someagreandinadequatethatwhenitiscollectedtogethertheresultisratherdepressing.

Theyshowawantofknowledgethatmustbetheresultofyearsofstudy.

Rossetti’s was a great personality, and personalities such as his do noteasilysurviveshillingprimers.

WearesorrytofindanEnglishdramaticcriticmisquotingShakespeare,aswehadalwaysbeenofopinionthatthiswasaprivilegereservedspeciallyforourEnglishactors.

Biographiesofthiskindroblifeofmuchofitsdignityanditswonder,addtodeathitselfanewterror,andmakeonewishthatallartwereanonymous.

Apillarof fire to thefewwhoknewhim,andofcloud to themanywhoknewhimnot,DanteGabrielRossetti livedapart from thegossipand tittle-tattleofashallowage.Henevertraffickedwiththemerchantsforhissoul,norbroughthiswaresintothemarket-placefortheidletogapeat.Passionateand

romantic though he was, yet there was in his nature something of highausterity.Helovedseclusion,andhatednotoriety,andwouldhaveshudderedat the idea that within a few years after his death he was to make hisappearanceinaseriesofpopularbiographies,sandwichedbetweentheauthorofPickwickandtheGreatLexicographer.

Wesincerelyhopethatafewmorenovelslikethesewillbepublished,asthepublicwillthenfindoutthatabadbookisverydearatashilling.

Theonlyformoffictioninwhichrealcharactersdonotseemoutofplaceishistory.Innovelstheyaredetestable.

Shillingliteratureisalwaysmakingdemandsonourcredulitywithouteverappealingtoourimagination.

Pathologyisrapidlybecomingthebasisofsensationalliterature,andinart,asinpolitics,thereisagreatfutureformonsters.

It is onlymediocrities and oldmaids who consider it a grievance to bemisunderstood.

As truly religious people are resigned to everything, even to mediocrepoetry, there is no reason at allwhyMadameGuyon’sverses shouldnot bepopularwithalargesectionofthecommunity.

Asimilecommittingsuicideisalwaysadepressingspectacle.

Such novels as Scamp are possiblymore easy to write than they are toread.

WehavenodoubtthatwhenBaileywrotetoLordHoughtonthatcommon-sense and gentleness were Keats’s two special characteristics the worthyArchdeacon meant extremely well, but we prefer the real Keats, with hispassionatewilfulness,his fantasticmoodsandhis fine inconsistence.PartofKeats’scharmasamanishisfascinatingincompleteness.

TheApostolicdictum, thatwomenshouldnotbesuffered to teach, isnolongerapplicabletoasocietysuchasours,withitssolidarityofinterests, itsrecognitionofnatural rights, and itsuniversaleducation,however suitable itmayhavebeen to theGreekcitiesunderRomanrule.Nothing in theUnitedStatesstruckmemorethanthefactthattheremarkableintellectualprogressofthatcountry isvery largelydue to theeffortsofAmericanwomen,whoeditmany of the most powerful magazines and newspapers, take part in thediscussion of every question of public interest, and exercise an importantinfluence upon the growth and tendencies of literature and art. Indeed, thewomenofAmericaaretheoneclassinthecommunitythatenjoysthatleisurewhich is so necessary for culture. The men are, as a rule, so absorbed inbusiness, that the task of bringing some element of form into the chaos of

dailylifeisleftalmostentirelytotheoppositesex,andaneminentBostonianonceassuredmethatinthetwentiethcenturythewholecultureofhiscountrywouldbeinpetticoats.Bythattime,however,itisprobablethatthedressofthe two sexes will be assimilated, as similarity of costume always followssimilarityofpursuits.

The aim of social comedy, inMenander no less than in Sheridan, is tomirrorthemanners,nottoreformthemorals,ofitsday,andthecensureofthePuritan,whether realoraffected, is alwaysoutofplace in literarycriticism,andshowsawantof recognitionof theessentialdistinctionbetweenartandlife.Afterall,itisonlythePhilistinewhothinksofblamingJackAbsoluteforhis deception, Bob Acres for his cowardice, and Charles Surface for hisextravagance, and there is very little use in airing one’smoral sense at theexpenseofone’sartisticappreciation.

TheÆneidbearsalmostthesamerelationtotheIliadthattheIdyllsoftheKingdototheoldCelticromancesofArthur.Likethemitisfulloffelicitousmodernisms, of exquisite literary echoes and of delicate and delightfulpictures; as Lord Tennyson loves England so did Virgil love Rome; thepageantsofhistoryandthepurpleofempireareequallydeartobothpoets;butneither of them has the grand simplicity or the large humanity of the earlysingers,and,asahero,ÆneasisnolessafailurethanArthur.

There is always a certain amount of danger in any attempt to cultivateimpossiblevirtues.

Asfarastheseriouspresentationoflifeisconcerned,whatwerequireismore imaginative treatment, greater freedom from theatric language andtheatricconvention.Itmaybequestioned,also,whethertheconsistentrewardofvirtueandpunishmentofwickednessbereallythehealthiestidealforanartthatclaimstomirrornature.

Trueoriginalityistobefoundratherintheusemadeofamodelthanintherejectionof allmodels andmasters.Dans l’art commedans lanatureonesttoujours fils de quelqu’un, and we should not quarrel with the reed if itwhisperstousthemusicofthelyre.Alittlechildonceaskedmeifitwasthenightingalewhotaughtthelinnetshowtosing.

In France they have had one great genius, Balzac, who invented themodernmethod of looking at life; and one great artist, Flaubert,who is theimpeccablemaster of style; and to the influence of these twomenwemaytracealmostallcontemporaryFrenchfiction.ButinEnglandwehavehadnoschools worth speaking of. The fiery torch lit by the Brontës has not beenpassed on to other hands; Dickens has influenced only journalism;Thackeray’s delightful superficial philosophy, superb narrative power, andclever social satire have found no echoes; nor has Trollope left any direct

successorsbehindhim—afactwhichisnotmuchtoberegretted,however,as,admirable though Trollope undoubtedly is for rainy afternoons and tediousrailway journeys, from the point of view of literature he is merely theperpetualcurateofPudlingtonParva.

GeorgeMeredith’sstyleischaosilluminedbybrilliantflashesoflightning.Asawriterhehasmasteredeverything,exceptlanguage;asanovelisthecando everything, except tell a story; as an artist he is everything, exceptarticulate. Too strange to be popular, too individual to have imitators, theauthor of Richard Feverel stands absolutely alone. It is easy to disarmcriticism,buthehasdisarmedthedisciple.Hegivesushisphilosophythroughthemediumofwit,andisneversopatheticaswhenheishumorous.Toturntruth into a paradox is not difficult, but George Meredith makes all hisparadoxestruths,andnoTheseuscanthreadhislabyrinth,noŒdipussolvehissecret.

ThemostperfectandthemostpoisonousofallmodernFrenchpoetsonceremarkedthatamancanliveforthreedayswithoutbread,butthatnoonecanlive for threedayswithoutpoetry.This,however,canhardlybesaid tobeapopularview,oronethatcommendsitselftothatcuriouslyuncommonqualitywhich is called common-sense. I fancy that most people, if they do notactuallypreferasalmistoasonnet,certainlyliketheirculturetoreposeonabasisofgoodcookery.

Acynicalcriticonceremarkedthatnogreatpoetisintelligibleandnolittlepoet worth understanding, but that otherwise poetry is an admirable thing.This,however,seemstousasomewhatharshviewofthesubject.Littlepoetsare an extremely interesting study. The best of them have often some newbeauty to show us, and though theworst of themmay bore yet they rarelybrutalize.

It is a curious thing thatwhenminorpoetswrite choruses toaplay theyshouldalwaysconsider itnecessarytoadopt thestyleandlanguageofabadtranslator.WefearthatMr.Bohnhasmuchtoanswerfor.

Inonesonnethemakesadistinctattempt tobeoriginaland the result isextremelydepressing.

Earthwearshergrandestrobe,byautumnspun,

Likesomestoutmatronwhoofyouthhasrun

Thecourse,...

isthemostdreadfulsimilewehaveevercomeacrosseveninpoetry.Mr.Griffithsshouldbewareoforiginality.Likebeauty,itisafatalgift.

ThereisawidedifferencebetweenthebeautifulTuscancityandthesea-

cityoftheAdriatic.Florenceisacityfullofmemoriesofthegreatfiguresofthe past. The traveller cannot pass along her streetswithout treading in theverytracesofDante,withoutsteppingonsoilmadememorablebyfootprintsnevertobeeffaced.Thegreatnessofthesurroundings,thepalaces,churches,andfrowningmediævalcastlesinthemidstofthecity,areallthrownintothebackgroundbythegreatness,theindividuality,thelivingpowerandvigourofthemenwhoare theiroriginators, andat the same time their inspiring soul.ButwhenweturntoVenicetheeffectisverydifferent.Wedonotthinkofthemakers of thatmarvellous city, but rather ofwhat theymade.The idealizedimage of Venice herself meets us everywhere. The mother is notovershadowedbythetoogreatgloryofanyofhersons.Inherrecordsthecityis everything—the republic, theworshipped ideal of a community inwhicheverymanforthecommongloryseemstohavebeenwillingtosinkhisown.We know thatDante stoodwithin the redwalls of the arsenal, and saw thegalleysmaking andmending, and the pitch flaming up to heaven; Petrarchcame tovisit thegreatMistressof theSea, taking refuge there, ‘in this city,truehomeof thehuman race,’ from trouble,warandpestilenceoutside;andByron,withhisfacileenthusiasmsandferventeloquence,madehishomeforatimeinoneofthestately,decayingpalaces;butwiththeseexceptionsnogreatpoet has ever associated himselfwith the life ofVenice. She had architects,sculptorsandpainters,butnosingerofherown.

To realize the popularity of the great poets one should turn to theminorpoetsandseewhomtheyfollow,whatmaster theyselect,whosemusic theyecho.

Ordinary theologyhas longsinceconverted itsgold into lead,andwordsandphrasesthatoncetouchedtheheartoftheworldhavebecomewearisomeandmeaninglessthroughrepetition.IfTheologydesirestomoveus,shemustre-writeherformulas.

It takes a great artist to be thoroughlymodern.Nature is always a littlebehindtheage.

Mr. Nash, who styles himself ‘a humble soldier in the army of Faith,’expressesahopethathisbookmay‘invigoratedevotionalfeeling,especiallyamong the young, to whom verse is perhaps more attractive than to theirelders,’butweshouldbesorry to think thatpeopleofanyagecouldadmiresuchaparaphraseasthefollowing:

Foxeshaveholesinwhichtoslinkforrest,

Thebirdsofairfindshelterinthenest;

ButHe,theSonofManandLordofall,

HasnoabidingplaceHisowntocall.

It is a curious fact that the worst work is always done with the bestintentions,and thatpeopleareneverso trivialaswhen they take themselvesveryseriously.

Mr.FosterisanAmericanpoetwhohasreadHawthorne,whichiswiseofhim,andimitatedLongfellow,whichisnotquitesocommendable.

Andiatoroctè is the title of a volume of poems by the Rev. ClarenceWalworth,ofAlbany,N.Y.ItisawordborrowedfromtheIndians,andshould,wethink,bereturnedtothemassoonaspossible.ThemostcuriouspoemofthebookiscalledScenesattheHolyHome:

JesusandJosephatwork!Hurra!

Sightnevertoseeagain,

AprenticeDeitypliesthesaw,

WhiletheMasterploughswiththeplane.

PoemsofthiskindwerepopularintheMiddleAgeswhenthecathedralsofeveryChristiancountryservedasitstheatres.Theyareanachronismsnow,anditisoddthattheyshouldcometousfromtheUnitedStates.Inmattersofthiskindweshouldhavesomeprotection.

As for the triolets, and the rondels, and the careful study of metricalsubtleties,thesethingsaremerelythesignsofadesireforperfectioninsmallthingsandoftherecognitionofpoetryasanart.Theyhavehadcertainlyonegood result—theyhavemadeourminorpoets readable,andhavenot leftusentirelyatthemercyofgeniuses.

Poetry has many modes of music; she does not blow through one pipealone.Directnessofutteranceisgood,butsoisthesubtlerecastingofthoughtintoanewanddelightful form.Simplicity isgood,butcomplexity,mystery,strangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have their value. Indeed,properlyspeaking,thereisnosuchthingasStyle;therearemerelystyles,thatisall.

Writersofpoeticalprosearerarelygoodpoets.

Poetrymaybesaidtoneedfarmoreself-restraintthanprose.Itsconditionsaremoreexquisite.Itproducesitseffectsbymoresubtlemeans.Itmustnotbeallowedtodegenerateintomererhetoricormereeloquence.Itis,inonesense,themost self-conscious of all the arts, as it is never ameans to an end butalwaysanendinitself.

It may be difficult for a poet to find English synonyms for Asiaticexpressions,butevenifitwereimpossibleitisnonethelessapoet’sdutytofindthem.Asitis,SirEdwinArnoldhastranslatedSa’diandsomeonemust

translateSirEdwinArnold.

Lounging in the open air is not a bad school for poets, but it largelydependsonthelounger.

Peoplearesofondofgivingawaywhattheydonotwantthemselves,thatcharityislargelyontheincrease.ButwiththiskindofcharityIhavenotmuchsympathy. If one gives away a book, it should be a charming book—socharming,thatoneregretshavinggivenit.

Mr.Whistler,forsomereasonorother,alwaysadoptedthephraseologyofthe minor prophets. Possibly it was in order to emphasize his well-knownclaims to verbal inspiration, or perhaps he thought with Voltaire thatHabakkukétaitcapabledetout,andwishedtoshelterhimselfundertheshieldofadefinitelyirresponsiblewriternoneofwhoseprophecies,accordingtotheFrenchphilosopher,haseverbeenfulfilled.Theideawascleverenoughatthebeginning, but ultimately themanner becamemonotonous.The spirit of theHebrews isexcellentbut theirmodeofwriting isnot tobe imitated,andnoamountofAmerican jokeswillgive it thatmodernitywhich isessential toagoodliterarystyle.AdmirableasareMr.Whistler’sfireworksoncanvas,hisfireworksinproseareabrupt,violentandexaggerated.

‘Thedecisiveeventsoftheworld,’ashasbeenwellsaid,‘takeplaceintheintellect,’andasforBoard-schools,academicceremonies,hospitalwardsandthelike, theymaybewell left to theartistsof the illustratedpapers,whodothemadmirablyandquiteaswellastheyneedbedone.Indeed,thepicturesofcontemporaryevents,Royalmarriages,navalreviewsandthingsof thiskindthatappear in theAcademyeveryyear,arealwaysextremelybad;while thevery same subjects treated inblackandwhite in theGraphicor theLondonNewsareexcellent.Besides,ifwewanttounderstandthehistoryofanationthroughthemediumofart,itistotheimaginativeandidealartsthatwehavetogoandnottotheartsthataredefinitelyimitative.Thevisibleaspectoflifenolongercontainsforusthesecretoflife’sspirit.

Thedifficultyunderwhichthenovelistsofourdaylabourseemstometobethis:iftheydonotgointosociety,theirbooksareunreadable;andiftheydogointosociety,theyhavenotimeleftforwriting.

Imust confess thatmostmodernmysticism seems tome to be simply amethodofimpartinguselessknowledgeinaformthatnoonecanunderstand.Allegory, parable, and vision have their high artistic uses, but theirphilosophicalandscientificusesareverysmall.

The object ofmostmodern fiction is not to give pleasure to the artisticinstinct, but rather to portray life vividly for us, to draw attention to socialanomalies, and social forms of injustice. Many of our novelists are really

pamphleteers, reformers masquerading as story-tellers, earnest sociologistsseekingtomendaswellastomirrorlife.

Thebookiscertainlycharacteristicofanagesopracticalandsoliteraryasours, an age inwhich all social reforms have been preceded and have beenlargelyinfluencedbyfiction.

Mr.StopfordBrookesaidsometimeagothatSocialismandthesocialisticspiritwouldgiveourpoetsnoblerand loftier themes for song,wouldwidentheirsympathiesandenlargethehorizonoftheirvision,andwouldtouch,withthefireandfervourofanewfaith,lipsthathadelsebeensilent,heartsthatbutforthisfreshgospelhadbeencold.WhatArtgainsfromcontemporaryeventsisalwaysafascinatingproblemandaproblemthatisnoteasytosolve.Itis,however,certainthatSocialismstartswellequipped.Shehasherpoetsandherpainters,herartlecturersandhercunningdesigners,herpowerfuloratorsandher clever writers. If she fails it will not be for lack of expression. If shesucceedshertriumphwillnotbeatriumphofmerebruteforce.

Socialismisnotgoingtoallowherselftobetrammelledbyanyhardandfastcreedortobestereotypedintoanironformula.Shewelcomesmanyandmultiform natures. She rejects none and has room for all. She has theattractionofawonderfulpersonalityandtouchestheheartofoneandthebrainofanother,anddrawsthismanbyhishatredandinjustice,andhisneighbourbyhis faith in thefuture,anda third, itmaybe,byhis loveofartorbyhiswildworshipof a lost andburiedpast.Andallof this iswell.For, tomakemenSocialistsisnothing,buttomakeSocialismhumanisagreatthing.

TheReformation gainedmuch from the use of popular hymn-tunes, andtheSocialistsseemdeterminedtogainbysimilarmeansasimilarholduponthepeople.However,theymustnotbetoosanguineabouttheresult.Thewallsof Thebes rose up to the sound ofmusic, and Thebes was a very dull cityindeed.

WereallymustprotestagainstMr.Matthews’effortstoconfusethepoetryof Piccadillywith the poetry of Parnassus. To tell us, for instance, thatMr.AustinDobson’sverse‘hasnotthecondensedclearnessnortheincisivevigorofMr. Locker’s’ is really too bad even for Transatlantic criticism. Nobodywho lays claim to the slightest knowledge of literature and the forms ofliteratureshouldeverbringthetwonamesintoconjunction.

Mr.Dobsonhasproducedworkthatisabsolutelyclassicalinitsexquisitebeautyofform.NothingmoreartisticallyperfectinitswaythantheLinestoaGreekGirlhasbeenwritteninourtime.Thislittlepoemwillberememberedin literature as long as Thyrsis is remembered, and Thyrsis will never beforgotten.Both have that note of distinction that is so rare in these days ofviolence, exaggeration and rhetoric.Of course, to suggest, asMr.Matthews

does,thatMr.Dobson’spoemsbelongto‘theliteratureofpower’isridiculous.Powerisnottheiraim,norisittheireffect.Theyhaveotherqualities,andintheir own delicately limited sphere they have no contemporary rivals; theyhavenoneevensecondtothem.

Theheroineisasortofwell-wornBeckySharp,onlymuchmorebeautifulthanBecky,oratleastthanThackeray’sportraitsofher,which,however,havealwaysseemedtomeratherill-natured.IfeelsurethatMrs.RawdonCrawleywasextremelypretty,andIhaveneverunderstoodhowitwasthatThackeraycouldcaricaturewithhispencilsofascinatingacreationofhispen.

A critic recently remarked of Adam Lindsay Gordon that through himAustralia had found her first fine utterance in song. This, however, is anamiable error.There is very little ofAustralia inGordon’s poetry.His heartandmindand fancywerealwayspreoccupiedwithmemoriesanddreamsofEnglandandsuchcultureasEnglandgavehim.Heowednothingtothelandofhisadoption.Hadhestayedathomehewouldhavedonemuchbetterwork.

ThatAustralia,however,willsomedaymakeamendsbyproducingapoetofherownwecannotdoubt,andforhimtherewillbenewnotestosoundandnewwonderstotellof.

Thebest thatwecansayofhimis thathewrote imperfectly inAustraliathosepoemsthatinEnglandhemighthavemadeperfect.

Judges,likethecriminalclasses,havetheirlightermoments.

There seems to be some curious connection between piety and poorrhymes.

TheSouthAfricanpoets,asaclass,areratherbehindtheage.Theyseemtothinkthat‘Aurora’isaverynovelanddelightfulepithetforthedawn.Onthewholetheydepressus.

The only original thing in the volume is the description of Mr. RobertBuchanan’s‘grandeurofmind.’Thisisdecidedlynew.

Dr.CockletellsusthatMüllner’sGuiltandTheAncestressofGrillparzerare the masterpieces of German fate-tragedy. His translation of the first ofthese twomasterpieces does notmake us long for any further acquaintancewiththeschool.Hereisaspecimenfromthefourthactofthefate-tragedy.

SCENEVIII.

Elvira.Hugo.

Elvira (after long silence, leaving the harp, steps toHugo, and seeks hisgaze).

Hugo (softly). Though Imade sacrifice of thy sweet life, the Father has

forgiven.Canthewife—forgive?

Elvira(onhisbreast).Shecan!

Hugo(withallthewarmthoflove).Dearwife!

Elvira(afterapause,indeepsorrow).Mustitbeso,belovedone?

Hugo(sorrytohavebetrayedhimself).What?

TheRenaissancehadforitsobjectthedevelopmentofgreatpersonalities.Theperfectfreedomofthetemperamentinmattersofart,theperfectfreedomoftheintellect in intellectualmatters, thefulldevelopmentof theindividual,were the things it aimed at.Aswe study its historywe find it full of greatanarchies. It solved no political or social problems; it did not seek to solvethem.Theidealofthe‘GrandSiècle,’andofRichelieu,inwhomtheforcesofthat great agewere incarnate,was different.The ideas of citizenship, of thebuilding up of a great nation, of the centralization of forces, of collectiveaction,ofethnicunityofpurpose,camebeforetheworld.

Thecreationofaformaltraditionuponclassicallinesisneverwithoutitsdanger,anditissadtofindtheprovincialtownsofFrance,oncesovariedandindividualinartisticexpression,writingtoParisfordesignsandadvice.Andyet,throughColbert’sgreatcentralizingschemeofStatesupervisionandStateaid,FrancewastheonecountryinEurope,andhasremainedtheonecountryinEurope,wheretheartsarenotdivorcedfromindustry.

Hawthornere-createdforustheAmericaofthepastwiththeincomparablegraceofaveryperfectartist,butMr.BretHarte’semphasizedmodernityhas,initsownsphere,wonequal,oralmostequal,triumphs.

It is pleasant to come across a heroine [BretHarte’sCressy]who is notidentifiedwithanygreatcause,and representsno importantprinciple,but issimply a wonderful nymph from American backwoods, who has in hersomethingofArtemis,andnotalittleofAphrodite.

It is always a pleasure to come across an American poet who is notnational,andwhotriestogiveexpressiontotheliteraturethathelovesratherthantothelandinwhichhelives.TheMusescaresolittleforgeography!

Blue-books are generally dull reading, but Blue-books on Ireland havealwaysbeeninteresting.Theyformtherecordofoneofthegreattragediesofmodern Europe. In them England has written down her indictment againstherself and has given to the world the history of her shame. If in the lastcenturyshe tried togovern Irelandwithan insolence thatwas intensifiedbyracehatredandreligiousprejudice,shehassoughttoruleherinthiscenturywithastupiditythatisaggravatedbygoodintentions.

Likemostpenmenhe [Froude]overrates thepowerof the sword.Where

Englandhashad tostruggle shehasbeenwise.Wherephysical strengthhasbeenonherside,asinIreland,shehasbeenmadeunwieldybythatstrength.Herownstronghandshaveblindedher.Shehashadforcebutnodirection.

TherearesomewhowillwelcomewithdelighttheideaofsolvingtheIrishquestion by doing away with the Irish people. There are others who willrememberthatIrelandhasextendedherboundaries,andthatwehavenowtoreckonwithhernotmerelyintheOldWorldbutintheNew.

Plasticsimplicityofoutlinemayrenderforusthevisibleaspectoflife;itisdifferentwhenwecome todealwith those secretswhich self-consciousnessalonecontains,andwhichself-consciousnessitselfcanbuthalfreveal.Actiontakesplaceinthesunlight,butthesoulworksinthedark.Thereissomethingcuriously interesting in the marked tendency of modern poetry to becomeobscure.Manycritics,writingwiththeireyesfixedonthemasterpiecesofpastliterature, have ascribed this tendency to wilfulness and to affectation. Itsoriginisrathertobefoundinthecomplexityofthenewproblems,andinthefact thatself-consciousness isnotyetadequate toexplain thecontentsof theEgo.InMr.Browning’spoems,asinlifeitself,whichhassuggested,orrathernecessitated, thenewmethod, thoughtseemstoproceednoton logical lines,butonlinesofpassion.Theunityoftheindividualisbeingexpressedthroughitsinconsistenciesanditscontradictions.Inastrangetwilightmanisseekingforhimself,andwhenhehas foundhisownimage,hecannotunderstand it.Objectiveformsofart,suchassculptureandthedrama,sufficedonefor theperfectpresentationoflife;theycannolongersosuffice.

Asheisnotageniushe,naturally,behavesadmirablyoneveryoccasion.

Certainlydialectisdramatic.Itisavividmethodofre-creatingapastthatneverexisted.Itissomethingbetween‘AReturntoNature’and‘AReturntotheGlossary.’Itissoartificialthatitisreallynaïve.Fromthepointofviewofmeremusic,muchmaybesaidforit.Wonderfuldiminutiveslendnewnotesoftendernesstothesong.Therearepossibilitiesoffreshrhymes,andinsearchfor a fresh rhyme poets may be excused if they wander from the broadhighroad of classical utterance into devious byways and less-trodden paths.Sometimesoneistemptedtolookondialectasexpressingsimplythepathosof provincialisms, but there ismore in it thanmeremispronunciation.Withthat revivalof anantique form,oftencomes the revivalof anantique spirit.Through limitations that are sometimes uncouth, and always narrow, comesTragedy herself; and though she may stammer in her utterance, and deckherselfincast-offweedsandtrammellingraiment,stillwemustholdourselvesinreadinesstoaccepther,sorarearehervisitstousnow,sorareherpresenceinanagethatdemandsahappyendingfromeveryplay,andthatsees in thetheatremerelyasourceofamusement.

Thereisagreatdealtobesaidinfavourofreadinganovelbackwards.Thelast page is, as a rule, the most interesting, and when one begins with thecatastropheorthedénoûmentonefeelsonpleasanttermsofequalitywiththeauthor.Itislikegoingbehindthescenesofatheatre.Oneisnolongertakenin,andthehairbreadthescapesoftheheroandthewildagoniesoftheheroineleaveoneabsolutelyunmoved.

Hehas every formof sincerity except the sincerityof the artist, adefectthatheshareswithmostofourpopularwriters.

On the whole Primavera is a pleasant little book, and we are glad towelcome it. It ischarmingly ‘gotup,’andundergraduatesmight read itwithadvantageduringlecturehours.

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